Healing Library | Self-Love

The Architecture of Ambivalence

The most sophisticated minds in psychology—from Jung to Winnicott—have long understood that health is not the absence of conflict, but the capacity to hold conflict within oneself without fragmentation. The original text is a masterclass in this paradoxical holding. It refuses the seduction of binary thinking—'I am either healed or broken'—and instead inhabits the fertile middle ground where both realities coexist.

Consider the first line: 'I am making progress in my healing journey AND still struggle at times.' This is not a confession of failure; it is a declaration of structural maturity. The ego that can say 'and' instead of 'but' is an ego that has integrated its shadow. Progress and struggle are not enemies; they are dance partners. The struggle is not a sign that progress is false; it is the very friction that makes progress meaningful.

The second line deepens this: 'I have expectations for people in my life AND don't expect perfect.' Here we see the dismantling of the all-or-nothing defense. Many people oscillate between demanding perfection (a defense against disappointment) and expecting nothing (a defense against hope). This speaker occupies a third space: they hold standards without idolatry. They expect effort, not flawlessness. This is the difference between a contract and a covenant—the former demands exact compliance, the latter allows for grace within structure.

We then encounter the relational paradox: 'I can express my needs AND recognize they won't always be met.' This is a profound act of differentiation. The speaker separates the act of expression from the outcome of fulfillment. They have learned that their worth is not contingent on getting what they want. This is the psychological equivalent of breathing—inhalation (expression) and exhalation (release) are both necessary. To hold one's breath waiting for a response is to suffocate the self.

The trauma work line is perhaps the most telling: 'I am working hard on processing my trauma AND still get triggered.' This reframes the trigger not as a failure of healing, but as a natural recalibration. Triggers are not evidence that the work is ineffective; they are the nervous system's way of saying, 'We are touching the edges of the wound, and it still has charge.' Healing does not mean the absence of activation; it means the capacity to return to regulation after activation. The trigger is a teacher, not a verdict.

The decision-making line introduces temporal wisdom: 'I can make decisions with the information I have at the time AND can allow myself to change my mind.' This is the antidote to decision paralysis. Many trauma survivors become frozen because they demand a certainty that does not exist. This speaker accepts the provisional nature of all choices. They understand that integrity is not about never changing course; it is about being honest about why you are changing course.

The final lines circle back to the core truth: 'I am aware that healing and personal growth is a lot of work AND am choosing to do it anyway.' This is the existential choice. It is not a naive optimism; it is a conscious yes in the face of difficulty. The speaker does not deny the cost. They calculate the cost and decide it is worth paying.

What this text reveals is a person who has moved from the paranoid-schizoid position (where everything is either all good or all bad) to the depressive position (where one can hold love and hate, hope and despair, progress and regression as parts of the same whole). This is not just healing; this is psychological adulthood.

When the Silence Speaks Louder Than Words

You noticed the shift. It started small—a slightly slower reply, a shorter phone call, a topic deftly changed. Then the gap widened. You reached out, and they drifted further. You offered vulnerability, and they met it with deflection. You asked direct questions, and received foggy answers. You felt the cold, but were told you were imagining it.

This is the quiet betrayal of emotional neglect. It doesn't announce itself with a fight or a dramatic exit. It erodes slowly, like a shoreline losing ground to the tide. And the most confusing part? The person on the other side often acts as though nothing is wrong—leaving you questioning your own perception, your own needs, your own worth.

What It Really Means When Someone Withdraws Without Explanation

Let's be clear: when someone you care about repeatedly stops meeting you halfway, changes the subject when you open up, gives vague or dismissive answers to direct questions, and acts like your desire for connection is "too much"—that is not a sign of your dysfunction. It is a sign of their avoidance. It is a boundary violation against the basic trust of the relationship. And it is a form of emotional neglect that leaves you trapped in a cycle of self-doubt.

You weren't overthinking. You were accurately perceiving a withdrawal of care. Your intuition was not the problem—it was your lifeline. The problem was someone who preferred ambiguity over honesty, distance over repair, and their own comfort over your clarity.

How to Reclaim Your Boundaries When You've Been Trained to Chase

The hardest part of emotional neglect is that it tricks you into working harder. You think if you just explain yourself better, if you just become easier, if you just give more space, they will return. But you can't negotiate genuine care into existence. You can't earn what was never freely offered. Here is how you stop the chase and reclaim your boundaries:

Stop gaslighting yourself. If it felt off, it was off. Your nervous system registered the withdrawal before your mind could name it. Trust that signal. You don't need proof—you have your own experience.

Accept that closure is not their job. You may never get a satisfying explanation. That is not a reflection of your worth. It is a reflection of their inability to be accountable. You can find closure by deciding that the story is over, even without their final chapter.

Grieve the connection you wanted, not the one you had. You were craving consistency, reciprocity, and emotional safety. Those are legitimate needs. Grieve that you invested in someone who couldn't meet them. Then turn that grief into a new standard.

Stop chasing clarity from people who thrive in confusion. Some people prefer the fog because it allows them to disappear without taking responsibility. Your peace will come when you stop trying to force someone to care who has shown you they don't.

Redraw your boundary with action, not explanation. You don't need to announce your departure. You simply stop showing up to a relationship that is no longer mutual. You stop initiating. You stop over-functioning. You let the silence be the answer—and you walk away.

The Truth That Sets You Free

You didn't imagine being ignored. You experienced it. And acknowledging that truth is how you stop trying to earn attention that should have been freely given. Letting go is not a loss—it is a reclamation. You are not leaving something behind. You are stepping into a standard that says: I will no longer shrink myself to fit into someone else's neglect.

Your presence is not a favor. Your love is not a debt. And your boundaries are not a wall—they are the gatekeeper of your peace.

Novel: My Sister's Score

Chapter 1

The number 1550 had glowed above my head like a promise of salvation. I'd watched it for a month, my entire future resting on that floating decimal. Every time I opened a textbook, it dropped. Every time I skipped school, it soared.

So I played the game.

I partied. I skipped. I ignored every practice test. On exam day, the number winked down at me: 1560.

My score came back as 500.

The 1560 belonged to my sister, Tessa.

My parents' punishment was swift: a midnight shift at a factory so remote the air tasted like rust. On my first night, shadows materialized from the parking lot darkness. Fists connected with my ribs. My vision swam with stars.

Through the ringing in my ears, I heard Tessa's voice, a venomous whisper inches from my face.

"Did you really think I'd let you outshine me? I was controlling that number the entire time. And now you get to disappear."

I woke up gasping.

Same ceiling. Same bed. Same number floating above my head: 1300. One month before the SATs. A second chance.

Tessa appeared in my doorway, saccharine sweetness dripping from her voice. "Want to study together tonight?"

I pulled out a lighter and set my practice tests on fire in the driveway.

"Exams are coming," I said, watching the flames curl. "I'm not studying."

The number ticked up to 1310. Her face fell into a mask of disappointment, but I caught the smirk she couldn't hide.

She had no idea.

Back in my room, I unzipped my backpack and reviewed my teacher's notes. The number plummeted to 1280. I pulled up the feed from the hidden camera in her room.

"Why is it dropping so fast?" Tessa was panicking. "She said she wasn't studying!"

A cold voice answered her. "Once it drops below 1000, it detonates. Studying is a death wish."

My sister looked thrilled. "If she gets blown up, she deserves it."

I slammed my books shut and ran to an all-night bar downtown. The number climbed back to 1530. On the feed, Tessa looked unbearably smug.

"She's partying. That idiot actually thinks she's going to score a 1530. That's my score!"

I killed the feed with a cold laugh.

She had no idea I'd just cracked the code. I spent that entire night covering the bar's walls in formulas and equations. The number above my head never even flickered.

With the fifteen hundred dollars she sent me—her entire savings—I funded a month of secret prep. On exam day, I dragged myself home looking wrecked, the number glowing 1550.

My father slapped me. My mother screamed. My sister handed me my admission ticket with a sugary smile.

I took the test.

On score release day, the ballroom was packed. My parents had organized a celebration for Tessa's inevitable victory. My grandmother, Eleanor Vance—majority shareholder of Vance Holdings—was watching. The heir to the company would be chosen today.

Tessa typed in her login. The screen flashed: 1550.

The room erupted.

My father sneered at me. "You live off your sister's generosity from now on."

My mother slapped me. "Know your place."

Tessa shoved the laptop toward me. "Your turn."

I typed in my information.

Score: 540.

The crowd laughed. My sister's heel pressed into my cheek as she forced me to the ground.

"On your knees," she hissed. "You're getting sent to a psychiatric hospital. Or maybe a farm to marry some farmer."

The admissions officer from Thorncliffe University walked in.

Tessa released me, striding toward him with victorious grace.

But the moment she reached him, her brilliant smile shattered.

And the final act of my carefully orchestrated show was finally beginning.

Chapter 2

# CHAPTER 2: THE RAT'S NEST

The Thorncliffe admissions officer walked past Tessa as if she were furniture, his polished shoes carrying him directly to where I lay crumpled on the ballroom floor.

"Miss Vance," he said, extending a hand. "I've been looking for you everywhere."

The room went silent.

I took his hand and rose, brushing dust from my dress. My mother's slap still stung, a warm bloom across my cheek. My father's sneer had frozen into something unrecognizable.

"Congratulations," the officer said, loud enough for every corporate vulture in the room to hear. "You scored a perfect 1600. Early admission. Full scholarship."

Tessa made a sound like a wounded animal.

The floating number above my head flickered—1570, 1580, 1590—but I'd stopped looking at it weeks ago. I already knew what happened when you trusted things that hovered.

"Impossible," my father roared. "She scored 540!"

"The 540 belonged to another student," the officer said, producing a sealed envelope. "Identity theft in progress. We flagged it immediately."

Tessa's face drained of all color.

I pulled out my phone and tapped the screen once. The hidden camera feed from her bedroom began playing on the ballroom's main projector—Tessa's voice, cold and gloating, explaining exactly how she'd manipulated the floating number, exactly how she'd planned to kill me.

"Once it drops below 1000, it detonates," her recorded voice announced.

The room erupted.

My grandmother Eleanor rose from her seat, her cane striking the marble floor like a gavel. "Robert Vance," she said, her voice shaking with rage. "Margaret. You are both disowned. Your abuse ends tonight."

My father lunged at me.

Two security guards intercepted him before he reached the stage.

Tessa's hand darted into her pocket—I saw the motion, recognized it from the previous timeline, from seconds before my death. She pulled out the detonator.

I held up a small, deactivated chip.

"Two weeks ago," I said quietly. "I had it surgically removed. You can't kill me anymore, Tessa."

Her face contorted. She threw the detonator at my feet, grabbed her parents, and fled through the kitchen doors.

The number above my head vanished.

Grandma Eleanor reached me, wrapped her arms around my shoulders. "My brave girl," she whispered. "My brilliant girl."

I let myself breathe for exactly three seconds.

Then I felt the lightness evaporate, replaced by a heavy, grinding dread that settled deep in my bones. Tessa had escaped. Tessa had resources. Tessa had a network of sycophants who would do anything for her approval.

This wasn't over.

This was just beginning.

---

Three days later, I sat in the ICU waiting room, watching my grandmother breathe through a machine.

The stroke had hit her the night after the ballroom. Mild, the doctors said. Recoverable, they promised. But I saw the way her hand trembled when she tried to write. I saw the confusion flickering behind her eyes when she couldn't remember my name.

"Who's there?" she asked, her voice thin and reedy.

"It's Claire, Grandma. Your granddaughter."

"Claire." She smiled, recognition flooding back. "You stopped her."

"I stopped her for now. But she's still out there."

