Page 118 of He Should Be Mine

“Good.” His tone sharpens by a fraction. “I don’t like secrets, Molly.”

The hand on my waist tightens, just enough to bruise. His expression is still smiling, still gracious, but it bites like a leash.

The room spins slightly. Or maybe that’s just me, trying not to breathe too deeply. I keep my smile in place. Keep my eyes on his. Keep the performance going.

“You know you can tell me anything,” he says, his lips brushing mine.

Then he kisses me. Hard. Possessive. A performance of its own. All sloppy and wet.

I let it happen. My fingers don’t tighten in his shirt. I don’t kiss back. I simply endure. It is awful and wrong and it is making me feel sick. Dario is the only one I should be kissing. This feels like being violated. And it feels like I am betraying Dario, even though he knows I don’t have a choice.

The song winds to a close. A drawn-out saxophone note hums like a warning bell. The silence that follows is deafening.

Rick doesn’t step back. His hands linger at my hips. He studies me with slow, dark eyes, like he’s waiting for me to give something away.

I don’t.

I smile. I stay soft. I stay perfect.

And I pray the next song doesn’t start.

Rick finally pulls away.

“I have to go,” he says, as though it pains him. As though he’s not doing me a favor by leaving.

I nod, lips parted like I might say something sweet. But nothing comes out.

He smooths the collar of my costume. Straightens the little plaid skirt. Adjusts my shirt like he’s arranging a mannequin in a shop window. His fingers linger at my throat, brushing against the fake ribbon-tie he made me wear. The gesture is tender, almost reverent.

It makes my skin crawl.

“You’ve been very good tonight,” he murmurs. “Almost like your old self.”

My smile flickers, but I don’t let it falter completely. I don’t know what version of me he means. I’ve been so many things for him over the last half a year. Half a year that feels more like a lifetime. A prison sentence I walked into willingly.

He presses a kiss to my cheek. It’s soft. Precise. Chilling in its control. Like a seal on a letter. A warning disguised as affection.

“Don’t forget who you belong to,” he says.

And then he’s gone.

The door closes with a click that echoes in my bones.

I wait five full seconds. Ten. I listen to the sound of his footsteps fading down the hallway, followed by the distant hiss of the elevator.

Then I lock the door.

It’s pointless. He has a key. But I do it anyway. My fingers fumble with the latch. My breathing is shallow, too fast.

I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, arms around them. The silence of the apartment presses in, thick and heavy. The candles are still burning. The wine glasses are still half full.

I don’t move to clean up. I just sit there, staring at the closed door like it might open again. While also longing for it to do exactly that, even though I know it won’t until I get up and find my phone and tell Dario the coast is clear, so he knows he can come back to me.

But I’m frozen in place. My chest aches. Not from bruises. From something far deeper. From fear.

Rick could’ve killed me tonight.

He could’ve done it right here, under candlelight, with soft music still playing. And no one would have known.