[Summer's POV]
The cardboard box sits between my knees, the Amazon smile logo staring up at me like it knows something I don't. My hands shake as I slice through the packaging tape with a kitchen knife. Inside, four small black cameras nestle in plastic, my insurance policy for staying with Scott.
It hasn't even been a week since Taevion and his boys threw me out. Less than seven days since my entire world imploded. The memory still burns fresh, standing in that filthy trap house living room, mascara streaming down my face while they laughed and tossed my clothes at me like garbage.
"Get the fuck out," Taevion had said, not even looking at me as he counted a stack of bills. "Your pussy ain't worth your mouth or the food we give you."
I pull the first camera from its packaging, the plastic cool against my fingers. A week ago I thought I was royalty. Queen bee. The chosen one. I had status, protection, and all the attention a girl could dream of.
Every night for months, they'd fuck me like an animal in that trap house, and I thought it was heaven. I convinced myself they adored me, that I was special. That leaving Scott, sweet, broken Scott, who actually loved me, was the smartest decision I'd ever made.
God, I was so fucking stupid.
I turn the camera over in my hand, examining its sleek design. It's small enough to be discreet but powerful enough to record everything. Just what I need.
The truth is, getting thrown out was the biggest wake-up call of my entire life. One minute, I was lounging on their ratty couch, feeling like a goddess with my stolen designer handbag and my fancy nails paid for with Taevion's money. The next, I was on the street with nothing but the clothes on my back and the brutal realization that I'd destroyed the only real thing I ever had.
"Looks simple enough," I mutter to myself, reading the setup instructions. I need to get these installed before Scott gets home from work.
I need these cameras to work perfectly. The app takes a few minutes to download, but once it's installed, I can see the live feed from my phone. Perfect. Scott will be able to check on me anytime he wants. He'll see I'm not going anywhere, not ever again.
My hands tremble as I stand on a chair to mount the first camera in the corner of the living room. It's funny how life works out. I never thought I'd be so desperate to be watched, to be contained.
I think back to that first night with Taevion. The memory hits me like a punch to the gut. It was supposed to be a one-time thing, a sacrifice to save Scott's life. I remember how terrified I was walking into that trap house, how my knees shook as I agreed to their terms.
"Just tonight," I'd whispered to myself in the car. "Just this once, for Scott."
But Taevion wasn't the monster I expected. He didn't hurt me. Didn't force me. Instead, he showed me a kind of pleasure I'd never experienced before. The size of him was intimidating at first, but God, what he could do with it... I'd never felt so full, so completely taken.
I position the second camera in the kitchen, my cheeks burning with shame at the memories flooding back. After that first night, I told myself it was just curiosity that made me return. Just physical need. But his friends were waiting the second time. And the third. Soon, I was the center of attention in ways I'd never imagined.
If someone had told me two years ago that I'd become addicted to being passed around between multiple men, I would have laughed in their face. Summer Adams, the good wife, the reliable partner, turned into a woman who craved being used by strangers? Impossible.
But I did. I craved it. The way they looked at me, the way they wanted me. The attention was intoxicating.
I climb onto the bed to mount the third camera, my legs shaking slightly. The bedroom, where Scott and I reconnected just this morning. Where I'm trying desperately to rebuild what I destroyed.
In the beginning, after each "session" with Taevion and his friends, I'd come home to Scott with some excuse about where I'd been. At first, I felt guilty. Then the guilt faded, replaced by anticipation for the next time. The orgies became my drug. The attention, the worship, the way they made me feel like a sexual deity, it was all I could think about.
Until they threw me out like garbage.
I grab the final camera, the smallest of the bunch, and head to the bathroom. This one's the most important, the place where we're most vulnerable, most exposed. My hands shake as I climb onto the edge of the bathtub, stretching to secure it in the corner where it can capture everything.
Perfect. The red light blinks once, confirming it's connected to the network.
As I step down from the tub, a wave of nausea hits me so suddenly I barely make it to the toilet. My body convulses as I vomit, acid burning my throat. It's not food poisoning. It's not a virus. It's pure, undiluted shame.
The guilt is crushing, a physical weight pressing down on my chest until I can barely breathe between heaves. What kind of person comes crawling back to their husband like this? What kind of monster have I become?
I grip the toilet bowl, my knuckles white as another wave hits me. This has become my new routine, throwing up the shame I can't seem to digest. My body's desperate attempt to purge what my soul can't process.