Eleanor's grip tightened on my hand with surprising strength. "Then finish it."

*Finish it.*

Those words became my mantra.

I drove home to an empty house. My parents had emptied their bank accounts and disappeared, leaving only a eviction notice taped to the front door. The electricity had been cut. The fridge was full of rotting food.

I didn't care.

I unlocked the hidden compartment in my closet—the one from the previous timeline where I'd hidden evidence of Tessa's schemes, evidence that had been found and used against me. This time, I'd stored it differently.

Inside was a single USB drive.

I plugged it into my laptop.

Tessa's network of sycophants was extensive, but it was also predictable. She recruited from the same pool every time: desperate rich kids, jealous burnouts, people who craved her approval because their parents couldn't give them love.

From the previous timeline, I knew exactly who her lieutenants were.

Marcus Chen. Social media manipulator.

Priya Sharma. Forger and document specialist.

The twins, Derek and Damon Hayes. Muscle and intimidation.

And one wild card: Lucy Tran, Tessa's childhood friend who'd betrayed her in the last days before my death, selling information to the highest bidder. Lucy was the one who'd told me about the detonator.

But Lucy was also a survivor, and survivors had prices.

I found Lucy at the same coffee shop she'd frequented in the previous timeline, nursing a cold latte and scrolling through her phone. She looked up when I sat down, recognition flickering in her eyes.

"Claire." She didn't sound surprised. "I heard about the ballroom."

"You heard about your meal ticket burning."

Lucy's smile was sharp. "What do you want?"

"Tessa's going to try to ruin me. She's going to spread rumors that I cheated. She's going to doctor evidence. She's going to use Marcus, Priya, and the Hayes twins to make it stick."

"So?"

"So I need you to help me set a trap."

Lucy's eyes narrowed. "What's in it for me?"

"Immunity from prosecution when this all comes down. And a position at Vance Holdings when I take over."

She stared at me for a long moment. Then she pulled out her phone.

"I'll need access to her encrypted accounts," she said. "And I'll need you to trust me."

I laughed—a cold, hollow sound.

"I don't trust anyone. But I know how to use you."

Lucy's smile widened. "That's fair."

---

The trap was simple, elegant, and vicious.

I leaked false financial documents—meticulously forged by Priya, who now worked for me—suggesting I was embezzling from Vance Holdings to fund my secret prep classes. The documents showed a pattern of small, untraceable transactions, each one timed perfectly to match my study sessions.

Tessa took the bait within hours.

She contacted me through a burner phone, her voice dripping with triumph. "I have proof you've been stealing from the company. If you don't drop out of the inheritance race, I'll destroy you."

"Wait," I said, my voice trembling with feigned fear. "You can't do this."

"I can, and I will. Meet me at the factory tomorrow. Midnight. We'll negotiate."

I ended the call and checked the hidden recording app on my phone.

Perfect.

The entire conversation was saved, her extortion attempt documented in crystal-clear audio. She had just admitted to trying to blackmail me with forged evidence.

I sent the file to my lawyer and Grandma Eleanor's personal assistant.

Then I sat in the darkness of my empty house, the silence pressing against my ears like a physical weight.

The number above my head flickered back to life: 1310.

*She's partying again,* Tessa would think. *She's not a threat.*

But the number was a lie, and the number was a weapon, and I had learned to use both.

I stood up, grabbed my jacket, and walked out the front door.

The factory loomed in the distance, its smokestacks silhouetted against the moonlit sky.

Tessa was waiting.

And this time, I was ready.

🛑 Read the Complete Uncensored Chapter!

Platform rules restrict the rest of this steamy story, but you can read the full novel for 100% FREE.

How to find it:

Go to Google and search: JustFreeFic.com

On the website, type the Search Code: 4295

Novel: Foster Sister Wore My Wedding Dress

Chapter 1

The silk slid across Diana’s shoulders like a mockery of vows.

Marcus Thorne stood beside his foster sister on the altar, his hand wrapped around hers, a lazy grin spreading across his face.

“Behold, the bride.”

The guests laughed nervously. No one dared correct him.

Diana twirled in the ivory gown—*my* gown. The train dragged across the marble floor, picking up dust and wine spills. She giggled, pressing her cheek against Marcus’s shoulder.

“It fits me better, don’t you think, Felix?”

My chest went hollow. Not painful. Just *empty*.

Five years ago, that same dress had been held out to me by trembling hands. Marcus had knelt in the rain for three hours, soaking through his shirt, begging me to accept it.

“Clara, please. I’ll love you forever. Just take it.”

I took it.

And now he didn’t even remember.

Marcus finally looked at me. His eyes held annoyance, not remorse.

“Clara, stop standing there like a statue. It’s just a dress. Diana was playing around. Come up. Everyone’s waiting.”

I didn’t move.

*My lungs felt like they were filled with glass shards.*

A groomsman elbowed me forward. “Don’t make a scene, sis. He’s doing you a favor by marrying you at all.”

I let out a soft laugh.

Then I pulled the platinum ring from my finger and dropped it into the trash bin.

The *clink* echoed through the hall.

“I’m not marrying you, Marcus.”

Silence. Then laughter.

“She’s bluffing for attention.”

“Pathetic.”

Marcus’s face darkened. He stormed over, grabbed my wrist hard enough to bruise.

“Enough. Get on that stage.”

I shook him off. My voice didn’t waver.

“The five years I chased you are over. The promise I made to the man who loved me is done. You forgot him. I won’t.”

He blinked, confused.

Diana chose that moment to collapse.

“My waist… the dress… someone poisoned it…”

Marcus caught her instantly. His eyes burned with accusation.

“Clara, how dare you hurt her!”

I didn’t answer. I just watched him carry her out.

The guests whispered. The elders sneered.

*But I had already pulled out my phone.*

I scrolled to a number I had buried for three years. A man who once said he would wait forever.

I pressed call.

A deep, warm voice answered. “Clara?”

I took a breath.

“Three years ago, you said you would marry me. Does that still count?”

A low chuckle. “Princess, you finally came to your senses. It always counts.”

My heart steadied for the first time that day.

But then Diana’s messages flooded in.

*“Dig that dress out of the trash, Clara. Your five-year devotion is rotting where it belongs.”*

*Photos. Her lips on his neck. Her fingers in his hair.*

I felt nothing.

I finished packing.

Then Marcus kicked the door open.

“How dare you throw my foster sister’s dress in the garbage?!”

He grabbed my collar and slammed me to the floor.

The torn wedding dress fluttered down beside me.

Diana rushed in, cradling it like a holy relic, sobbing.

“It’s all my fault… please don’t blame her…”

Marcus pulled her into his arms. His voice dripped venom.

“Apologize to Diana. Or forget about marrying me.”

*I looked up at him from the cold floor.*

And I smiled.

“Already forgotten.”

The doorbell rang.

A man in a tailored black coat stood at the entrance, his eyes fixed only on me.

“Princess. Ready to go home?”

Marcus froze.

“Who the hell are you?”

The man smiled coldly, stepping between us.

“The man who never forgot her.”

Chapter 2

# CHAPTER 2: THE ESCAPE ROUTE

The chaos erupted like a firework without a fuse.

Diana screamed. Guests gasped. Marcus's face cycled through confusion, then fury, then something I couldn't name.

He released my collar. Stepped forward. Chest puffed.

"You can't just walk out. This is *my* wedding."

Dorian didn't flinch. His coat brushed my arm as he positioned himself between us.

"I'm not walking out on a wedding, Marcus. I'm walking out on a funeral."

The guests muttered. Someone's champagne glass shattered.

Diana clutched the torn dress to her chest. "He's the one, Marcus. The man she was texting. I told you she was unfaithful."

*Her timing was perfect. It always was.*

Marcus's jaw tightened. His hand shot out, grabbing my elbow.

"Stay."

Three years ago, that word would have melted me.

Now it felt like chains.

I twisted free. "No."

He blinked. Unaccustomed to the word.

Diana sobbed louder. "She stole my wedding. My dress. My moment."

*Your dress. Right.*

The absurdity almost made me laugh. But my throat felt lined with gravel.

Dorian's hand found mine. Warm. Steady.

"Clara has nothing to prove to you, Diana. But I do."

He reached into his coat and pulled out a slim phone.

"I have a lawyer outside. He has receipts."

Marcus scoffed. "Receipts for what?"

"For the dress."

Diana's face went pale beneath her practiced tears.

Dorian continued, voice flat. "Clara purchased that dress from Maison Vivienne on November 12th, 2019. The receipt is notarized. The microchip embedded in the label confirms ownership."

Silence.

I watched Marcus's brain try to catch up. His eyes darted between Diana, me, the dress in her hands.

"That's impossible. Diana said it was a gift from her grandmother."

*Diana said.*

Diana always said.

I pulled out my phone. Opened the file I'd been saving for three years.

"Want to hear what else Diana said?"

My thumb hovered over a voice recording. The one where Diana admitted to Marcus's old business partner that she'd "inconvenienced" his first love's reputation.

Diana lunged.

"Don't you dare."

She grabbed for my phone. Her nails raked my wrist.

*The sting woke me up.*

I stepped back. Let her stumble forward, off-balance.

"I'm not fighting you, Diana. I'm done fighting."

Marcus caught her arm before she fell. His eyes found mine.

"What did you just try to play?"

I looked at him. The man who once knelt in rain for hours. The man who wrote love letters on napkins. The man who remembered.

None of that man stood before me now.

"Evidence," I said quietly. "But you wouldn't believe it anyway."

Dorian's hand pressed against my lower back. Gentle. Grounding.

"Car's outside. My lawyer will handle the police."

*Police.*

Marcus's face shifted. He pulled out his own phone.

"You think you can just leave? I'll call the cops. Report you for theft. For assault on Diana."

*Assault. Right. Because I defended myself from her claws.*

I should have felt fear. Panic. Something.

Instead, I felt *relief*.

"Go ahead."

He dialed. Diana smiled through fake tears.

But the doorbell rang again.

A woman in a sharp blazer entered. Briefcase in hand. Eyes scanning the room like a predator.

"Am I interrupting?"

Dorian smiled. "Right on time, Ms. Hart."

The lawyer walked past Marcus, past Diana, straight to me.

"Clara Vance. I represent Dorian Cross. And you."

She placed a folder on the nearest table. Opened it.

Inside: photos. Receipts. Screenshots of messages.

Timestamps aligning perfectly.

Ms. Hart tapped the first photo—Diana at a pawn shop, selling the real heirloom ring she claimed was "stolen."

"Ms. Rivers has a habit of borrowing things that don't belong to her."

Marcus leaned forward. His eyes traced the images.

"What is this?"

"Proof." Ms. Hart's voice cut like glass. "That the dress belongs to Ms. Vance. That Ms. Rivers has a documented history of fraud. And that your memory loss was… convenient."

Diana gasped. "She's lying! Marcus, she's planted all of this!"

Marcus looked up. His face was unreadable.

But his hand trembled.

*He remembered something.*

I saw it flash across his eyes. A fragment. A splinter.

He stared at me. For a second, his mouth opened.

Then Diana clutched her chest.

"The perfume… I can't breathe…"

She collapsed. Gracefully. Dramatically.

Marcus caught her before she hit the floor.

"Call an ambulance!"

The room erupted. Guests screamed. Groomsmen scrambled.

I watched her eyes flutter. Perfect eyelashes. Perfect timing.

*She always knew when to faint.*

Ms. Hart closed the folder. "Ms. Vance, I recommend we leave now."

I nodded.

But I didn't move.

I walked to where Marcus knelt, holding Diana's limp body.

Squatted down to his eye level.

