Chapter Five #2
It’s been six months since I stopped dancing—since I packed up my real life and squeezed it into a couple battered boxes, moving everything into Derek’s house, living on his schedule, by his rules.
Sometimes I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and barely recognize the girl staring back.
The old me—confident, flirty, on stage and unashamed—feels like someone I dreamed up.
I think about how I used to tease the girls backstage about the men who came in, the bets we’d make about who’d tip the best, and how I’d laugh about the ones who always wanted to whisper secrets in the dark. I miss them.
In the first few weeks, Derek was perfect—a total gentleman, opening doors, bringing me flowers, texting me all day just to say he missed me.
He was sweet, attentive, and made me feel like I was the only woman in the world.
He listened, remembered the smallest things, and was amazing in bed—confident, generous, the kind of lover who made me crave his attention and touch.
I’d never had someone want me like that before, and I soaked it all up, starving for affection after so many years of settling for scraps.
I craved the way he looked at me, the way he’d pull me close and make me forget about everything else.
I wanted to believe I could be happy in that kind of love.
I remember telling Kyra once, “If I’m ever dumb enough to settle down, I hope it’s with someone who has at least half a clue how to interest me.
” I guess Derek fit the bill, at first. He’s objectively good-looking—tall, broad-shouldered, always put together, with that lawyer confidence that makes people listen when he talks.
In the beginning, I even caught myself bragging to Kyra about how he looked in a suit.
But it didn’t take long for the truth to leak out—territorial, possessive, telling me I didn’t need the money, that he’d take care of everything.
Like quitting was some kind of privilege, not a demand.
I let myself believe it for a while. How fucking naive was that?
Honestly, I don’t even remember who I was before all this.
He finishes his drink in one swallow and sets the glass down hard. “You eat?” he asks, meaning, ‘Did I save him anything?’
“There’s pasta in the fridge,” I say softly.
He grunts again, heading for the refrigerator, and I let myself fade into the background, my hands curled tight around the edge of the counter, wishing—just for a minute—that I was somewhere else.
Or maybe someone else. Someone who hadn’t given up everything for a man who barely notices when she leaves the room.
I sit with Derek while he eats, pouring myself a glass of wine to pass the time.
He knocks back a few more drinks, his cheeks flushed and his words starting to slur.
He gets handsy when he’s tipsy—his palm sliding up my thigh, fingers kneading a little too tightly.
I try to steer the conversation, asking about his day, but he barely answers, too wrapped up in himself and the bourbon. Typical.
I’m half-listening, half-watching the streetlights flicker through the window, when something catches my eye—a shadow across the street, a tall figure standing by a motorcycle, helmet on. My heart stutters. No way. It can’t be.
I stand, trying to get a better look, but Derek’s hand clamps around my wrist. “Where do you think you’re going?” he slurs, voice rough.
“Just need some fresh air,” I say, already heading for the door, pulling out of his grasp.
“Now, now, baby. Come back here. Sit with me.” He pats his lap, grinning in a way that makes my skin crawl.
I hesitate, then push my luck. “Just a minute,” I say, slipping out the door and leaving it open behind me. The night air bites at my skin as I stare across the street. The man by the bike hasn’t moved. There’s no fucking way—it couldn’t be…
My thoughts are cut short when Derek storms out after me, his footsteps pounding behind me, rage radiating from every line of his body.
He grabs a fistful of my hair at the base of my scalp and yanks hard—I shriek, pain bursting sharp behind my eyes as I stumble backward.
Tears sting my eyes, vision blurring with shock and fear, but he doesn’t let up.
“I said, come sit with me,” he snarls, dragging me back inside and slamming the door so hard the walls rattle.
His grip is iron, bruising, and I have no choice but to follow, my skin prickling and burning where his fingers dig in, the humiliation and terror twisting in my gut.
I barely resist—by now, I know better than to argue.
The last thing I want is to make him angry.
When he leads me to our bedroom, I mumble, “Baby, I’m tired,” but he doesn’t even acknowledge it.
He starts pressing sloppy kisses down my neck, his hands sliding up my shirt.
I try to squirm away, but he tightens his grip, pulling me back in.
“Derek, please…” I whisper, hoping he’ll stop. He doesn’t.
“Strip,” he snaps, and when I hesitate, his hand cracks hard across my face. “I said fucking strip.”
My body moves on autopilot—I take off my clothes, because resistance is pointless. It only causes more pain.