Chapter 2
April
Everything is white.
Not just the sheets, though they’re so clean it almost hurts your eyes. Not just the ridiculous, fluffy curtains or the silk pillowcase brushing my cheek, cool and too perfect.
But it’s in my head, too.
Blank.
Blinding.
Like staring into the sun until everything burns away.
This must be what dying feels like. Heart jackhammering so hard I’m convinced something’s cracking inside my chest. My mouth is dry, nerves pulled tight as guitar strings, my whole body feels like it’s floating, weightless and terrified.
I’m lying here naked, my arms wrapped over my chest because the silk keeps sliding off, refusing to give me anything to hide behind.
There’s a blindfold knotted at the back of my head.
It’s so dangerously soft, like something you could get lost in if you let yourself.
It blocks out everything, all of it. I couldn’t see if I wanted to.
That’s the point.
Right now, I want to disappear. To be invisible, but only if it means someone is actually looking.
My fists twist in the sheets, knuckles burning.
If I squeeze hard enough, maybe I’ll wake up in my own bed, just tangled in another anxiety spiral.
But this isn’t a nightmare. The air smells too expensive, a mix of vanilla, sex, and that faint hit of fresh paint.
Nothing like home. The mattress is pure luxury, clouds and support.
Nothing I deserve. The quiet is a living thing, heavy and humming in my ears, broken only by my shaky breathing.
Outside this room, I imagine everything is chaotic. People pretending not to look, measuring, deciding who gets to belong and who’s just background noise. I know where I fall. But that’s the whole point, isn’t it? That’s why I’m here.
To carve out all the pieces of myself no one else has ever wanted.
Debora’s voice cuts through the silence, all sugar on the surface, poison underneath. “Nobody wants a desperate loser, April. You look so pathetic sitting by yourself. Honestly, what’s the point?”
She flips her perfect hair, that glossy, just-stepped-out-of-a-salon perfection, and flashes the world’s easiest smile. Why does everything come to her, and she never has to try?
Branda’s laugh follows, high-pitched and mean enough to leave a mark. “Maybe if you wore something besides graveyard chic, you’d at least get a guy to look at you. Or not. Maybe you should just pay someone, since you’re so hopeless.”
The words dig in. They always do. Even here, even now.
I curl tighter into myself, knees pulled up to my chest, trying to shrink down, disappear.
Then my stepmother’s voice, flat and bored, cuts in next. “Some girls are just born plain, April. You need to stop expecting men to see you how you want. People like you…well, you’re just unremarkable. Better focus on being useful instead of these silly ideas you get hung up on.”
She never had to say I wasn’t lovable. It was always there in her eyes, the way she looked right through me.
I squeeze my knees together, thighs shaking. Why am I even here? My whole body’s trembling, although not from cold. The temperature is perfect. But every inch of me is hot and clammy, goosebumps prickling across my skin.
This felt like a brilliant idea for about twelve seconds. Now I’m just lying here, exposed. One bad thought from bolting down the hall completely naked, bedsheet barely covering my ass and tears running down my face. Branda would say, “You’d totally be a punchline,” and she’d be right.
But fuck, I’m so tired of being invisible. So tired of always being the backup plan, never the first pick.
So, I wrote it down, hands shaking so hard the pen barely marked across the paper. Please, just make me feel wanted. Nothing witty. Nothing sexy. Just honest and messy. Something real, something someone would actually choose to say.
I handed it to the receptionist, probably being read by the stranger right now. For all I know, he’s already laughing at me.
I try to picture him, hoping he’s the kind of man who can see through all the bullshit, someone gentle, someone who actually wants me. Even if it’s only for tonight.
My heart is pounding, every beat a threat. I run my fingers over the inside of my wrist, desperate to ground myself, but all I can feel is sweat slicking my palms, my pulse going wild, and underneath everything, that ugly, gnawing hunger.
Wanting.
Am I asking for too much? The thought nags, sharp as broken glass.
Then…a barely there click.
The door.
My body locks up, frozen.
Silence, except for his footsteps. Not loud, but deliberate. Just enough that I can picture him, full-grown, not some snot-nosed frat boy from school who thinks it’s funny to laugh at me. He moves slowly, in control. Like he’s stalking something he actually wants.
Me.
I hug my arms tighter around my chest, not hiding, waiting.
The air in the room shifts, goes heavy and electric, prickling over my skin.
I swear I can smell him before he even gets close, cologne and leather, and something else, something purely male that makes my stomach flutter.
It’s like a pocket of warmth that follows him, crowding out every empty place.
He doesn’t say a word. But I hear him move. A pause, the faint rustle of paper.
My note. Is he reading it?
Heat scorches my cheeks. I want to disappear, sink through the mattress, or just straight-up die. I brace for laughter, or the sound of him walking out. But he does neither.
Another single step.
The bed dips, slow and deliberate, the mattress shifting beneath his weight. The motion tugs the sheet even lower on my hip, exposing more of me, but I stay perfectly still.
His presence aches, like something I’ve needed for so long it almost hurts. The worst part? My nipples are already hard, skin buzzing with want, every nerve ending straining for his hands.
Debora’s voice tries to worm in, all sneers and venom. “You’d probably cry if anyone ever touched you. Fucking pathetic.” I shut it down. Not tonight.
Tonight, I want to believe I could be wanted. Even if it’s a lie.
I imagine him there, sitting, just watching. I can’t see, but I feel his gaze, hot and heavy, tracing every line, every flaw and freckle. It should make me curl in on myself, but instead it draws something tight and hopeful right through my center, low and insistent between my legs.
I listen for his breathing, steady, deep, but there’s a rough edge to it.
What does he see when he looks at me? Does he even like what he sees?
I want to beg him to say something, but I can’t force the words out. It’s like cement in my throat. If he doesn’t speak soon, I might lose my mind.
Then, finally, his voice, so close it shocks me. Low and warm and rough, like he’s sharing a secret just for me.
“You want me to touch you?” His voice is low and dangerous-sounding, making my whole body lock up, lungs tight.
I nod, and his palm makes a slow slide over silk, the sound whisper-soft, giving me space, every second an open door if I want out.
The heat of his closeness radiates up my leg. A wall of warmth just waiting, hovering, letting me decide. He’s so still I can feel the question in the air.
He gently caresses my ankle, and the simple act makes my whole body jump before I finally give in, letting myself enjoy it.
From there, he begins to work his way up my calf, his actions so gentle, patient.
Like he’s savoring every inch. I grip the sheet tighter, twisting it in my fist. This is all I ever wanted.
Not the sex, not even the high of getting off, but this. Someone asking, like I matter.
“You’re beautiful.”
There’s a rumble in his chest, deep, almost animal, and for a second I feel like I’ve got the power for once.
He brushes a strand of hair off my shoulder, the barest touch, fingertips so light I shiver, my skin sparking everywhere he goes.
Right now, he could do anything to me, and I’d let him.
No more hiding. No more shame.
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
And just like that, I’m done holding on. I let go, finally, and let someone else take over, for the first time in my life.