"The hospital three blocks south has better rates than the one you usually use. And they actually check for allergic reactions before administering sedatives."

His eyes snapped to mine.

"How do you know—"

"Because I've been cleaning up your messes for five years, Marcus. Including her fake hospital bills."

I stood.

Diana's fingers twitched. Almost imperceptibly.

*She heard me.*

Good.

I turned. Followed Dorian out the door.

The cool air hit my face like a splash of water.

*I was free.*

But behind me, Marcus's voice cracked.

"Clara."

I didn't stop.

"Clara, wait."

I heard his footsteps. Heard him shove past guests.

Then his hand grabbed my shoulder.

*Hard.*

I turned.

His eyes were wild. Lost.

"The dress. The receipts. What else have you been hiding?"

I looked at him. The man I loved. The stranger I mourned.

"Everything you refused to see."

I pulled out the file from my bag.

Dorian's hand found mine again.

I pressed the file into Marcus's chest.

"Inside: three years of diary entries. Screenshots of Diana's messages. Voice recordings of her confessions. A private investigator's report on her financial schemes."

Marcus's hands shook as he took it.

"Why now?"

"Because I'm done protecting you from the truth."

I let go.

Diana was loaded into an ambulance. A paramedic checked her pulse.

But her eyes found mine through the window.

*No tears. No performance.*

Just pure, cold hate.

I smiled.

Then the ambulance doors closed.

Marcus stared at the file in his hands.

His fingers opened the first page.

His face went white.

*He was reading about a woman he didn't remember loving.*

I got into Dorian's car.

The engine purred to life.

As we pulled away, I saw Marcus in the rearview mirror.

He was alone.

The file hung from his hands.

The wedding hall was empty.

*And Diana was in a hospital he had to pay for with money she had been draining for years.*

Dorian's hand covered mine.

"You did it, princess."

I exhaled.

But my phone buzzed.

A message from an unknown number.

*"You think you won? The game isn't over, Clara. He'll never believe you. And when I'm done, you'll have nothing left. Not even that dress."*

I read it twice.

Then I turned off my phone.

Dorian glanced at me. "Everything okay?"

I looked out the window at the city lights blurring past.

"No," I said. "But it will be."

But my hands didn't stop shaking.

*Because Diana was right about one thing.*

The game wasn't over.

*She was just getting started.*

🛑 Read the Complete Uncensored Chapter!

Platform rules restrict the rest of this steamy story, but you can read the full novel for 100% FREE.

How to find it:

Go to Google and search: JustFreeFic.com

On the website, type the Search Code: 4276

Novel: The Outsider In My Own Family Group Chat

Chapter 1

The laptop screen glowed in the dark of my cousin Sienna’s room.

I was about to log her out of her messages when a notification pinged.

“To celebrate Cole’s grades, we’re having dinner tonight. Just the four of us.”

Four.

My father Richard. My mother Patricia. My brother Cole. My cousin Sienna.

Not me.

I scrolled up. My breath caught in my throat.

Cole had written: “Don’t invite Maya. She’s always so petty. Remember when she fought Sienna over an apple?”

I froze. My fingers went numb. The air left my lungs in a single ragged exhale.

My phone rang. It was Patricia.

“Maya, your father and I are busy tonight. Bring in the laundry. Fold everything. Cole and Sienna are out too. Grab something for yourself.”

Click.

I walked to the patio. Stared at the piles of clothes belonging to my brother and cousin. Everything clicked into place with a sickening clarity.

I was the stranger in my own home.

I folded their clothes. Put them in their cozy rooms with warm beds. Then I looked at my folding cot on the enclosed patio. A bitter laugh escaped my lips.

Sienna had complained about sharing a room. So I was moved to the patio. I understood. I was kind. I was mature.

My kindness was a weapon they used against me.

I grabbed the last apple from the kitchen. Last week, Sienna wanted one. Patricia snatched the half I offered from Sienna’s hand and threw it in the trash. “Half an apple isn’t enough for a snack!”

Cole glared at me like I was garbage. “Are you really that stingy?”

My father said nothing.

I sat on my cot, scrolling. Found a post on Sienna’s burner account. A photo of my parents, Cole, and Sienna laughing together. The caption read: “It took a while, but I finally have a mom again.”

I hit like. Commented: “I hope your family stays happy forever.”

Seconds later, the post was deleted.

My phone rang. Sienna’s voice was honey-sweet. “Maya, don’t take it seriously. I was just posting for fun.”

I laughed. A hollow, broken sound.

She started sobbing. Cole snatched the phone. “Apologize to her right now, Maya!”

My heart slammed against my ribs. “For what? I didn’t say anything.”

“Making her upset is messing with me! Apologize or else!”

Patricia’s voice cut in. “Maya, we’re just having a quick bite. Don’t be upset.”

Thirty dollars appeared in my account. “There. Buy whatever you want. Drop it.”

I hung up. My hands were shaking.

I called my best friend Jade. “Is there still a spot on your project?”

“Yes! When can you get here?”

“Tomorrow. First flight.”

They came home late, reeking of alcohol. Saw my packed bags. Patricia grabbed my clothes and threw them on the floor. “What are you doing? Throwing a tantrum?”

I met her eyes. “I saw the group chat. Did you ever consider me family?”

Her face went pale. Then she hardened. “It’s just a group chat.”

Sienna stepped forward, crying. “It’s my fault. If I hadn’t moved in…”

She grabbed my arm. I shoved her off. She stumbled.

Cole caught her. Then he shoved me.

I hit the floor. My knee cracked against the tile. Pain exploded through my body.

He looked satisfied. “That’s what you get for putting your hands on her!”

Patricia turned her back on me. Hugged Sienna. “You only have us now, honey.”

Then she looked at me with pure disgust. “I am so disappointed in you.”

My father said, “Just apologize. We’ll put this behind us.”

I whispered, “I will not apologize.”

Cole kicked me while I was still on the ground. My mouth filled with copper.

“Apologize! I’ll keep going until you do!”

He raised his foot again.

Patricia led Sienna away. Over her shoulder, Sienna smirked.

*See? You lose. Everything you have belongs to me now.*

Cole’s fists rained down on me. I made no sound. The physical pain was nothing compared to the hollow cavern where my heart used to be.

Eventually, my father pulled him off. “That’s enough. We don’t want a police report.”

I lay on the cold floor. Heard my parents whispering.

“She’s obsessed with this family. She’ll get over it.”

My phone buzzed. Flight info from Jade. Early tomorrow.

I dragged myself up. Grabbed my ID. Walked out the door.

It clicked shut behind me.

The weight lifted. I didn’t need them anymore.

I was done.

The next morning, I was at the airport. Boarding the plane. Leaving everything behind.

Three weeks later, my phone exploded.

Unknown number. Then another. Then my father’s name.

“Maya, please come home. We need you.”

“Maya, your mother is crying. She misses you.”

“Maya, I’m sorry. We were wrong.”

I stared at the messages. My finger hovered over the block button.

Then the final message came. From a number I didn’t recognize.

“Miss Vance, my name is Alistair Croft. I am the family attorney for the Hart Estate. Your biological grandfather, the founder of Hart Industries, has passed away. You are named as the sole heir to a controlling interest in the company. I need to speak with you urgently.”

I dropped my phone.

Sienna’s family. The family she replaced mine with.

I was the heir.

The door to my apartment swung open. Jade stood there, eyes wide. “Maya, there’s a limousine downstairs. And—there’s a man in a suit. He says he’s here for you.”

I walked to the window.

Below, a black Rolls-Royce. And beside it, a man in a tailored suit, holding a folder.

He looked up. Straight at me.

And bowed.

Chapter 2

# CHAPTER 2: THE DINNER OF HUMILIATION

The Vance house looked smaller.

I stood on the sidewalk, staring at the two-story colonial I'd called home for twenty-two years. The paint was chipped on the porch railing. The rose bushes needed trimming. Everything felt diminished, like a stage set seen from backstage.

Jade checked her watch. "We don't have to do this."

"I know."

"Your security team is positioned. I'll be on the earpiece. If anyone touches you—"

"They won't."

I wasn't sure I believed that.

The front door opened. Patricia stood there, wearing her best pearls. The ones she'd inherited from Grandma Helen. The ones she'd told me I wasn't mature enough to wear.

"Maya." Her voice cracked. "You came."

I walked past her into the foyer.

The smell hit me first. Lemon polish and cinnamon candles. Patricia's signature scent, the one she used to cover up arguments and slammed doors. The grandfather clock ticked in the hallway. Same sound. Same rhythm.

I used to count those ticks to fall asleep on my patio cot.

"We prepared your favorite dinner." Patricia touched my arm. "Pot roast. Mashed potatoes. The way you like it."

"I don't eat meat anymore."

Her hand dropped. "Oh. I forgot."

The dining room was set for six. Fine china. Crystal glasses. Richard stood at the head of the table, hands clasped in front of him. Cole leaned against the wall, arms crossed, jaw tight. He looked thinner. Dark circles under his eyes.

Sienna sat at the far end of the table. She wore a modest floral dress. No makeup. Her hair pulled back in a simple ponytail.

The grieving orphan look. I knew it well.

"Maya." Richard stepped forward. "Thank you for coming. We... we have a lot to discuss."

"Yes. We do."

I didn't sit. My security guard, a broad-shouldered woman named Rosa, stood just inside the doorway. Jade remained outside on the porch.

Sienna rose from her chair. Her eyes were wet. "Maya, I want to apologize. For everything."

"What exactly are you apologizing for?"

She blinked. "I... for the misunderstanding. For the group chat. For everything that happened before you left."

"You shoved her, Cole." I turned to my brother. "You kicked me while I was on the floor. You broke two of my ribs."

He flinched. "You provoked me."

"By breathing the same air as your precious Sienna?"

"Don't twist this—"

"Sit down, Cole." Patricia's voice was sharp. "We're here to heal, not fight."

I laughed. The sound scraped out of my throat like gravel. "Heal? You want to heal."

Richard held up his hands. "Maya, please. We know we made mistakes. We want to make things right."

"You want to make things right because I control Hart Industries now."

Silence.

Sienna's face flickered. For one split second, I saw the mask slip. The calculation behind her eyes.

Then the tears returned. "Maya, I never wanted the inheritance. I didn't even know about it. My grandfather—"

"Your grandfather left me everything. Not you. Not your mother. Not anyone else." I pulled a folder from my bag. "Do you want to know why?"

I set the folder on the table. Opened it.

Inside was a photograph. An old man. Gray hair. Sharp eyes. He stood beside a young woman with dark hair and a familiar smile.

Sienna's mother.

"Your mother isn't dead, Sienna."

Her face went white.

"She's been living in Oregon. Remarried. Two kids. She cut ties with the Hart family fifteen years ago after a dispute over—what was it?—a fraudulent trust fund withdrawal."

"Liar." Sienna's voice trembled. "You're making this up."

"Alistair Croft found her. She's willing to testify."

Patricia grabbed the photo. Her hands shook. "What is this? Sienna, what is she talking about?"

Sienna backed away from the table. "She's trying to turn you against me! This is what she's always done! She's jealous of what we have!"

"What we have?" Cole's voice was uncertain. "Sienna, what does she mean your mother isn't dead?"

I pulled out another document. A purchase offer for the house. My signature at the bottom.

"You have two choices." I kept my voice flat. "Record a video confession. Admit what you did to me. Post it online. Publicly."

Patricia stared at the offer. "You're trying to take our home?"

"I already own it. The trust your father set up? It was a Hart subsidiary. Every mortgage payment you made went to Hart Industries."

Richard sank into his chair. "That's not possible."

