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Gillian

T he air leaves my lungs in a stuttered gasp. He drives into me hard, relentless. One hand wraps around my throat, the other anchoring my hip. Not to hold me close.

To hold me still.

His pace is punishing. Measured. Like he’s keeping time with every insult he doesn’t say.

I arch into him like it’s going to save me from something worse. The betrayal isn’t in my voice—it’s in the heat he draws from me, the way my body pulses, as if it’s grateful. I hate that part. Hate that it still wants him more than it wants justice.

My body responds because he’s trained me to break beautifully.

He watches my face the entire time. Watches the tremble in my lips, the panic in my breath, the flush that rises against my will. He doesn’t close his eyes. He wants to see it.

Every second.

Every reaction.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he says, his breath hot against my ear.

I try to speak, but he thrusts harder, and my words die in my throat.

“Don’t be weak,” he says. “Or I’ll stop pretending this is about pleasure.”

My voice is a wrecked thing when I use it. A whisper. A moan. A name I never should have learned to say like this.

“Ellis…”

His hand tightens against my throat. “Louder.”

I obey. I don’t know if it’s because I want to or because I’m afraid of what he’ll do if I don’t.

When I come, it’s under duress. Forced out of me like a confession.

I hate that I can’t control it.

I hate that he knows it.

I hate that he doesn’t stop. He fucks through my orgasm, driving deeper, harder, until the ache becomes something colder. Something hollow.

When he finally finishes, it’s with a guttural sound that vibrates through both of us.

He doesn’t collapse.

He doesn’t hold me.

He pulls out slowly, his breath controlled, his gaze detached.

And then, casually:

“Don’t worry. It won’t be like this forever. Even you’re replaceable. Sometimes these things just take longer than we want them to.”

The words are a scalpel.

I say nothing.

Because anything I say will be used against me later.

He leaves the room before I’ve caught my breath.

I don’t know how long I lie there, skin burning, throat raw, legs trembling beneath the sheet someone draped over me like an afterthought. The ache between my thighs is dull. Bruised. But it lingers. Just like everything else.

The staff brings me a robe and tells me a car is waiting.

No words.

Just silence.

Just the knowledge that tonight, I was not his first choice.

I was the outlet.

And Ellis?

Ellis never fucks without purpose.

Even cruelty is curated.

I find my clothes folded on the chair. Like I was never even in them.

There’s a note on top.

Folded. Neat. Precise.

I unfold it with trembling hands.

Just one line. In his handwriting this time.

“She won’t stay away forever. They never do.”

My stomach twists. I don’t know who he means.

But I know exactly what he wants me to think.

I crumple the note. I don’t throw it away.

And when I step out into the hallway, I know he’s still watching.

From somewhere in the house.

Likely from her room.

From wherever he keeps the things he thinks he owns.

But tonight—tonight I see something he doesn’t.

I see that pattern. The rhythm of his cruelty. The way the punishment comes before the replacement.

Which implies that whoever she is, she said no.

And that means she’s already in danger.