Ashley's POV:
I didn't scream. The air in my chest froze, heavy as stone. One sharp, useless thought cut through the silence: I shouldn't have done that. I've gone too far this time.
The drop I'd thrown at him still clung to his cheek, catching the dim light. Roman didn't move. His eyes met mine—calm, impossibly calm—and the fury I expected wasn't there.
Instead, a slow, predatory smile formed.
"You think you can wound me," he said softly, almost to himself. "How fascinating." I will not break here, Ashley thought, her terror momentarily eclipsed by pure, blinding fury.
I couldn't look away. My legs were useless. The room was shrinking, swallowing the air I needed.
I met his gaze and saw a twisted joy, like a man who'd been waiting for this moment. This is the last thing I own. My dignity. I will not give him my mind.
He spoke again, slower now. "Go to the mirror."
My body refused. My heart tried to beat its way out of my ribs. The full-length mirror across the room waited, tall and merciless.
"No," I whispered. "I won't."
The air changed. His silence was worse than any shout, his eyes narrowing with a patient, dangerous focus. "You don't want to make this worse, Ashley," he said.
If I stay here, I lose. I have to bolt. Ashley pushed off the bookshelves, trying to sprint for the door. Roman moved like a blur, intercepting her, his hand clamping on her arm like a vise.
"Let go of me," she managed, the tremor audible.
His control shattered. His free hand cracked across her cheek—a stinging, concussive blow that instantly silenced her. Her ear rang, and the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth.
"Silence and obey" he grated. "Your defiance is a waste of my time, and time is all you have left to give me."
His thumb wiped the sweat and shock from her bruised cheek, the gesture terrifyingly tender despite the violence.
"That pain is a warning. The next will be worse."
He twisted her toward the full-length glass, shoving her forward.
He followed, gripping her waist. He sat heavily on the foot of the bed, then forcefully bent her forward over his lap.
Her body was angled for his inspection; her face was trapped, staring at the reflection of her own exposed shame.
He reached back and forcefully hiked her skirt, exposing the bare strip of vulnerable skin.
The reflection was devastating: a weeping, ruined girl bent over the lap of her calm, dark captor.
He didn't move for a long moment, allowing shame and anticipation to twist into physical pain. His hand moved—slowly, deliberately—and settled on her exposed skin.
"The first set," Roman murmured. "For the contempt you poisoned me with. Let's see how much that fire is worth."
The first three strikes hit, sharp and stinging snaps. Ashley gasped, her body arching involuntarily, the movement reflected back at her.
She bit hard on the inside of her cheek, focusing on that pain to suppress the shock. Her eyes remained dry, fixed on the mirror.
He paused, his hand hovering. "Look at that color, Ashley," he whispered, eyes on her reflection. "It's my mark. It's the cost of forgetting you are mine. Say the words, and it ends."
She remained silent. I can take this. He cannot break my mind. The red welts in the mirror glowed.
He took a handful of her hair, not roughly, just enough to show he could. "I own the silence in your mind, Ashley. Give me the words that prove it."
Roman waited. When no submission came, the casual facade vanished. "You choose defiance, then," he stated, and the snap was replaced by a dull, punishing thud.
The world narrowed to the repetitive, sickening rhythm. Ashley lost count quickly. She was aware of the change in pain: the initial stinging shock gave way to a throbbing, bone-deep ache that soaked her awareness.
Her grip tightened on the foot of the bed until her knuckles were white and shaking. Every few minutes, Roman would stop, adjust her position, and speak, his voice a cold intrusion into the fiery fog that consumed her.
She saw the clock reflected in the glass once—1:15 AM—and realized the first set had taken an eternity.
Roman settled back on the bed, his grip unyielding on her hip. He glanced at the clock's reflection, then back at her ruined image. A flicker of cold amusement crossed his face.
"I can do this whole night, Ashley," he murmured, his voice low and utterly confident. "The only one wasting time is you."
When the thuds began again, they felt less like separate strikes and more like a continuous, brutal pressure against a surface already bruised beyond feeling.
Her senses dulled. The cologne and the smell of sweat became nauseating. She could barely hold her head up, yet the mirror held her captive.
Keep breathing. Don't give him the sound of the break.
Hours. The word meant nothing. Time was a cruel, endless cycle: the rise of his arm, the flinch, the gasp, the silence of waiting.
The silence was the worst, drawing out the terror until the next impact provided a kind of twisted, sickening focus.
She focused on the cold metal of the bed frame, trying to convince herself she wasn't actually there, but the purple, swollen reflection insisted she was.
When her throat finally burned with a desperate need for reprieve, the sound was barely human.
When she finally found her voice, it was only to beg for mercy: "Please, Roman! Stop! I need to rest!"
His face, reflected in the mirror, was a mask of cold fury. "Rest is earned through obedience. You are simply choosing to prolong your lesson."
The control was gone.
He delivered a swift, brutal flurry of strikes—aggressive, savage snaps that landed with reckless speed. The physical impact was overwhelming.
She felt a sickening slickness and knew the bleeding had started.
Her vision swam.
Roman gripped her hair near the roots, forcing her head back slightly so her tear-streaked face was fully visible in the glass. "You see this girl, Ashley? This broken reflection? She is my property. And I always get what belongs to me."
"You have wasted the entire night," Roman stated at 4:00 AM. "I will not waste any more time on your pride."
He delivered one final, savage strike—a brutal, full-force snap that made her cry out in raw, desperate agony and brought her completely off the bed, collapsing her trembling body forward onto the cold floor.
Ashley lay curled on the floor, breathing in panicked, shallow gasps.
The air was thick with cologne, sweat, and blood.
He broke my body, but he hasn't broken my will.
She heard the chilling click of his phone being unlocked.
"Get up, Ashley," Roman commanded. She hauled herself onto her knees, wincing, watching his reflection as he raised the device.
"Who are you calling?" she whispered.
Roman ignored her, focused on the screen. "Leo? I have a job for you. Yes, a simple cleanup. The Bennett family. Choose the weakest one. Make it quick, but make it messy. Just ensure there are no survivors."
The cold calculation ripped through her. The Bennetts. Her family. The sound of her family name was a physical blow, shattering her iron core instantly. My caring is his weapon, she realized with crushing finality.
________________________________________________________________________
Author's Note:
Ah yes, another charming night in the kingdom of poor life choices
Ashley's out here proving that "character development" really means "pain with extra steps."
Roman's version of intimacy could make Freud pack up and leave 🪞💀
Therapy bills are rising, mirrors are traumatized, and somewhere, karma's taking notes 📖🔥
Don't worry — no reflections were spared, just souls, dignity, and one tragically doomed family name 🕯️
-Vaanni🖤