7|Slice. Pain. Pleasure. Relief. Shame.

Trigger warning: self harm, illicit substance use

Within minutes, Holly was at Crush, a high-end nightclub in downtown Rock Castle and one of Andrei Ivanov's favourite haunts. 

She headed straight to the bar, demanding to know which VIP room the Russian was in. 

Tony, the bartender—a new guy Austin Hawthorne had hired soon after he took over the club—nicely told her Andrei wasn't around. 

"He hasn't been here in a while," said the bartender, showing off his skills as he tossed the cocktail shaker into the air in a fancy move and swiftly caught it on his forearm.

"What about your boss? Is he around?"

Tony shook his dreadlocked head and pointed at the back office door, "The manager's here, though."

Holly had no need for a manager. Her business was with Andrei and possibly Austin since they were thick as thieves. 

Disappointed her trip was in vain, she perched herself on the barstool and ordered three tequila shots, downing them in quick succession to the cheer and applause of the small crowd around her. 

Holly didn't know any of these people. But then again, when you were a shipping heiress and world-famous ballerina, everyone wanted to be seen with you. Everyone was your friend. 

She didn't care that they were using her for free drinks. She was used to it. She just needed the company. However fleeting. However fake. 

With her last shot done, she excused herself from her new friends and stumbled to the bathroom. 

In the privacy of her cubicle, she put the toilet lid down, rummaged through her bag, and pulled out a small vial. She quickly uncapped it, tapped the white powder on the back of her hand, and sniffed it. In an instant, her eyes glazed over as the drug hit the back of her nostrils, rushing to her head. 

High as a kite, Holly dazedly pulled up her knit midi dress and absently ran a hand over the zig-zag map of scars on her inner thighs.

It had been a while since she'd done it. 

Maybe tonight, she would. 

She needed to feel something other than the shock she hadn't been able to shake off since she left the hospital. So she reached inside her bag again, but this time, she dug out the razor pack. 

The first cut, just inside her left thigh, was pleasure and pain all at once and as intense as an orgasm. For those few seconds, Holly felt alive as she relished the pain. It was a different kind of pain, not at all like the one in her knee, and very different from the constant throbbing in her hip.

As quickly as her euphoria had hit her, it was gone, and a crushing wave of shame swooped down on her. She sank to the floor and stared at the thin rivulets of blood sliding down the inside of her thigh. 

"What did you do?" she whispered as she watched her tears trickle onto her lap, her long black hair falling all around her face like a dark waterfall. Still, she couldn't resist the urge. She ran the blade in a long, thin line just inside her other thigh, clenching her teeth at the pain as she repeated the motions for some time.

Slice. Pain. Pleasure. Relief. Shame. 

Slice. Pain. Pleasure. Relief. Shame—

A sharp bang on the door startled her out of her numbed state as someone slurred on the other side, "Are you almost done?" 

Holly wasn't close to done, but she'd come back later. She knew she would. She hadn't cut herself in months, but once she started, she'd often do it three or four times a day, depending on how stressed she was. 

"Girl, can you wrap this shit up? You're holding up the queue!" The intruder banged on the door again, and Holly hurriedly wiped the blood from her thighs, threw the tissues inside the toilet, and flushed it before pulling down her dress and gathering up her stuff. 

She made her way to the bar, vaguely aware of the dull ache in her thighs when she jumped on the barstool. 

"I'll have a margarita!" she slurred as she slammed her hands on the surface and rested her head on the smooth marble top. 

Her phone, chiming in her bag, jolted her out of her drunken stupor long enough to check it. 

"Well, well." Holly whistled softly at the notification on her Hot Connexions app. 

If this wasn't fate, she didn't know what was. 

With her head pounding, her mouth suddenly dry, and the pain in her thighs growing more intense the longer she sat still, the still lucid part of her brain not yet numb from drugs and alcohol, screamed at her to put the phone away and pretend she never saw the notification. But the little devil on her shoulder egged her on. 

"I just want my penthouse back," she mumbled into her glass, almost as if to convince herself. But if someone had asked—and if she were honest—she would have told them she wanted the man more than the penthouse. She'd wanted the man since she was sixteen, and he was twenty-two, or maybe even before that. So she swiped right on Andrei Ivanov's profile, aware she was playing a dangerous game for many reasons.

One, he was one of the most dangerous men in Rock Castle.

Two, her family would never approve.

Three, Liam would skin her alive if he found out. 

Four, she was drunk. And drunken decisions always led to supernova consequences. 

And five—perhaps the most important reason, and one that had always stopped her from acting impulsively in the past where Andrei was concerned—apart from failure and living a life of obscurity, the only other thing she feared the most was rejection. Given their families' complicated history and business relationship, there was a very real chance, a ninety-nine percent probability, that he'd reject her and crush her heart to pieces. 

Too late now, she conceded as she stared at her phone, willing it to ping. She'd already swiped right on him. Now, it was up to the universe and Andrei himself.

"Let's see if he likes a little challenge," Holly smiled drunkenly at the bartender as she snatched her cocktail from him and gulped it down, the tequila warming her up nice and good.