Chapter Thirteen
Anya
And for the rest of the week…
There was no sex. Not even a little. Not a moment where he “accidentally” pressed me against a wall and lost control.
Cassian Morelli—the man who pinned me to a dressing room mirror and made me forget my name—spent an entire week being a perfect, composed, infuriating gentleman. He held my hand, opened doors for me, even took me on dates. He looked at me like he wanted to burn the world down for breathing the same air as me… but he never touched me that way again.
And it wrecked me.
I hate myself for it, but I tried to seduce him. I wore the short dresses he bought me, sat way too close, brushed against his skin.
And each time…
He almost gave in.
I felt every split-second where he almost lost the war with himself—but in the end, he always pulled away. Jaw tight. Eyes dark. Mutters like, “We aren’t just sex, little doll.”
It drove me insane.
Now it’s the last day of this stupid “deal.” Tonight is the night he’s supposed to hear my answer.
Yes or no.
Stay or leave.
And I have no idea which part of me is going to speak.
We’ve gone to parks. Sat in bookstores. Walked the streets of New York at night. He bought me things I could never afford in my dreams, and told me without shame exactly how obsessed he is with me.
The week was fucking perfect.
Perfect when it had no business being perfect.
This must be what Stockholm syndrome is.
And for the first time all week, he left me alone—some emergency in the club. He promised he’d be back before dinner to take me somewhere fancy and hear my supposed yes.
I stare at myself in the mirror, noting how consumed by him I’ve become. I’m wearing a dress he picked out, jewelry he bought, heels he buckled with a kiss to my ankle before leaving. I look like I’m his. But I want nothing more than for my answer to be no.
No means freedom.
No means safety.
But my body—my heart—they’re traitors.
I crave the way he looks at me, the way he touches me, the way he says my name like he’s starving. And somewhere along the way… despite myself… I fell in love with him.
Pathetic. I’m pathetic.
I think about everything I’ve never had. My dad walked out before I turned five. My mother tried to raise me—until she didn’t. Until the pills and the drugs replaced me. Now she only calls when she wants money. Money I don’t have. Money I can’t send.
My life has never been easy. Yet this week—this awful, dangerous, intoxicating week—
I’ve been pampered.
Spoiled.
Fed.
Protected.
Touched like I mattered.
Worshipped like I was a religion someone could die for. Made to feel like more than just sex or a body. Cassian made me feel like I wasn’t disposable. And I never felt that way in my life. I was always the burden. The second choice. The little girl who wasn’t good enough for anyone to stay. The woman barely scraping by.
But that doesn’t mean I know what to answer. God knows I don’t. I fear my mouth will betray me, say I want to stay, when it should be the last thing I want.
My phone buzzes on the bed—a text from Tasha. My time at the club feels like a distant memory now.
It reads: Don’t freak out. Don’t check social media for a while. I’m serious.
My stomach drops. That’s like being told there’s a monster behind you—but not to look. Impossible.
I check anyway. And the second the apps load, my world shatters.
The video of us in the dressing room is everywhere. My legs around him, his hand in my hair. His voice. My sounds. Everything is on display. On every social media site that allows it.
I feel like I’m underwater, drowning, no chance of surfacing. People are slowing it down, zooming in, making jokes and memes, speculating who I am.
My face is hidden—thank God. Both Cassian and I have our backs to the camera. But the girl in the video has my heart tattoo on her shoulder, a scar on her ankle, and a voice identical to mine. Because it’s ME. Fuck. Fuck.
He did this. He had to have done this. To make sure I could never leave. So I’d be tied to him forever. So I wouldn’t even think about running. So my name would be linked to his forever.
So he’d win.
How could he do this to me?
He promised he’d let me leave… but he humiliated me instead. I try to think, to understand how my life detonated in under sixty seconds.
Everywhere I look, I see flashes of the video. I press my palms against the wall, forehead to the cold surface.
“What did you do?” I whisper to the empty room. “Cassian… what did you do to me?”
Then I run—but no matter what, I can’t run from my own mind. I hail the first cab that screeches close enough, and I know I look insane, dressed in extravagance and meltdown.
There’s a strange buzzing behind my eyes. I’m not thinking clearly—but I can’t stop. Can’t stay still. Can’t breathe until I get to him.
He did this. Who else could have? Everyone is terrified of him. No one would risk their life for a video of us having sex.
When the cab stops in front of the club, I practically fall out. I push through the doors, ignoring security guards calling after me, and the instant I step inside—
“Anya!” Tasha’s on me like she’s been waiting the whole time. “Oh my God—why did you check? Why didn’t you listen? I told you not to—why would you—”
“Did he do it?” My voice breaks so hard I barely recognize it. “Tasha, tell me. Did he leak it?”
“I don’t know,” she whispers. “I don’t think so. I don’t—Anya, you shouldn’t be here.”
“What am I going to do?” I wail.
“Babe, there are hundreds of girls claiming it was them in the video for clout. Your face doesn’t even show. It won’t affect you unless you act stupid, I promise.”
But I’m barely hearing her.
“Tasha… where is he?”
She winces. “Anya, don’t do this. You need to think before you act irrational and do something stupid.”
“Where. Is. He?” I snap. I know she wants what’s best—but right now I’m not myself.
“I think he’s in his office,” she finally says. “But please—”
I don’t hear the rest, storming upstairs to confront him. I reach the last turn—and then I hear motherfucking moans. A woman’s voice, deep male groans, his desk creaking in rhythm with a fuck.
Heat drains from my face. Dizziness hits. Please God, not after this week.
Not after he made me believe—
The noise never stops.
He leaked the video. And now he’s… what? Celebrating like a psychopath? Getting off with someone else while I’m falling apart?
Completely. Utterly. Fucking sick.