"The second option." I looked at Sienna. "You confess. Tell the world you manipulated my family into abusing me. Or I release the medical records from the night I left. I sue Cole for assault. Your father for negligence. Your mother for emotional abuse."

Cole lunged forward.

Rosa moved faster.

She grabbed his arm, twisted it behind his back. He screamed. His face hit the table. China rattled. A wine glass tipped over, spreading red across the white tablecloth.

"Let him go!" Patricia shrieked. "You're hurting him!"

"He was about to hurt me."

Sienna started sobbing. Loud. Performative. The same sound she'd made every time she wanted attention.

"That's not enough." I reached into my bag again. "I have something else."

I pulled out my phone. Opened a screenshot.

Sienna's burner account. The photo of my parents with her. The caption I'd seen before: "It took a while, but I finally have a mom again."

But there was more.

I scrolled down. Showed them the comments underneath.

Sienna's friends had replied. "Finally got rid of the trash, huh?"

Sienna's response: "She was always too needy. Now I have a real family."

Patricia made a sound like she'd been stabbed.

"Look at the date." I zoomed in. "This was posted three days after I left. While you were all calling me, begging me to come home."

The room went silent.

Sienna stood frozen. The tears had stopped. Her face was blank.

"That's fake," she whispered. "She Photoshopped that."

"I have the original URL. I have the IP address. I have everything."

Cole struggled against Rosa's grip. "Maya, please—"

"You have twenty-four hours." I picked up the folder. "Record your confession. Post it. Publicly admit that you scapegoated me. That you chose a stranger over your own blood. Then I'll consider not stripping you of everything you own."

Patricia collapsed into a chair. Her mascara ran in dark streaks down her face.

Richard stared at the table. He wouldn't look at me.

Sienna's phone buzzed. She glanced at it. Her face went pale again.

"Who's that?" I asked.

She didn't answer.

I walked over. Took the phone from her limp hand.

A message from Alistair Croft.

"Ms. Vance, I've just received word from the media. Someone has leaked information about the inheritance. There's a news crew outside your parents' home. They're asking questions about the 'secret heir' and the 'orphan who was cheated.'"

I looked at Sienna.

She smiled.

A thin, sharp, desperate smile.

"I've already told them everything," she whispered. "By tomorrow morning, the whole world will know what you did. That you stole my inheritance. That you turned my family against me."

"You are not my family." I handed her phone back. "And you just made a massive mistake."

I turned to Rosa. "We're leaving."

"Maya, wait—" Richard stood.

"No. I'm done waiting."

I walked toward the door.

Patricia grabbed my arm.

I stopped.

Looked at her hand. Then at her face.

"Don't touch me."

She let go. "Please. Please don't do this. We're your family."

"You made that choice. Live with it."

I stepped outside.

The news van was already pulling up to the curb. A reporter jumped out, camera crew behind her.

"Ms. Vance! Is it true you've inherited Hart Industries? That your cousin was written out of the will?"

I didn't stop.

"Ms. Vance! Your cousin Sienna claims you threatened her. That you've been harassing your family since you left!"

Jade fell into step beside me. "Get in the car. Now."

The reporter kept shouting. "Is it true you were removed from the family home? That you were physically abused?"

I stopped at the car door.

Turned around.

"Yes."

The reporter's eyes widened. "Can you—"

"It's all true. And I have proof."

I got in the car.

Jade slammed the door.

The engine roared to life.

My phone buzzed.

Sienna's number.

I answered.

"Think you're clever?" Her voice was shaking. "I have connections too. I know people who can destroy you."

"You tried that already. It didn't work."

"This isn't over."

"No. It's not."

I hung up.

Jade looked at me. "What now?"

I stared out the window at the house I'd grown up in. The house where I'd been beaten. Where I'd been forgotten. Where I'd learned that love had conditions.

"Now we see who breaks first."

My phone buzzed again.

Alistair Croft.

"Ms. Vance, I'm sorry to interrupt. But there's something you need to see."

"What is it?"

"I've just received a call from Sienna's biological mother. She's agreed to speak publicly. But there's a complication."

"What kind of complication?"

"She's not alone. She's bringing someone with her."

"Who?"

Alistair's voice dropped. "Sienna's half-sister. A woman who claims she was also abused by Sienna. And she says she has evidence."

I gripped the phone.

"Ms. Vance, you need to understand. This woman has been in hiding for fifteen years. She says Sienna tried to kill her."

The car went silent.

"I'll be at the office in thirty minutes."

I hung up.

Stared at the house one last time.

Sienna stood at the window. Watching me.

I held up my phone.

Then I pressed record.

Her face twisted.

She pulled the curtains closed.

The car pulled away.

And the man who had bowed to me in the rain was already calling again.

This time with a name.

The name of a dead body.

Buried in a backyard I'd played in as a child.

🛑 Read the Complete Uncensored Chapter!

Platform rules restrict the rest of this steamy story, but you can read the full novel for 100% FREE.

How to find it:

👉 Go to Google and search the Novel Title: The Outsider In My Own Family Group Chat

Chapter 1

My mother, Margaret Hale, runs a boutique adult store called Velvet Luxe.

She treats the business like her third child—obsessively organized, ruthlessly efficient, and mildly terrifying.

"I'm going to pick up a shipment. Watch the shop."

Her voice was muffled, distant, as if she'd already walked out the door while speaking.

I grunted something unintelligible from the storeroom couch, half-dead from an all-nighter of inventory spreadsheets.

Sleep swallowed me whole.

When I woke, my wrists were bound.

Soft rubber cuffs. Professional grade. The kind that doesn't leave marks but also doesn't let go.

My stomach dropped.

I was lying face down. The bed beneath me had contorted into some kind of erotic sculpture—my hips elevated, my back arched downward, my legs forced apart.

The pleasure bed.

The new model we'd just unpacked.

I'd collapsed onto it without thinking. And in my sleep, I must have triggered the automatic locking mechanism.

"Mom?" I whispered, my voice cracking.

Silence.

She'd left. Of course she'd left.

The restraints flexed but held. I thrashed. Nothing.

Then I heard footsteps.

"Margaret? I'm here to settle the bill."

William Blackwood. The antique dealer from next door.

Sixty-two years old. Silver hair. The kind of face that belonged in a museum portrait.

He walked through the back door, his footsteps echoing on the concrete floor.

I froze.

I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't do anything except lie there, my ass in the air, trapped in a machine designed for sin.

"Oh," he said, his voice curious. "A new doll."

My blood turned to ice.

I felt his hand on my thigh.

Warm. Dry. Calloused from handling old furniture.

He squeezed once. Twice.

"The texture is remarkable," he murmured. "And warm. How do they do that?"

His hand slid upward, inside my shorts.

I was wearing nothing but a pair of tight hot pants and a thin tank top. No bra. No underwear beneath the shorts because it was thirty degrees outside and I'd expected to sleep alone.

His fingers brushed against the curve of my ass.

I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper.

"Very realistic," he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice.

Then he grabbed the waistband of my shorts and pulled.

They slipped down like they were butter.

My breath caught in my throat.

"Panties too? With lace. Classy."

His hand roamed freely now, tracing the shape of my hips, my lower back, the swell of my cheeks.

I should scream, I thought.

I should say something. Anything.

But the words wouldn't come.

Because if I spoke, he would know. He would know I was real. He would know I was Chloe Hale, the girl who used to babysit his grandkids. The girl who lived next door.

The shame would destroy me.

So I stayed silent.

I felt his breath on my thigh. Warm. Damp.

Then his mouth.

His lips pressed against my skin, soft and deliberate.

A shock went through me like lightning.

"Such smooth skin," he whispered. "I need to ask Margaret where she got this."

His fingers traced the edge of my underwear.

I trembled.

He noticed.

"The doll shivers," he said, delighted. "Incredible."

Then he pulled my underwear down.

I closed my eyes.

This is it, I thought. This is the moment my life ends.

He leaned in close. I could feel the heat radiating from his body.

His breath ghosted over the most intimate part of me.

"Why," he said slowly, "does this remind me of Chloe's?"

My heart stopped.

My brain short-circuited.

What did he just say?

He knew. He knew it was me.

But how?

How did he know what my ass looked like?

His hand pressed firmly against me, his thumb tracing a slow, agonizing circle.

I gasped despite myself.

"Ah," he said softly. "There she is."

I heard the rustle of his belt.

Then something hard and hot pressed against me.

Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2: THE BREAKING POINT**

The pressure of him against me—raw and insistent—snapped something inside my chest.

*Move.*

The word was a blade in my skull.

*Move now or die here.*

He shifted his weight, his hands gripping my hips, repositioning me like I was a piece of furniture.

I remembered.

The pleasure bed.

The safety override.

A pressure plate hidden under the side panel. Accessible only by extreme wrist flexion.

I'd read the manual. I'd laughed at the placement.

I wasn't laughing now.

My wrists were cuffed. The bed's leather surface was slick beneath my cheek.

But the override was on the left side. Always on the left.

I'd need to twist my arm backward. Dislocate my shoulder. Maybe break my wrist.

"Don't struggle," William murmured. "It's better when you don't struggle."

I tensed every muscle in my body.

Not to fight him.

To reach.

My right hand strained against the rubber cuff. My fingers stretched toward the panel. My shoulder screamed. My elbow popped.

But my fingertips found the plate.

I pressed.

Nothing.

"Margaret will be pleased," William said, adjusting his position. "She's been wanting someone to test this model."

I pressed harder.

The plate clicked.

A soft hum vibrated through the bed.

William froze.

"What—"

The cuffs snapped open.

I rolled.

Not gracefully. Not elegantly. I tumbled off the bed like cargo, landing hard on the concrete floor.

My shoulder slammed into the ground. My hip absorbed the impact.

I didn't care.

I scrambled to my knees.

William stared at me, his trousers half-undone, his expression flickering between confusion and amusement.

"Clever girl," he said.

I hated him.

I hated the way he said it. The casual approval. Like I was a pet that had performed a trick.

My hand found something cold and heavy.

A glass dildo. Display model. Twelve inches. Solid crystal.

I grabbed it by the base.

"You're making a mistake," William said, still smiling.

I swung.

The glass connected with his forehead with a wet, sickening crack.

He staggered backward, his hand flying to his face. Blood poured between his fingers.

The smile vanished.

For one perfect second, I saw fear in his eyes.

Then his knees buckled.

He hit the floor, groaning, his hands pressed against the gash. Blood pooled beneath him.

I stood over him, the dildo still clenched in my shaking fist.

My shorts were still around my thighs.

I didn't care.

"Don't move," I said.

He laughed.

A low, bubbling sound. Wet with blood.

"You won't call the police," he said.

"Watch me."

"Think about it, Chloe."

He said my name like it was a threat.

"You call them, they'll ask questions. They'll see the bed. They'll see your clothes. They'll see how you were posed."

He wiped blood from his eyes and smiled.

"How will that look on the front page? Margaret Hale's daughter. Found in a bondage bed. Half-naked. Struggling with a man double her age."

My grip tightened on the glass.

"Sex scandal," he whispered. "Or murder attempt. Your choice."

I wanted to swing again.

I wanted to feel his skull crack under the weight of my rage.

But he was right.

The cops would see me. The bed. The implements.

They would ask questions I couldn't answer.

They would look at me with pity I didn't deserve.

I ran.

I ran through the storeroom. Through the shop. Past the silent display cases and the rows of unblinking mannequins.

I burst through the front door.

The street was empty.

Not a single car. Not a single pedestrian.

I screamed anyway.

"Help! Someone help!"

Silence.

The streetlights flickered. A cat darted across the pavement.

I turned around.

William stood in the doorway of Velvet Luxe.

