“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.

Another text followed a beat later.

Private Room Service: Wanna see if this helps you feel yourself good too, princess?

I couldn’t resist. My body moved before my brain caught up.

I slipped into the bathroom and locked the door behind me, barely able to breathe as I sank down onto the cool tile floor. My rose-shaped vibrator trembled in my hand, already buzzing to life as I restarted the video.

There I was again. Moaning. Falling apart. Coming undone on his fingers like I’d never known pleasure before.

I spread my legs, pressed the toy to my clit, and gasped.

The vibration was soft, almost teasing, but with the image on the screen, the sound of my own broken whimpers, the memory of his dominance, it was everything.

My hips bucked against the rhythm. I didn’t even try to be quiet. Let Cleo and Ayden remember that the walls were thin. Let them hear me fall apart again.

The toy circled slowly and tight, and I matched the movements on the video with my fingers brushing against my slick folds, mimicking what he’d done to me.

My thighs trembled, eyes burned. My breath caught in my throat as I watched myself lose it on camera again and again, the echo of his unheard growl in my mind—’You’ve been such a good girl, princess’.

My stomach drops. Cleo shoots me a look that screams ‘what the fuck did you do?’ but I just gather my things and try not to look like I’m walking to my academic execution.

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