Samantha didn't sleep.
Not really.
She lay in Victor's massive bed, her limbs heavy with exhaustion, her nerves still electric from the night before. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt it again — the silk blindfold across her lashes, his voice in her ear, his hands not touching her, but almost. That unbearable almost.
She could still taste him on her tongue.
Her thighs still pressed together instinctively — craving something she didn't want to admit.
Victor slept beside her, his back turned. Breathing even. Calm. As if none of it had meant anything. As if she hadn't knelt between his legs like an obedient pet and begged him to let her come.
God.
What had she done?
She pulled the sheets tighter around her naked body and stared at the ceiling. The city lights cast faint gold and blue across the high walls. She could see her reflection in the dark mirror on the far end of the room — messy hair, smudged mascara, swollen lips.
She didn't recognize herself.
This wasn't her.
She was the good girl. The quiet one. The invisible one. The one who sat in the back of class and kept her head down. She didn't date. She didn't flirt. She'd never even had s*x sober.
And yet — she'd sucked Victor Blackwell's c*ck like it was oxygen.
She'd asked for it.
Begged for it.
Worse… she'd liked it.
Her stomach twisted.
What the hell was wrong with her?
By the time Victor stirred and rolled over, she was already slipping her coat back on, clutching her phone like a lifeline. Her hair was a mess, her skin still warm from his sheets, and her pride left somewhere near the base of his bed.
He blinked lazily. "You're leaving?"
She nodded. "Yeah. I… have class."
He didn't argue. Just sat up and ran a hand through his tousled hair. His chest was bare, sculpted in that infuriating, effortless way rich men always seemed to be.
"Driver's downstairs," he said. "You'll find an envelope in your bag."
Her lips parted. "An envelope?"
He raised a brow. "For your time."
Shame stabbed her straight in the chest.
She didn't respond. Just turned and walked out, heart pounding, throat tight.
She didn't know whether she was running from him…
Or from herself.
Later That Morning
The campus café was crowded, loud, chaotic — students shouting over espresso shots and Wi-Fi issues. Samantha sat in the corner booth with a half-drunk latte in front of her and her sketchbook unopened.
She hadn't drawn a single thing.
Her mind wouldn't quiet down.
The envelope still sat in her tote bag. She hadn't looked inside. She didn't know if it was full of money or secrets or a reminder of what she'd become.
Across from her, her best friend Maya plopped into the seat, pulling off her scarf with a huff.
"You look like shit," Maya said.
Samantha blinked. "Thanks."
"I mean it with love." Maya leaned in. "Where were you last night? I texted like, five times."
Samantha hesitated. Her throat dried.
What was she supposed to say?
"Oh, nothing. Just spent the night blindfolded, begging on my knees while a billionaire toyed with my body like I was a well-trained pet. How was your Netflix binge?"
"I was… at a guy's place," Samantha said finally.
Maya raised a brow. "Wait — you? A guy? Like, a guy guy?"
Samantha forced a weak smile. "Yeah."
"You? The same girl who still blushes when someone says 'moist'?"
Samantha groaned. "Please don't say that word."
Maya laughed. "Holy shit. Is he cute?"
She didn't answer.
"Was it good?" Maya pushed, grinning. "Like… really good?"
Samantha looked down at her cup.
Was it?
She didn't know anymore.
"It was…" she started, but trailed off.
What was the word?
Wild?
Wrong?
Freeing?
She shook her head. "I don't know."
Maya squinted. "Okay, now I'm worried. You look like you saw a ghost."
Samantha gave a tight smile. "It's nothing."
But it wasn't nothing.
Her body still ached. Her lips still tingled. And in the back of her mind, Victor's voice still whispered: Good girl.
She'd never felt so… alive.
Or so ashamed.
Later That Day — Art Studio
She thought sketching would help. Drawing usually did. It was her escape — the one place her mind could stop spinning and start making sense again.
But today, nothing made sense.
She sat on the wooden stool in the corner of the studio, charcoal smudging her fingertips, the blank page in front of her almost mocking. Her hands trembled slightly as she tried to draw a figure — a woman kneeling, her arms bound behind her back, head bowed.
It wasn't supposed to be her.
But the curves were hers. The wild hair. The expression — not pain or fear — but surrender.
She dropped the pencil.
What the hell was happening to her?
She'd always believed s*x was something romantic. Sacred. Reserved for someone who truly loved her. Not a transaction. Not a power game. Not something done at the feet of a man she barely knew.
But when Victor touched her — or didn't — when he denied her what she wanted and made her ask for it — she'd felt something crack open inside her. Something dark. Something beautiful. Something… terrifying.
She wasn't sure if she was unraveling or finally becoming something real.
And that scared the shit out of her.
That Night — Alone in Her Apartment
Her apartment was quiet, dimly lit, cluttered with art supplies and overdue bills. The envelope still sat untouched on her desk, its presence a weight in the room.
She poured herself a glass of water. Sat on the edge of her bed. Stared at nothing.
She didn't feel like the same girl who walked into Victor's penthouse last night.
But what scared her more was… she didn't want to go back to that girl.
The innocent one. The naive one.
The one who never let anyone close enough to hurt her. The one who lived her whole life carefully. The one who never surrendered control.
Now… now she knew what it felt like to lose control.
To give it away.
To be told kneel — and want to obey.
She wrapped her arms around herself, lips trembling.
"I don't know who the f*ck I am anymore," she whispered into the silence.
And the worst part?
She wasn't sure if she hated it.
Or if she wanted more.
She's confused
Her mind telling her that something is wrong...
But her body remembers how good it was that night submitting to Victor and begging for more...
She feels between saint and f*cking whore
...