Ella
No one could convince me that I hadn’t fallen into an episode of Black Mirror and couldn’t wake up from it. All three of them were like a strange, fucked-up family—the psycho, the prick, and the predator.
Nick kept glaring at me like a psycho every single day. The instigating prick was Rowan, who barely said anything. Then there was creepy Alec, who administered my birth control pills every morning as if I were purposely going to get pregnant by the prick.
Poor Sophie. I don’t know what she stole or what she did, but she didn’t deserve to die the way she did. Those images stayed with me whether I was at work or here. All I could do was keep my head down and carry on as if I still had a normal life.
The lie held no comfort.
“Finish your dinner,” Alec said.
“Yes, Dad,” I blurted out before slapping a hand over my mouth.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, hurriedly picking up my cutlery.
No one slapped me. No one reprimanded me.
I glanced up to find them all looking at one another, silently communicating in a way that made my skin prickle. Nick looked amused. Rowan was frowning. Alec, though—Alec’s eyes were narrowed on me.
“Your results came back today,” Rowan said lightly. “Finish your dinner, go to your room, and wait for me.”
The command made me gulp, but I nodded.
I could do this. I’d had sex before—multiple times. Different partners. The odd hookup in college. He wasn’t disgusting. Not physically, anyway. Personality was another matter.
“You won’t be mouthy for long,” Alec said, almost sing-song.
I cleared my plate quickly, loaded everything into the dishwasher, and hurried out of the room.
The tension—and the sadness of having to leave work—was finally catching up with me. Nick might glare or sit in silence in the car, but he never tried to intimidate or mock me. That was the difference that kept bothering me.
We ate breakfast and dinner together. Every day.
When I reached the top step, I glanced at the other doors—rooms I’d only ever looked into when they were open, never brave enough to explore properly.
Rowan’s house wasn’t mine to wander. I’d looked him up at work, scrolling through article after article.
Parents. Affluent background. A successful business.
And beneath it all—his shady loan system.
Interest and penalties so astronomical they barely felt legal.
God, I hated my father.
Why hadn’t it been him who died?
What kind of parent would allow their child to try and take care of a household and their drunken state?
I’d exhausted all charities and social services programme options to the point that I ended up on antidepressants, but I did manage to get some free therapy through it. Between working, studying, and looking after him, it finally took its toll.
Only through those sessions did I realise that I’d been stuck in the role of caregiver since my mum died.
No one could understand the desperate need to be loved—even if it was by a careless, alcoholic parent.
I felt like a fool. All those years, people told me to stop helping him or asked why I didn’t just move out.
No one could understand unless they had parents who were selfish to the core.
And here I was again—stuck.
Not by choice.
Not by fate.
Not by consequence.
But by my father.
My footsteps were heavy as I walked towards the bathroom for a shower. No one would see my tears there.
?
?
?
Once I was out of the shower and back in my pyjamas, I wasn’t sure whether I was meant to wait for him in bed or sit on the couch. The uncertainty gnawed at me. I had to force the thoughts of my father out of my head if I wanted any chance of surviving whatever game Rowan was about to play.
Before I could decide, he walked in.
His expression gave nothing away. He was still dressed in his shirt and trousers, but the tie was gone—discarded somewhere between control and intention. He crossed to the other side of the bed and began removing his cufflinks with unhurried precision.
“Strip.”
The single word sent a ripple of unease through me, but I didn’t hesitate. I reached for the buttons of my nightshirt, undoing them one by one. Metal clicked softly against wood as he placed the cufflinks on the bedside table.
I folded the top neatly and set it at the foot of the bed, pretending not to notice the cool air tightening my nipples. When I slid my hands to my bottoms, I framed it the only way I could—as a transaction. Something procedural. Contained.
It was just sex.
Something I could handle.
I swallowed as I added the pyjama bottoms to the pile.
When I looked up, Rowan had removed his shirt and was unfastening his trousers.
He wasn’t built like Nick—less brute force, more restraint.
No tattoos. Lean, toned muscle beneath pale skin.
His hair was lighter too, sandy where the others were dark.
Yet his eyes were the darkest of them all—a rich brown, compared to Alec’s lighter hazel.
He could have been handsome.
If not for the crooked black heart beneath it all.
“I expect complete subservience from you, Ella.”
His quiet words carried weight.
I lowered my eyes.
A dictatorship. Got it.
“I’m sure there will be some hiccups,” he continued calmly. “But don’t test me. Or my brothers.”
My gaze drifted to the bed.
Brothers who did everything together.
At work. At home.
But in bed?
Surely not.
The bed was right there.
I’d been sleeping in it for five days.
No fucking way.
My head snapped up.
Rowan was naked—his body emerging from shadow, his arousal unmistakable. I wanted to ask him. Needed to. But my mind raced through everything that had happened since that night.
Had I missed something?
He’d never said I was exclusive to him.
Warmth pressed against my back. His body closed the distance, his presence unavoidable. His cock settled between my buttocks as his hand brushed my damp hair away from my neck.
“Get me hard,” he murmured, his breath close to my ear.
“On your knees.”