Blood streaming down his face. Smile wide.

He adjusted his collar.

"Goodnight, Chloe."

He walked away.

Toward his shop. Toward his antique store. Toward his life undisturbed.

I collapsed on the sidewalk.

My hands were shaking. My body was shaking. Everything was shaking.

I looked down.

I was still holding the glass dildo.

Blood dripped from its tip.

And somewhere in the distance, I heard a door close.

Soft. Final.

Like a coffin lid.

🛑 Read the Complete Uncensored Chapter!

Platform rules restrict the rest of this steamy story, but you can read the full novel for 100% FREE.

How to find it:

Go to Google and search: JustFreeFic.com

Chapter 1

The moment I saw the investor was Ethan, I knew I had already lost to Chloe.

He was her first love. The ghost he could never bury.

I stood in the conference room, the cold air of the AC biting my skin. The projector hummed behind me. My design proposal was perfect. My research was flawless. But my husband’s eyes had already drifted across the table, landing on Chloe’s smug face.

He smiled at her.

Not at me.

The director clapped his hands, his voice syrupy with brown-nosing. “Mr. Ethan and Miss Chloe are a perfect match! Made for each other!”

Other colleagues chimed in, their laughter a poison I had to swallow. “Exactly! I heard Mr. Ethan invested in our company just for Miss Chloe! He really dotes on his future wife!”

I stood there, numb. My fingers curled into my palms until my nails bit into the flesh.

The elevator doors slid open.

The director nudged my elbow. “Jane, don’t you agree? Mr. Ethan and Miss Chloe are such a perfect match.”

I met Ethan’s gaze. His eyes were dark, unreadable. Panic flickered in them for a fraction of a second.

I forced my lips to move. “Indeed. A perfect match.”

His face went pale. His lips parted, a word caught in his throat. But I didn’t wait.

I stepped out of the elevator and walked away.

---

The company gala was a circus of glittering dresses and fake smiles. I wore a navy blue gown that Chloe had “accidentally” spilled wine on two hours before the event. The stain was hidden under a shawl, but the humiliation clung to my skin like a second layer.

My father, Richard, was there. He didn’t look at me. He was too busy laughing with Chloe, his arm draped around her shoulders like she was the only daughter he ever wanted.

Chloe had stolen him when I was fourteen. Now she had stolen my husband.

I saw Ethan across the ballroom. He was standing with a group of investors, his posture lazy, his smile easy. He didn’t look for me. He never did.

Then Chloe walked past me. Her heel caught on the hem of my gown.

I stumbled.

The marble floor came rushing up to meet me.

I fell hard. The sound of my body hitting the ground echoed in the sudden silence. Pain shot through my wrist, hot and sharp. I looked up, dazed.

Chloe was falling too.

But Ethan moved faster than I had ever seen him move.

He crossed the room in three strides. His arm shot out, wrapping around Chloe’s waist, pulling her upright. The world froze.

He held her.

He looked at her.

He checked if she was okay.

No one looked at me.

My wrist throbbed. I pushed myself up, my palms scraping against the cold marble. Blood welled up on my skin.

Chloe smiled at Ethan, her eyes doe-like and innocent. “Thank you, Ethan. I don’t know what happened. Something tripped me.”

He didn’t look back at me.

I stood up, my body trembling. The blood from my palm dripped onto the white floor.

Richard finally noticed me. His eyes were cold. “Can’t you do anything right? You’re always causing trouble.”

I looked at Ethan. “Why didn’t you catch me?”

He finally turned. His face was a mask of indifference. “I didn’t see.”

The lie cut deeper than the fall.

Later, in the hospital, I sat in a sterile white room. The doctor wrapped my wrist. The pain was a dull throb now, but the ache in my chest was worse.

Ethan was in the corner, scrolling through his phone.

Chloe walked in. She didn’t even glance at the doctor. She came straight to me, her smile sharp as a blade.

“He caught me, Sarah. Not you. He will always catch me.”

I said nothing.

She leaned closer, her voice a whisper. “Even if you’re his wife, in his heart, I will always come first. Everything you fought so hard for comes to me effortlessly.”

I closed my eyes.

I was fourteen again. Watching my mother cry. Watching my father leave.

I was twenty-two again. Watching Ethan choose Chloe’s proposal over mine.

I was twenty-four now. Lying in a hospital bed, my husband standing three feet away, and he had never felt more distant.

I made a decision.

I was done fighting.

I was done with Chloe.

I was done with Ethan.

I chose myself.

---

A month later, the divorce papers were signed.

I left the house. I left the company. I left the city.

I rebuilt my life from the ashes.

I started my own design firm. I worked eighteen-hour days. I slept on a second-hand couch. I didn’t cry.

I met Alex at a coffee shop. He was an artist. He had kind eyes and a quiet laugh. He didn’t know about my past. He didn’t care.

He looked at me like I was the only woman in the room.

Six months later, we were walking down the street, his arm around my waist, my head on his shoulder.

I was laughing.

I hadn’t laughed like that in years.

Then I saw him.

Ethan.

He was standing at the entrance of a restaurant. His hair was disheveled. His eyes were red-rimmed. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

He saw me.

He saw Alex’s arm around my waist.

His face went white. His hands clenched into fists.

He took a step forward. “Sarah.”

I stopped. My heart didn’t race. It didn’t ache.

I just looked at him.

His voice cracked. “Who is this? Who is he to you?”

I didn’t answer.

Alex looked at me, confused. “Do you know him?”

I smiled at Alex. “No. He’s no one.”

I turned away.

Behind me, Ethan screamed. “SARAH! YOU ARE MINE! YOU WILL ALWAYS BE MINE!”

I didn’t look back.

Alex tightened his arm around me. We kept walking.

Ethan’s voice broke into a sob. “Please… please don’t leave me… I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”

The wind carried his voice away.

I didn’t stop.

I was free.

Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2: THE HONEYPOT**

The contract landed in my inbox at 7:03 AM.

A Fortune 500 company. Full branding overhaul. Seven-figure budget.

My first major client as an independent firm.

Alex brought me coffee, his hair still wet from the shower. "You're glowing."

I showed him the email.

He whistled. "Sarah Chen. You're unstoppable."

I laughed. For the first time in years, I believed it.

---

The meeting was set for Thursday.

I spent three days preparing. Mood boards. Color palettes. Market research. Alex stayed up with me, sketching concepts on napkins when my printer ran out of ink.

"This is the one," he said, pointing at a design. "This is your masterpiece."

I kissed him. "You're biased."

"I'm honest."

---

Thursday arrived.

I walked into the boardroom. Twelve executives sat around a mahogany table. The CEO smiled at me.

"Miss Chen. Your portfolio is extraordinary."

I presented my vision.

Every slide landed. Every concept resonated. They nodded. They asked questions. They smiled.

"We want to move forward with you," the CEO said. "We'll have our legal team draft the contract by—"

The door opened.

Chloe walked in.

She wore a white power suit. Her heels clicked against the floor like a countdown.

Behind her, Richard stepped into the room.

My father didn't look at me.

"My apologies for the interruption," Chloe said, her voice honey and acid. "But I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding."

The CEO frowned. "I'm sorry, who are you?"

Chloe extended her hand. "Chloe Vance. Creative Director of Vance Industries. And I believe you were considering my proposal as well."

I froze.

Vance Industries didn't exist six months ago.

Richard cleared his throat. "My daughter has been too modest. She failed to mention that the real driving force behind her success is my financial backing."

The CEO looked between us. "I wasn't aware there were multiple bids."

Chloe smiled. "There aren't. There's the right choice and the wrong choice."

My hands trembled beneath the table.

---

The CEO excused himself for a private word with Richard.

Chloe sat down across from me. She crossed her legs. Her smile never wavered.

"Did you really think you could escape me, Sarah?"

I didn't answer.

"I own this city," she whispered. "I own Richard. I own every connection you ever had."

I gripped the edge of the table. "You don't own me."

"No." She tilted her head. "But I own everything you want."

The door opened.

The CEO walked back in. His face was apologetic.

"Miss Chen, I'm sorry for the confusion. It appears there were some... overlapping terms in your proposal. We've decided to move forward with Miss Vance's company."

My heart stopped.

"I don't understand. My proposal was original. I have documents proving—"

Richard cut me off. "Don't make a scene, Sarah. You always make a scene."

Chloe stood. She walked past me. Her shoulder brushed mine.

"Better luck next time, sister."

She didn't say it loud enough for anyone else to hear.

---

I left the building in a daze.

The sun was too bright. The street was too loud. I sat on a bench and stared at my hands.

They were shaking.

I had rebuilt everything from nothing. And Chloe had torn it down in five minutes.

My phone buzzed.

An unknown number.

I answered.

Ethan's voice was raw. Broken. "I need to see you."

I hung up.

He called again. And again. And again.

Finally, I answered. "What do you want?"

"I saw what happened. Chloe told me. I know she stole your client."

I laughed. Bitter. Hollow. "And you care now?"

"I never stopped caring."

"Liar."

He was silent for a long moment. "I'm at your office. Please. Just give me five minutes."

---

I walked into my office.

Ethan was standing by the window. He looked worse than the last time I saw him. Dark circles. Hollow cheeks. His designer suit hung loose on his frame.

He turned when I entered.

"Sarah."

"Five minutes. Start talking."

He took a shaky breath. "I know what she did. I know she manipulated Richard. I know she stole your client."

"And?"

His eyes glistened. "I should have stopped her. I should have stopped her years ago."

"You're right. You should have."

He stepped toward me. "I loved you. I still—"

"Don't."

I held up my hand.

"You chose her, Ethan. Every single time. At the gala. At the hospital. When I fell. When I bled. You chose her."

His face crumbled. "I was blind. I was stupid. I was—"

"You were a coward."

He flinched like I had slapped him.

"Sarah, please. I'll fix this. I'll talk to Richard. I'll expose her. I'll do anything. Just... please..."

I looked at him.

Six months ago, I would have cried. I would have fallen into his arms. I would have let him save me.

But I didn't need saving anymore.

"I've moved on, Ethan."

His face went white. "The man. The artist. Alex."

"Yes."

"Is he... are you..."

"Yes."

Ethan's legs gave out.

He sank to his knees. His shoulders shook. His sobs echoed in the empty room.

"I'm sorry," he choked. "I'm so sorry. I ruined everything. I ruined us."

I walked past him.

I opened the door.

"Your regret changes nothing."

I walked out.

---

Alex was waiting in the hallway.

He didn't ask questions. He didn't push. He just wrapped his arms around me.

"I heard," he said quietly. "The contract fell through."

I nodded against his chest.

"We'll fight it," he said. "We'll find evidence. We'll take her to court."

I pulled back and looked at him.

"You believe me?"

He cupped my face in his hands. "I believe you. I believe in you."

I closed my eyes.

For the first time today, I felt safe.

"Then let's fight."

---

That night, I sat at my desk.

The contract was gone. But the fight was just beginning.

I opened my laptop.

I started digging.

Bank records. Email trails. Past client complaints.

Chloe had done this before. She had stolen from others. She had buried her crimes under Richard's money.

But nothing stayed buried forever.

My phone buzzed.

A text from an unknown number.

*She knows you're digging. Stop now. Or next time, you won't just lose a contract.*

I stared at the screen.

My heart pounded.

Then another message came through.

A photo.

Alex, leaving his studio. A man in a black car watching him from across the street.

*Tick tock, Sarah.*

I dropped my phone.

My hands were shaking.

I ran to the window.

The street below was empty.

But somewhere out there, Chloe was watching.

And she wasn't done with me yet.

🛑 Read the Complete Uncensored Chapter!