When I got kicked out, my first thought wasn't about where I'd go or how I'd survive. It was about ending it all. Just finding a bridge tall enough or pills strong enough to erase the mistake I'd become.
I remember standing at that bus stop, staring at the headlights of oncoming traffic, calculating how fast I'd need to step into their path. How quick it would be. How final.
But then Scott's face flashed in my mind. The way he looked at me on our wedding day, like I was something precious, something worth protecting. And I knew I couldn't do it. Not without trying to fix what I'd broken first.
I flush the toilet and force myself to stand, legs trembling beneath me. The mirror above the sink reveals a stranger, blonde hair hanging limp, mascara smeared beneath bloodshot eyes. My gaze drops to my chest, where the spade tattoos peek out from beneath my tank top.
God, those fucking tattoos.
I trace one with my fingertip, remembering how proud I was when Taevion said I'd earned it. Each one marked a night where I'd pleased multiple men, where I'd done things that would make most women recoil in horror. And I'd begged for the needle, for the permanent reminder of my "accomplishment."
"You're a real queen now," Taevion had said as the tattoo artist finished the first spade. I'd smiled so wide my cheeks hurt.
Now they just look like what they are, brands. Racist, degrading marks that I fought for the privilege of wearing. I didn't just accept my own degradation. I celebrated it, immortalized it on my skin.
Fresh tears stream down my face as I grip the edge of the sink. I'm sobbing so hard I can barely stand, my whole body shaking with the force of it. Most of my time in this bathroom is spent like this now, vomiting, crying, hating what I see in the mirror.
The truth is so simple it hurts. I loved Scott before all of this. He was my first kiss, my first time, my first real love. We grew up together, built dreams together. Even through his addiction he was kind. It got worse, but I stayed. I cleaned him up, held him through withdrawals, never gave up.
Until I did.
I have no excuses. None that matter anyway. I lost myself in the attention, the danger, the sick thrill of being desired by multiple men. I convinced myself it was empowerment when it was really just destruction.
But I've woken up now. That nightmare disguised as heaven has lost its hold on me. And I have one goal that consumes every fiber of my being. Winning Scott back. Not just his body or his presence in my bed, but his heart. His trust. His love.
I'd do anything. If Scott asked me to, I'd take a knife to my own skin, carving away each tattoo until nothing remained but bloody proof of my devotion. I'd burn the pieces, scatter the ashes, erase every trace of the woman I became without him.
I splash cold water on my face, trying to compose myself. The cameras are all installed now.
I brush my teeth vigorously, the mint flavor burning my gums as I scrub away the bitter taste of vomit. My reflection stares back at me, eyes hollow but determined. If Scott wants his dick sucked tonight, I need to be fresh and ready. That's what good wives do, right? Take care of their husbands' needs without being asked.
The toothpaste foams around my lips as I think about how to please him. I was always good at that before, but now I know techniques that would make his toes curl. Evil things I learned in that trap house that might actually be used for good.
After rinsing my mouth, I grab my phone and finish setting up the security app. A few taps and all four cameras connect, their feeds appearing in a neat grid on my screen. I adjust the settings so they're always recording, not just when they detect motion. I need a complete record, proof for Scott that I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
I sink onto the living room couch, sighing as I stare at the camera mounted in the corner. It blinks back at me, a silent witness to my desperation. Scott can watch me now, track my every move. Maybe that will help him believe I'm not going anywhere.
Running my hand across my flat stomach, I can't help but smile. Plan one is already in motion. Scott has no idea that before I showed up at his door, I visited a clinic to have my IUD removed. Quick and easy. One little lie about still having birth control, and now my womb is ready, waiting. A baby would bind us together permanently, give him something he couldn't walk away from.
"Our little secret," I whisper, patting my belly.
I lean back, closing my eyes as I consider my second plan. This one's trickier, more dangerous. I'm not completely sure I should do it, but the idea keeps circling my mind like a hungry shark.
I could get Scott back on drugs. Not the hard stuff that nearly killed him, just enough to make him dependent on me again. I could be the one to help him through it afterward, his savior, his rock. I'd wean him off slowly, carefully, making myself the center of his recovery. Even more so than I was before.
The thought makes my stomach turn, but isn't that what love is? Doing whatever it takes? I need him to be as devoted to me as I am to him. I need to be his everything again.