I didn’t even remember dropping it.
My chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, every part of me humming with aftershocks. Sleep found me tangled in the sheets, sore, spent, and still aching with the echo of his voice in my mind.
The next morning, reality was a full-on punch to the face. Seminar.
Professor Lewis in his usual black, looking like sin and judgment all in one. I submitted my essay with the usual quiet confidence, slid it onto his desk, and returned to my seat.
Twenty minutes in, he pulled it out. Unfolded it. Didn’t even try to hide the disdain on his face.
“Miss Hale,” he said coolly. “Would you mind standing?”
I blinked. “What? Why?”
“You seem to be under the impression this is a diary circle and not an academic course. So I thought the class might enjoy your interpretation of Woolf and Emotional Identity.”
My stomach twisted. “I- What was wrong with my paper?”
“It’s lazy,” he said flatly. “And emotionally dishonest. You used metaphors without grounding. You quoted theory without context. It reads like the first draft of a sad blog post.”
A few gasps echoed.
“That’s not fair.” I sat straighter. “I spent hours on that paper.”
“Then perhaps next time you should spend days.”
My face flushed. “I can handle critique, Professor. But I won’t be humiliated just because your standards are unrealistic.”
His eyes locked on mine. Cold and sharp.
“Miss Hale,” he said slowly, “if your ego is too fragile for critical evaluation, I suggest you drop my course now.”
Silence. Every eye was on me, but all I could feel was heat. Not embarrassment-tension. White-hot, inexplicable tension.
I sat down hard, heart pounding. I hated him. And I hated that I wanted more.
Later that night, I texted my-how Cleo is now calling him-‘Mystery Daddy’.
Me: Rough day. Got torn apart in seminar. My professor basically called me pathetic in front of everyone.
Private Room Service: He sounds like an idiot.
Me: He’s… something. Brutal. Cold. I don’t know why I let him get to me.
Private Room Service: Maybe you like being torn apart.
My breath hitched before I texted back with numb fingers.
Me: Maybe I do.
There was a long pause. I bit my lip. Typed again.
Me: Why won’t you tell me who you are?
No reply.
Me: Are you scared you couldn’t back it up in real life? That you’re all talk?
Still nothing.
Me: Or are you just hiding because you know once I see you… I’ll make you prove everything?
Sent. Read. No response.
Hours passed. Then the next day. Still nothing. I stared at my phone in bed, panic blooming like acid.
Had I ruined it? Had I scared him away?
“Oh my god, you look like hell.” Ayden’s voice cut through the room like a slap, followed by the slam of the door and the squeak of Cleo’s heels.
He had one arm wrapped around her waist, still in his post-practice hoodie, damp hair curling at his temples. Cleo carried two overloaded grocery bags and dropped them dramatically on the kitchen counter like they were dead weight.
I didn’t look up. I sat on the couch in a hoodie and fuzzy socks, eating ice cream straight from the tub with my hair in a claw clip that hadn’t seen shampoo in forty-eight hours.
“What happened?” Cleo asked, eyes narrowing like she already knew I was spiraling.
I shoved another spoonful into my mouth. “He hasn’t texted me back. Since yesterday.”
Cleo blinked. “Mystery Daddy?”
“Yeah,” I muttered, voice muffled by ice cream and shame.
“Damn.” Ayden perked up like a frat bro smelling drama. “Maybe his wife came back from vacation or something.”
My head whipped toward him. “What the actual fuck is wrong with you?”
“Sorry, just sayin’.” He grinned unapologetically and shrugged. “Stranger things have happened.”
“You’re a jackass.” Cleo rolled her eyes and slapped him on the back of the head with a perfect thwack. “Go to my room. Now. Before I bury you under the broccoli.”
Ayden smirked and slung his duffel bag over one shoulder. “Yes, ma’am.”
He disappeared down the hall, and Cleo turned back to me, grinning like the devil.
“You know, you’re more dramatic than me when you’re in sex withdrawal.”
“I’m not in sex withdrawal,” I muttered.
“Soph.” She tilted her head and gave me a look. “You had one taste of mystery fingers and now you’re curled up with ice cream like he ghosted you after a honeymoon.”
“I don’t want to hear about anything right now,” I groaned and sank deeper into the cushions. “Especially not your weird mating calls.”
She grabbed a banana and wiggled her brows. “Too late. The walls are thin tonight, baby girl.”
“Disgusting,” I muttered, throwing a pillow at her before hiding under my blanket.
Later that night, when the apartment was dark and Cleo and Ayden were busy doing a PornHub worthy performance behind a closed door, my phone lit up.
I stared at it for a long second, afraid to hope. No text. No apology. No words at all.
Just a video.
My stomach flipped. The thumbnail alone made my pulse race. I recognized the backdrop. The velvet couch. The wall. The shadows.
I hit play and there I was. Back in the private VIP room.
My dress hitched up around my hips, my legs trembling as I clung to the wall. His hand was between my thighs, his fingers moving inside me like he already knew my body better than I did.
My mouth was open in a soundless moan, eyes glazed, completely lost to the moment. The video was grainy and dimly lit, but it captured everything-the way I shook, the way his fingers pressed deeper, the arch of my back as I was coming undone against his hand.
The message came right after.
Private Room Service: I watch this often lately. Helps me feel myself good. Helps me remember what it actually feels like to have you in my hands.
Shame hit me hard, a slap to the chest. But it wasn’t the kind that repels.
It was the kind that pulled.
My body responded before my mind caught up. A pulse between my legs. A quickening breath. The memory of his breath against my ear, his fingers, the absolute ruin of what he’d done to me.