Platform rules restrict the rest of this steamy story, but you can read the full novel for 100% FREE.

How to find it:

Go to Google and search: JustFreeFic.com

Chapter 1

The change in me was a curse disguised as power.

My name is Kaelen Vance, and after five years of marriage, my body betrayed me with a second, brutal evolution.

It wasn't just muscle or height.

It was a primal, relentless hunger that transformed me into something my wife, Seraphina, could no longer recognize, let alone withstand.

Our nights, once filled with passion, became sessions of terrified pleading.

"Please, Kaelen, stop! You're going to break me!"

Her tears meant nothing to the beast inside me.

The need was a physical agony, a fire in my blood that demanded quenching.

I would pin her against the wall, the shower tiles, the kitchen counter, taking what I desperately needed until she sobbed herself to sleep.

The final straw came on a Tuesday.

She packed a single suitcase, her hands shaking, and declared she was leaving.

When I blocked the door, she looked at me with pure, unadulterated fear.

It was the look that finally chilled the fire in my veins.

"I'm staying with Vivienne," she whispered, slipping past me. "Don't come for me."

Vivienne Sterling.

Seraphina's best friend.

A vision of polished elegance married to a fossil of a billionaire who couldn't satisfy a goldfish.

Days bled into a week of torment.

The ache was a constant, throbbing presence.

I paced my empty penthouse, a caged animal driven mad by its own nature.

Then, on the eighth night, the intercom buzzed.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

Seraphina.

She had finally come home.

I didn't bother with a shirt, answering the door in nothing but sweatpants, the evidence of my week-long deprivation painfully obvious.

It wasn't Seraphina.

Vivienne stood in the hallway, a sinuous silhouette against the dim lights.

She wore a dress the color of midnight, a second skin that plunged in the front and ended high on her thighs.

Sheer black stockings vanished beneath the hem, hinting at secrets.

Her gaze didn't meet my eyes.

It dropped lower, and her perfectly painted lips parted in a soft, shocked 'O'.

"Good God, Kaelen," she breathed, her voice a husky murmur. "Seraphina wasn't exaggerating."

I stepped aside, wordlessly letting her in.

The scent of her perfume—jasmine and something darker—wrapped around me.

She settled on the white sectional, crossing her legs with deliberate slowness.

"So," she began, accepting the water I offered. "Seraphina is terrified. She says you're an animal. She's talking about permanent legal separation."

I sank into the chair opposite her, my eyes helplessly tracing the rise and fall of her chest with each breath.

"It's not something I can switch off, Vivienne. It's a physical demand. If I ignore it, the pain is... excruciating."

She leaned forward, her eyes alight with a curiosity that felt dangerous.

"A second puberty? In a grown man? That's... unprecedented. I have to admit, I'm fascinated."

She let the silence hang, her gaze unwavering.

"Show me."

The two words hung in the air between us, charged and impossible.

"I... that's not appropriate," I managed to say, even as my body roared in agreement.

Vivienne simply smiled, a slow, knowing curve of her lips.

"Don't be a prude, Kaelen. Consider it a clinical assessment. For Seraphina's sake."

The pretense was thin as tissue paper.

With a groan of surrender, I stood and pushed the sweatpants down my hips.

The cool air was a shock, but her heated stare was a brand.

She didn't look away.

She leaned closer, her breath warm.

"May I?"

Her question was a formality.

Before I could answer, her hand was there.

Her touch was not clinical.

It was an exploration, a firm, knowing stroke that ripped a ragged gasp from my throat.

Weeks of pent-up need surged to the surface, making me tremble.

"Now I understand," she purred, releasing me and sitting back. "No wonder she ran. It's a weapon."

She stood up then, and before I could process it, she lowered herself onto my lap.

The feel of her, the delicious pressure, was madness.

"I came here to broker peace," she whispered, her lips brushing my ear as she shifted subtly. "But if she leaves you, what then? I'd miss our... conversations."

My hands found her waist, holding her in place.

"Help me," I growled, the words torn from me. "You can't sit here like this and tell me to be a good boy."

She gave a throaty laugh, a sound of pure sin.

"I am a married woman, Kaelen. And your wife's closest friend. This is the definition of wrong."

But her hips made a small, circular motion against me.

"Wrong has many avenues," she continued, her voice dropping. "It doesn't have to be intercourse. There are... alternatives."

I shook my head, my control fraying.

"Not enough. It would never be enough."

With a sigh that felt staged, she slid off my lap.

But she didn't move away.

I reached for her, my hand sliding up the smooth silk of her stocking, beneath the hem of that impossible dress.

My fingers found the heat at the apex of her thighs.

She didn't stop me.

"Kaelen," she chided, but her body arched into my touch. "You're crossing a line."

"I'm following a path you paved," I countered, feeling the damp silk of her underwear. "You're starving, Vivienne. And I'm a feast."

I stood, lifting her effortlessly over my shoulder.

She let out a gasp, her fists pounding weakly against my back.

"Put me down this instant! Have you lost your mind?"

I carried her to the bedroom, the king-sized bed a vast expanse of white.

I laid her down, my hands wrapping around her ankles, removing her expensive heels.

Her feet were delicate, perfect.

I brought one to my lips, inhaling the scent of her skin, her arousal.

It was the most intoxicating thing I'd ever smelled.

"Tell me to stop," I challenged, my voice rough.

Her eyes were closed, her chest heaving.

"We shouldn't..."

But her legs fell open, an invitation written in the language of need.

I tore the flimsy barrier of her underwear away.

The sight of her, ready and glistening, shattered the last of my restraint.

I buried my face between her thighs, and her back arched off the bed, a broken cry tearing from her throat.

It was not a cry of protest.

It was a song of surrender.

We spent the night exploring every "alternative."

Her mouth, her hands, her boundless, hungry creativity.

By dawn, the beast inside me was sated, sleeping for the first time in weeks.

Vivienne left as the sun rose, a secret smile on her lips.

"For Seraphina's sake," she said, adjusting her dress. "We'll continue these... mediation sessions."

It became our routine.

Three times a week, Vivienne would arrive.

We never spoke of her husband or my wife.

We spoke only with bodies, in a language of gasp and groan and desperate release.

For a month, it worked.

The pressure valve was open.

I could think clearly again.

I even called Seraphina, my voice calm, promising to seek control.

She sounded hopeful.

Then, one evening, Vivienne didn't come.

The intercom remained silent.

The old, familiar ache began to coil in my gut, sharper for having been temporarily relieved.

By midnight, I was frantic.

I drove to the address Seraphina had given me, Vivienne's sleek downtown condo.

I didn't call.

I took the private elevator up, my knuckles white on the rail.

The door to her penthouse was slightly ajar.

Soft music and the sound of laughter drifted out.

I pushed it open.

The scene in the living room froze the blood in my veins.

Vivienne was there, in another devastating dress, a glass of champagne in her hand.

And she wasn't alone.

A man had his arm around her waist—tall, younger, with the easy smile of a professional.

An escort.

But that wasn't what stopped my heart.

On the balcony, looking out at the city lights with a glass of wine, was Seraphina.

My wife.

She turned, hearing the door.

Her eyes met mine, wide with surprise.

Then they flicked to Vivienne, then back to me, a dawning horror spreading across her face.

Vivienne followed her gaze.

She saw me standing in the doorway, my expression undoubtedly a mask of betrayal and raw, reawakened hunger.

Her smile didn't falter.

It grew.

She disentangled herself from the escort and took a step toward me, her hips swaying.

"Kaelen," she said, her voice sweet as poison. "What a surprise. Seraphina and I were just discussing you. We've come up with a new... arrangement."

Chapter 2

The penthouse smelled of jasmine and deceit.

Kaelen stood frozen in the doorway.

Vivienne’s smile was a scalpel. “Don’t just stand there, darling. Come in. We’re all adults here.”

The escort gave a polite, vacant nod.

Seraphina looked like a ghost haunting her own life.

“Explain,” Kaelen growled, the word scraping his throat.

Vivienne gestured to the plush sofa. “Sit. Please.”

He didn’t move.

With a sigh, she set her champagne flute down. “The current situation is unsustainable. You have a biological need. Seraphina has a biological limit.” She glanced at Seraphina, who flinched. “My… interventions have proven effective. But they are a temporary patch.”

“You used me,” Kaelen said, his eyes locked on his wife.

“I managed you,” Vivienne corrected. “And I’m offering a permanent solution. A consensual, controlled outlet.”

Seraphina finally spoke, her voice a thread. “She showed me the security footage. From your penthouse.”

Ice flooded Kaelen’s veins.

“Every delicious minute,” Vivienne purred. “It was necessary, Kaelen. She needed to understand the scope of your… condition. To see it sated. To see you *functional* afterward.”

“You filmed us.” It wasn’t a question.

“For research,” Vivienne said, waving a dismissive hand. “The point is, Seraphina now understands the alternative. She can live in fear of your uncontrolled episodes. Or she can grant informed consent for a controlled alternative.”

Kaelen turned to his wife. “Sera, tell me this is a joke.”

Tears tracked silently down Seraphina’s cheeks. “She asked me what I wanted. I said I wanted my husband back. The man who could hold a conversation without his eyes glazing over with hunger. The man who didn’t look at me like I was just… meat.”

She took a shuddering breath. “She showed me that man. On the video. After you were… with her. You were calm. You were *you*.”

“So your solution is to pimp me out?” Kaelen’s laugh was hollow.

“My solution is harm reduction,” Vivienne interjected smoothly. “I will manage your needs. Discreet, professional companions, like Leo here.” She nodded to the escort. “Vetted, compensated, and under strict non-disclosure agreements. Your hunger is sated. Seraphina lives safely, separately, but remains your wife in every legal and social sense.”

“Separately?”

“You keep the penthouse. Seraphina will move back in. But into the east wing. A separate suite.” Vivienne’s gaze was merciless. “You will not approach her. You will not touch her. That is the condition of her safety and her continued presence in your life.”

Kaelen looked at Seraphina. “You agree to this?”

Her eyes were shattered glass. “I am agreeing to not be torn apart by the man I love. I am agreeing to have a husband who can look me in the eye. What choice do I have, Kaelen? Watch you become a monster? Or let Vivienne cage the monster for me?”

The beast inside him stirred, intrigued by the promise of regular, guiltless feasting.

The man recoiled in horror.

“This is insane.”

“This is pragmatic,” Vivienne said. She picked up a sleek tablet from the coffee table. “I’ve drawn up a schedule. Initial sessions will be frequent to establish baseline stability. Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. With me, or with a substitute I approve.”

She was serious. This was a business proposal.

Leo the escort smiled pleasantly.

Kaelen’s world narrowed to the silent plea in his wife’s eyes.

He saw her fear.

He saw her desperate, broken love.

He felt the ever-present ache in his blood, already whispering its approval.

His shoulders slumped. The fight drained out of him, replaced by a cold, heavy certainty.

This was the descent.

This was the price of not becoming a rapist in his own home.

“Fine,” he whispered.

The word tasted like ash.

***

The east wing of the penthouse became Seraphina’s gilded prison.

The west wing was Kaelen’s luxurious kennel.

Vivienne was the zookeeper.

She arrived every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday at 8 PM sharp.

Her visits were methodical.

Sometimes she stayed.

Sometimes she brought a “substitute”—a smiling, empty-eyed professional who performed their function with chilling efficiency.

Kaelen’s hunger was managed.

His humanity was not.

He began to see the substitutes as appliances.

Warm, breathing toys to be used and discarded.

He stopped learning their names.

Vivienne was different.

She was the warden, but also a fellow inmate.

After sessions, she would often stay, sipping wine and making notes on her tablet.

