Chapter 7 #2
But the truth is, I already feel like a ghost in this room. They’re still chasing justice. Still trying to make sense of the wreckage but half the time I feel like I’m just going through the motions. Scared of what I’ll find. Terrified of what I won’t find.
The door clicks shut behind them, and the silence that follows is suffocating.
I shove clothes and gear into a duffel bag, trying to focus, trying to push the nagging sense of helplessness aside.
My passport sits beside my gun. I stare at both, thinking how absurd it is that I’m about to cross an ocean with a suitcase full of designer suits and enough firepower to blow a hole in a safe house.
Then my laptop chimes—a notification that Lily’s stream has started.
I don’t think. I simply react.
My heart slams against my ribs as I open the tab.
She’s only just begun, wrapped in a baby-pink robe tied so loosely it may as well be pooled around her feet.
Her eyes sparkle under the ring light, makeup dusted like glittering sin across her cheekbones.
She’s the image of innocence, with just enough filth laced into every movement to make me feel unhinged.
To her horny viewers, she’s a fantasy come to life. To me, she’s a beautiful contradiction—an angel with a dark, twisted soul. That contrast makes my chest tighten. How can something so pure-looking be so utterly corrupted? The question haunts me.
I settle into the shadows, watching her tease and play.
Each glance at the camera, each coy smile, each barely-there reveal is a calculated dance.
She baits the viewers with skin, flirtation, and a promise of more if they just tip enough.
The tip jar fills fast, and that’s when the real show begins.
Lily’s always been talented with design, but her lingerie skills?
Next level. Tonight, she’s draped in a baby-pink one-piece that hugs every curve—the sheer mesh cups revealing everything, the crisscrossing fabric sculpting her torso before dissolving into the tiniest thong.
When she turns, giving a slow, deliberate show of her lace-trimmed ass cheeks, I almost lose control.
She knows exactly what she’s doing, wielding her power like a weapon.
The chat explodes:
JimsCuntDestroyer: Fucking hell. Look at those tits.
AdamsLadder: Fuuuuuck me.
CometoDaddy: Need to be balls deep inside you.
FuckMePlease: The only way you’d look hotter is covered in my cum.
MistressE: Oh, darling, you’re perfect. Twirl for us, show us your ass again.
FuckMePlease: God yes, listen to Mistress. Bend over, baby.
Each message feeds her, making her smirk deepen, tongue flashing as she wets her lips—a cruel reminder of what that mouth feels like wrapped around me.
“Stop, you’re making me blush,” she teases, sinking onto her bed.
The sheets match her outfit, no doubt on purpose.
She eases her knees apart just enough to promise more, rocking her hips slightly, as though trying to hide how turned on she really is.
But I see it—the quickening of her breath, the faint pink flush rising on her throat.
The chat goes wild, and demands grow dirtier by the second.
Part of me wants to smash the screen and tell the impatient fucks to count themselves lucky she shares this with them.
Another part of me wants to climb through it and drag her back where she belongs—under me, panting my name, showing them who owns her.
“Hmm… I don’t know,” she says, pouting. “You’ve all been naughty tonight. Maybe I should just… turn the camera off.” She reaches for the camera, and the entire chat erupts in frantic begging.
Cocksnack: NOOOOOOOOO
MistressE: Don’t you dare, baby girl. You belong to us tonight.
JimsCuntDestroyer: I’ll triple my tip if you stay.
FuckMePlease: I’ll marry you. I’m serious.
She giggles, voice syrup-sweet. “Hmm. Marry me? You’d last five minutes.” She drags a manicured finger down her cleavage, tracing the sheer lace over her nipples. Her voice drops lower, dark and teasing. “But I love how desperate you get. Makes me feel powerful.”
Then she shifts back, hooking her thumbs under the straps of the pink bodysuit. “What do you say? Should I take this off?”
I’m seconds away from coming just watching her talk. My entire body is strung tight, desire and rage twisting together until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. I sip my drink, lean back, and watch the show unfold.
The way she flashes her tits, tilts her head back as breathy moans escape her lips, how she exposes her throat as she dips her hand into her underwear, teasing herself as much as she’s teasing us. When she holds up her hand, wetness glistens on her fingertips, wiped away with that wicked tongue.
Then she bends over, spreading her ass cheeks to reveal an emerald-green butt plug. Jesus fucking Christ. I can’t hold back any longer.
BegForMe: Stop being a brat. Show us what we’ve paid for, like a good fuck toy.
Something dangerous sparkles in her eyes when she reads my message, and her lips curl into a wicked smile.
“Nice of you to finally join us, BegForMe. What took you so long?”
The tease shatters what little sanity I have left. She leans closer to the camera, lowering her voice like it’s just for me, like the rest of them don’t exist.
“Since you’re here,” she murmurs, “maybe I’ll give you a little… private show.” A pause and a smile I know too well.
“But only if you’re ready to pay.”
One hand on the keyboard, the other wrapped around my rock-hard dick, I fire back.
BegForMe: Brats take what they’re given, when they’re given it. You hadn’t earned my attention. Now you have, so show us those juicy tits or I’m taking my wallet elsewhere.
She laughs, a real laugh. One that shoots down my spine and makes my balls tighten.
“Oh, someone’s in a mood tonight,” she purrs, cupping her tits and squeezing until they almost spill through the sheer mesh of her top. “BegForMe wants a show, but what do you think? Should I give it to him?”
The comments explode, a blur of drooling usernames and pound signs, but I barely register them.
I don’t need to.
Because all I see is her.
Always her.
It doesn’t matter that the world’s burning down around us. That I’m flying to Italy in the morning to chain myself to a life I never asked for. That she’s dancing for men who think throwing cash at her buys them intimacy. They don’t know her. Not really.
They don’t know the sound she makes when she’s about to cry, the way her breath catches when she doesn’t want to be touched but craves it anyway. Or the weight of her head against their chest, the curve of her back under their palm, the way her voice shakes when she’s trying to be brave.
But I do.
And maybe I don’t get to touch her anymore. Maybe she’s as guilty as her mother, and we were doomed from the start. Maybe everything was a lie.
But late at night, when the rest of the world’s asleep and the only thing lighting the room is the blue glow of her screen, I let myself come back to her. Just for a minute. Just long enough to pretend she’s still mine.
Because I’m not strong enough to quit her cold turkey.
Not when she looks into the camera like that, like she knows it’s me watching. Like she’s talking only to me.
Even if I hate her for making me this way.
Even if I don’t trust a single fucking word she says.
Even if she’s never truly belonged to anyone but herself.
She still feels like mine.
And in the hush of night, where no one can see me bleed for her, that lie is the only thing keeping me sane.