“Fascinating,” she’d murmur, her eyes scanning data he couldn’t see.

“What is?” he asked one night, numb.

“Your recovery time. Your metabolic spike. It’s… unprecedented.” She didn’t elaborate.

His interactions with Seraphina were scheduled, too.

Sunday brunches.

Polite, painful affairs.

They talked about the weather. The stock market. The new art installation in the lobby.

They were strangers sharing a tomb.

“Are you… comfortable?” he asked her once, the question pathetic.

“I’m safe,” she replied, not meeting his eyes. “That’s what matters.”

The beast was fed.

The man was starving.

One Thursday, Vivienne was late.

Kaelen paced, the old, familiar agitation rising.

He went to her usual study, a room she’d commandeered in his own home.

He needed her schedule. A name. A number to call.

Her leather portfolio was on the desk.

He shouldn’t.

He did.

Inside were not just schedules.

There were printed emails. Medical jargon.

He skimmed, his heart thudding against his ribs.

*“…subject exhibits hormonal surges consistent with forced hyper-evolution…”*

*“…baseline aggression tied to primal mating imperative, but cognitive function remains high…”*

*“…the Sterling Gene-Modification Protocol shows catastrophic cascade in Subject K.V. but the data is invaluable…”*

Sterling.

Vivienne’s husband’s name.

Gene-Modification.

Kaelen’s blood ran cold.

This wasn’t just management.

This was observation.

This was *research*.

The elevator chimed.

He shoved the papers back, his hands trembling.

Vivienne swept in, all smiles and silk.

“Sorry, darling. Traffic was a beast.”

She kissed his cheek, her perfume smothering.

Her eyes flicked to the portfolio, then back to his face.

Her smile didn’t change.

But her gaze sharpened.

“You look tense,” she said, her hand resting on his chest. “Let’s begin. I have a new substitute for you tonight. A ballet dancer. Very… flexible.”

Kaelen went through the motions.

His mind was screaming.

Afterward, as the substitute left, Vivienne lingered.

She picked up her portfolio, her fingers stroking the leather.

“You know, Kaelen,” she said casually, not looking at him. “Curiosity is a natural impulse. But in your situation, it can be dangerous.”

He froze. “I don’t know what you mean.”

She finally turned, her expression one of cool amusement. “Of course you don’t.” She walked to the door, then paused. “Oh, I’m going out of town next week. Leo will cover all three sessions. Be nice to him.”

The door clicked shut.

Kaelen was alone.

He waited an hour.

Then he went back to the study.

The portfolio was gone.

But in the trash can, crumpled into a ball, was a single discarded page.

It was a fax cover sheet.

The recipient was listed as **V. Sterling**.

The sender was **Prometheus Biotechnologies**.

The subject line was clear: **Phase 3 Trials - Harvesting Viable Gametes from Subject K.V.**

At the bottom, in Vivienne’s elegant script, was a handwritten note.

*“The wife is now compliant. Proceed with extraction during next sedation window. The offspring must be pure.”*

Kaelen’s breath stopped.

The paper fell from his fingers.

It wasn’t just his body she wanted.

It was his seed.

For a child.

*Her* child.

The intercom buzzed, shattering the silence.

He stumbled to the panel.

Seraphina’s voice, thin and scared, came through. “Kaelen? Are you awake? I… I need to talk to you. Vivienne just called me. She said she’s picking me up tomorrow for a… for a special appointment at her clinic. She said it’s for my own good.”

Kaelen stared at the crumpled paper on the floor.

The cliff’s edge crumbled beneath his feet.

**She wasn’t just studying his condition. She was planning to breed it.**

🛑 Read the Complete Uncensored Chapter!

Platform rules restrict the rest of this steamy story, but you can read the full novel for 100% FREE.

How to find it:

Go to Google and search: JustFreeFic.com

Chapter 1

Three days into the silent treatment, Julian Ashford—my fiancé and CEO of Sterling Horizon Corp—greenlit his assistant's pitch for a self-driving road trip.

He expected me to flip, like always.

I didn't.

A month later, he came back and saw it—I wasn't the same.

He backed Vanessa Croft, stole my project, and thought I'd explode.

I didn't. I just helped her draft the proposal.

He trashed everything I built, just so she could snag her year-end bonus.

I didn't fight back. Took the blame, took the hit.

Vanessa was all smug. "See? Told you. You can't go at Cassandra head-on. Give her the silent treatment—she folds. She's scared of losing you. That's why she's playing nice."

Julian ate it up. Called her smart.

Then he pulled me aside—offered a raise, a promotion, even a fancy wedding. First time he'd ever brought it up.

But he missed one detail: he'd already signed off on my resignation while he was off playing road trip king.

And I'd already dumped him.

That was it. Clean cut. Nothing left.

---

"Cassandra, Mr. Ashford needs this proposal ASAP. Sorry to bug you, but finish it before you head out."

Vanessa Croft, Julian's assistant, dropped a fat stack of papers on my desk, all chipper like we were besties.

I took them. "Got it."

She wasn't done. Still smiling, she threw in, "Mr. Ashford and I have a client meeting later. Just leave the docs on his desk. Oh—and tidy up his office before you go."

Then she strutted off like she owned the floor, heels clicking, mood sky-high.

Around me, the office fell quiet. My coworkers shot me that awkward look—half pity, half helpless.

Everyone knew Julian Ashford, CEO of Sterling Horizon Corp, was my fiancé. Everyone also knew he blatantly played favorites, and Vanessa was his number one.

He'd yanked her from another firm, made her director, then handed her a million-dollar project I'd busted two months bringing in and prepping.

When I pushed back, he called a team vote, thinking everyone would back him.

Wrong. The whole team voted for me—except him. Vanessa got one vote. His.

He lost it. Accused me of stirring up cliques. Didn't just take the project away—he demoted me in front of everyone and slashed the salaries of the people who'd backed me.

Nobody dared speak up.

Later, he apologized. Said he didn't want it to look like favoritism. Claimed Vanessa might feel left out.

I used to believe that crap. Now? It's a joke.

Vanessa couldn't even keep up with our interns.

"Didn't want it to look like favoritism"? Please. He was straight-up playing favorites. Everyone saw it but him.

I heard footsteps upstairs and looked up. Julian.

He showed up at the stairwell, glanced my way, then walked out without saying a word. Changed into some casual suit. Even from here, I caught that cedar cologne.

He never used to wear cologne. That one? Vanessa's gift.

Yeah, he knew exactly what he was doing.

He'd been pulling this kind of stuff for years.

It started after I found their goodnight texts. Couldn't stay quiet—I confronted him.

Julian said I was being petty. Then, like it proved some point, he used it as an excuse to "make it official" and moved Vanessa to work directly under him.

The more upset I got, the harder he leaned in—dragging her to every social event, serving her food, even wiping her mouth at company dinners.

When we fought, he'd ice me out. When I apologized, he'd round up his buddies to lecture me like I was some jealous mess.

For a while, I actually blamed myself. Thought maybe I wasn't generous enough. Thought maybe that's why we ended up here.

But on day three of one of his silent treatments—when I was too sick to even sit up and he still packed his bags for a trip with Vanessa—I gave up.

That's when it hit me: he wasn't trying to be noble. He just used my "pettiness" as a shield so he could keep doing what he wanted without feeling guilty.

Even if I hadn't caught those late-night chats, he would've just found another excuse to be with her.

After their latest business trip, they were still grabbing dinner, drinks, playing tennis—same routine. But something between them had changed. I could feel it.

Not that it mattered.

Five years together, and it was done.

This whole mess had dragged on long enough.

I was the last one in the office, finishing up the proposal. Checked my phone—Vanessa had been busy posting.

Candlelit dinner at some fancy spot. Two plates of steak. Julian, all polished and perfect, cutting hers for her.

Caption: "Steak cut by the CEO himself—it has to taste better."

The comments were full of heart emojis and fangirling. A few clueless people even asked when the wedding was. Julian replied with three dots. Vanessa followed up with a cheeky emoji.

No clarification. Just like always.

But this time, I didn't blow up. Didn't call him, didn't get scolded for "overreacting."

I just texted him: proposal's done. Dropped the docs in his office, refilled the water like he asked, then drove home.

The second I walked in, my phone rang—Julian's number.

I picked up, but it wasn't him.

"Cassandra, it's Vanessa. Thanks for your help with the project. I'll treat you to dinner sometime." Her voice was all sugar.

Before I could answer, Julian cut in. "No need to thank her. It's her job."

Vanessa teased. "Mr. Ashford, she's your fiancée. Can't you talk to her a little nicer?"

They sounded like the real couple.

I let out a quiet laugh.

Julian—who used to freak out if I even glanced at his phone—now handed it to Vanessa like it was no big deal.

And honestly? I felt weirdly calm.

What used to feel like the end of the world suddenly felt... small.

They kept joking for a bit, then Julian finally remembered I was still on the line. "I'll be back soon. No need to wait—get some rest."

Then he hung up.

His "soon" usually meant four, five hours. I used to pace the whole time, worried sick.

But this time, I didn't bother.

I just walked to the study and looked at the calendar on my desk.

Not long ago, Julian and Vanessa turned a business trip into a vacation. While they were off playing house, I slipped in my resignation. Julian was too distracted to notice—he approved it without even reading.

Three more days.

Once the handover's done, I'm out.

I paused, then called Dr. Elena Marsh, my old research supervisor, now overseas at a top institute.

Back when I graduated, I landed a high-tier spot there straight out the gate. But Julian said he needed help starting his company, and like an idiot, I dropped everything and ran back to Meridia City. Dr. Marsh told me not to. I didn't listen.

Looking back now... yeah, I was dumb.

Feelings? They shift. Career? That never stabs you in the back.

When the call went through, I explained why I was reaching out. I braced for a lecture. Instead, Dr. Marsh sighed.

"I already heard... was thinking about asking you to come back. But this time... are you actually sure?"

"I'm sure. The resignation's done."

"Resignation? What resignation?"

The voice didn't come from the phone.

I turned.

Julian stood in the doorway.

The call had ended.

I locked my phone without a word.

While I was still trying to figure out what to say, his phone buzzed. Vanessa again. She'd found a stray kitten and stopped to buy it a sausage.

"So cute," Julian said in a voice message.

She shot back right away: "The kitten's cute, or I'm cute?"

Then came a selfie—her holding the kitten, pouting with a peace sign.

Julian smiled. "The kitten's cute, but you're cuter."

Then, like suddenly remembering I existed, his face shut down. He turned to me, all cold.

"Didn't I tell you to get some rest? Why are you still up?"

The tone shift was whiplash. Nothing like how he talked to her.

And he'd already forgotten I said I resigned.

I gave a faint smile. "Just wrapping up a few things."

He frowned deeper. "It's late. What's even left? You seriously need to manage your time better, Cassandra. This procrastination thing is getting out of hand."

I didn't bother saying it was his constant last-minute crap that caused it. No arguing. No justifying. I stayed quiet.

He didn't push. Just walked off to the bedroom.

A minute later, I heard him laughing. Like, actually laughing.

Hadn't heard that sound in forever. He only laughed like that with Vanessa.

I tuned it out, sat at my desk, and pulled out some research journals I hadn't finished.

The institute had changed a lot in five years. Even with Dr. Marsh backing me, I'd have to prove I still had it.

Good thing my foundation was solid. I'd catch up fast.

"You're reading research journals?"

I hadn't even heard him come back in.

He picked one up, flipped through it, then tossed it back with a smirk. "Why are you reading this stuff? Do you even get it?"

I stacked the papers. "Just browsing."

I asked, "Did you need something?"

Back then, I used to light up when Julian dropped by just to chat. Not this time. He froze like he didn't expect me to be so blunt.

His face shifted—awkward, like he'd stepped in something. "Yeah, actually. Vanessa just wrapped up a big project, so I'm thinking of promoting her. Should give the team a boost. What do you think?"

He looked straight at me.

Sure, he said he wanted my opinion, but we both knew that wasn't true.

I just nodded. "I don't mind."

Then he added, "But rewards should come with penalties too. You haven't finished a project in a while, so I'm thinking of moving you to a lower-level position. Just for now.

"Once things calm down, I'll bring you back. Don't worry—it's for the greater good. You're my fiancée, so you'll support me, right?"

I laughed—silently, in my head.

He still had no clue I'd already quit.

He could read Vanessa like a book—knew her mood from a glance, remembered every little thing she liked. But his own fiancée handed him a resignation letter he signed, and he didn't even realize.

That's what it looks like when someone just doesn't care. You can tell in one or two lines.

When I stayed quiet, Julian assumed I was gearing up to argue, like always. His face darkened. "Even if you disagree, it won't change anything. The announcement's already out. Your office belongs to Vanessa now."

"Either accept the transfer or leave," he said. "But just a heads-up—the company's going public. Might wanna think twice before walking away."

He really thought I'd stay.

It wasn't new. I'd been shoved down the ladder more than once, all because of Vanessa's petty comments.

I took it back then. Julian figured I'd cling even harder now.

I gave a dry smile. "I didn't say I disagreed."

"Then it's settled," Julian said, sounding relieved.

To him, silence meant agreement.

He was halfway out the door when he turned back. "Didn't you used to keep our photo on your desk? Where'd it go?"

That's when it hit me.

It wasn't just the desk. I'd plastered our photos everywhere—my phone, the bedroom wall, my wallet. Little reminders that no matter how cold he got, he still loved me.

He used to laugh at that. Said I was obsessed with those "silly little things." He never got it. Never understood they were the only thing keeping me from walking.

Later, I saw them for what they were—proof of how pathetic I'd been.

"I broke the frame," I said flatly. "Put it away."

He frowned, immediately scanning the floor. "Try not to be so clumsy. Make sure you cleaned it up—don't want anyone getting hurt."

His tone softened a little, probably because I wasn't arguing. Then he left the study.

I watched him go and almost laughed.

That warning wasn't about me.

It was about not letting Vanessa get hurt.

This was supposed to be our home. I'd been the one keeping it together—until a few months ago, when I found a hair tie in his study. Pillows on our bed, out of place. That's when I knew. Vanessa had been here. More than once.

I called him out—I had to. Like he saw it coming, he slapped down proof they were just talking business, then turned it on me, calling me jealous and dramatic. To punish me for "overthinking," he started bringing Vanessa over like it was nothing.

She didn't even try to hide the way she looked at me—like she wanted a fight.

Thing is, they never technically crossed a line.

After a while, I started questioning myself. Every day felt like a loop of, "What if it's just me?"

Honestly, if I'd put that energy into literally anything else, I'd be way ahead by now.

---

The next morning, Julian proudly announced Vanessa's big promotion—right after dropping me to the bottom rung.

He hesitated at first, but once I stayed chill and acted like it didn't faze me, he bought it. Thought I'd accepted everything.

He was riding high. So was I.

While he threw Vanessa a fancy banquet, I was getting my visa approved.

While they chilled at an amusement park, I was packing. One suitcase—that's all I needed.

While they toasted clients at some club, I wrapped up my final handover.

---

Two days later—my last day at Sterling Horizon Corp—I wrapped things up with Diane in HR.

Without even glancing up, she said, "Before you go, stop by the CEO's office. Mr. Ashford wants to see you."

I was about to say no, then stopped.

I was flying out tonight. If Julian went out with Vanessa like usual, this'd be it. No more run-ins. No more anything.

After five years, maybe a final goodbye was fair.

So I headed upstairs.

Right as I reached for the door, I caught a glimpse through the glass—Julian kicked back on the couch, and Vanessa, in a long dress, was lying with her head in his lap. Way too close for "just business."

He said something, and she cracked up, covering her mouth like it was the funniest thing ever.

---

I froze.

Was about to turn back when Vanessa saw me. She shot up, startled. "Cassandra, what are you doing here?"

Julian's jaw clenched. He yanked his wrinkled suit into place and barked, "Cassandra Vance, who said you could come in? Didn't I tell you not to come upstairs without permission?"

He had said that once—but back then, the rule was "no one but me" could disturb him up here.

I used to think that meant I was special. Now I knew better.

Not that it mattered. I was already out the door.

I kept my voice steady. "Diane said you were looking for me."

He scoffed, stomped to his desk, and hit the intercom. Diane showed up minutes later.

"You told Cassandra I needed to see her?" he asked, cold as ice.

Diane clocked the tension. She glanced at Julian's face, then at Vanessa's guilty one, and hesitated—way too long—before mumbling, "I don't remember."

Julian let out a dry laugh, smug as hell. He turned to me, all frost and venom. "Wow, Cassandra. Thought you'd grown up, but you're still the same—always plotting.

"If you're that paranoid, why not just move in upstairs? Better yet, plant a camera on me. Then you can stalk me 24/7 and finally give that nosy little brain of yours a break."

Nothing I said would've changed a thing.

"Mr. Ashford, don't be upset. I'm sure Cassandra just got a little emotional because she cares," Vanessa cooed, running a hand down his back like she owned the place.

Then she turned to me, all fake-sweet. "Cassandra, don't get the wrong idea. I just had a headache, and Mr. Ashford was helping me relax so I could keep working. Everything we do is for the company—you really don't need to overthink it."

I didn't know the full story, but I could feel it—this whole setup had Vanessa's fingerprints all over it.

Diane, always the diplomatic one, knew better than to speak up. Vanessa was Julian's favorite, and she wasn't about to get caught in the crossfire.

Not that it mattered. Even if she told the truth, Julian wouldn't have listened.

I kept quiet, but he wasn't finished. Still pissed, he snapped, "No need to explain anything to her. Personal matters stay personal. This is a workplace—we follow the rules. Since Cassandra broke protocol, cancel her bonus this month. And dock half her salary."

Diane blurted, "Mr. Ashford, Cassandra already—"

She probably meant to mention my resignation, but Julian shut her down with a glare. "I don't want to hear excuses. Do as I said."

Diane didn't push it. She just turned and walked out.

I was about to do the same when Julian suddenly called out.

He sounded calmer now—maybe yelling helped him feel better. "Cassandra, I'm not targeting you. These are just the rules. If I don't enforce them, no one will respect them."

Vanessa jumped in, all helpful. "Exactly, Cassandra. Next time something's unclear, just ask Mr. Ashford. Or me, if he's busy."

Julian nodded like she'd solved world peace. "Vanessa really puts the company first. She knows more than anyone."

Then he turned on me, cold. "Unlike you. Always jealous. Always dramatic. Maybe you should try learning something from Vanessa."

Learn what? How to slide into someone else's relationship? Fake innocence while poking the bear? Steal credit, sabotage others?

I let out a quiet laugh. No point calling her out.

Julian took my silence the wrong way. Thought I was feeling guilty.

He stepped closer, reached up to adjust my collar—nothing was wrong with it—and said, all serious, "I know what this drama's really about. I'm disappointed in you.

"But hey, you've matured. So here's your reward—let's take our wedding photos tomorrow.

"We'll move the date up. But don't get too excited—marriage is just—"

"Marriage?" I cut in, laughing under my breath.

I brushed off his hand and handed him the resignation form I'd prepped. "Julian, we're done. I've already quit. Starting today, we have nothing to do with each other."

Chapter 2

# CHAPTER 2: THE FALLOUT

Julian stared at the resignation form like it was a grenade with the pin already pulled.

"This isn't funny, Cassandra."

"I'm not laughing."

His face went through five shades of red in three seconds. "You can't quit. I didn't approve this."

"You did. Three weeks ago. While you were buying Vanessa lobster in Boston."

Vanessa went pale behind him. "Mr. Ashford, I had no idea—"

"Shut up," Julian snapped, but his eyes never left me. "You think you can just walk out? After everything I've given you?"

"Given me?" I laughed—actually laughed. "You gave me a demotion. A front-row seat to your love story. And a signed resignation letter you were too distracted to read."

"Cassandra, don't be dramatic. You're my fiancée—"

"Was."

The word hit him like a punch.

"You can't do this," he said, stepping closer. "You need me. This company needs you. The wedding—"

"There is no wedding, Julian."

Vanessa's voice cut through, all honey and concern. "Mr. Ashford, maybe we should let Cassandra cool down. She's clearly not thinking straight—"

"Don't," I said, turning to her. "Don't pretend you're helping."

She flinched. Good.

Julian grabbed my wrist. "You're not leaving. I forbid it."

"Forbid?" I looked at his hand on my arm, then back at his face. "You don't get to forbid anything anymore."

"If you walk out that door, I'll blacklist you. Every firm in this city. You'll never work again."

"Then I'll work somewhere else."

"Your research papers? Your reputation? I'll destroy it all. You're nothing without me."

I pulled my wrist free.

"I was nothing WITH you."

The silence was deafening.

Vanessa tried again. "Cassandra, don't be rash. Think about what you're giving up—"

"Five years," I said, cutting her off. "I gave up five years. That's enough."

Julian's voice cracked. "You can't leave. I love you."

"Love?" I picked up my single suitcase from beside the door. "You don't love me, Julian. You love what I did for you. And Vanessa? She loves what you give her. We both got exactly what we deserved."

I walked to the door. Turned back one last time.

"Congratulations on your promotion, Vanessa. Hope you enjoy doing your own work now."

---

The door clicked shut behind me.

I didn't look back.

---

Julian stood frozen in his empty office.

Vanessa reached for his arm. "Mr. Ashford, she'll come back. She always does."

He shook her off.

His eyes landed on his desk—where the photo frame used to sit.

The one of him and Cassandra at their engagement party. Her smile. His arm around her waist.

Gone.

He'd asked about it last night. She said she broke the frame.

She didn't break it.

She took it.

And now she was gone.

Vanessa was still talking, her voice a distant hum. "We should call security. She might have taken company property—"

"Get out."

"Mr. Ashford—"

"GET OUT."

She scrambled away, heels clicking against the marble floor.

Julian stared at the empty spot on his desk.

The spot where their photo used to be.

The spot where she used to stand, handing him coffee, smiling like he was her whole world.

He grabbed his phone. Called her number.

Straight to voicemail.

Called again.

Blocked.

His hand trembled as he threw the phone across the room.

It shattered against the wall.

And for the first time in five years, Julian Ashford realized—

She wasn't coming back.

---

The intercom buzzed. Diane's voice, strained.

"Mr. Ashford? The quarterly report is due in an hour. Vanessa said she'd handle it, but she's... unavailable."

Vanessa was unavailable.

Cassandra was gone.

And he was alone.

---

He looked at the shattered phone on the floor.

At the empty desk.

At the door she'd walked through.

And he felt it—

The first crack in the world he'd built on her sacrifice.

But it was too late.

She was already on a plane.

And she wasn't looking back.

---

*Three days later, Dr. Elena Marsh received a package from Meridia City. Inside: a signed contract, a passport copy, and a photo of a woman smiling—really smiling—for the first time in years.*

*Attached note: "I'm coming home."*

*She didn't write Julian's name anywhere.*

*Not even once.*

🛑 Read the Complete Uncensored Chapter!

Platform rules restrict the rest of this steamy story, but you can read the full novel for 100% FREE.

How to find it:

Go to Google and search: JustFreeFic.com