TWO

SAMANTHA

The morning after always hits the same: a dull ache spreading through my limbs, a ghost of pleasure lingering just beneath my skin. I woke up in my small apartment, the sunlight barely peeking through the dusty blinds. The room smelled like my perfume and burnt toast.

My body ached with every move, the soreness settling deep in my muscles. But it wasn’t a bad kind of ache. No, it was the kind that left a strange little shiver behind, the kind that reminded me of him.

Unlike my past relationships—where everything was soft, slow, and coated in promises—with Mason, it was different.

I craved the control, the way he took without asking but still made me feel wanted. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t gentle. But maybe that’s what made it feel so real. Raw. Sharp around the edges.

I pulled the blanket tighter around my body and glanced at the nightstand. The envelope was sitting exactly where I left it—thick, neatly folded, a silent agreement. I reached for it, running my fingers across the crisp bills. Heavy. Clean.

This was why I did it.

Not just for the pleasure. Not even for Mason. But for the life it gave me—the pieces of freedom I could taste but never fully hold.

A new red lingerie set, just like he asked me to buy. I had worn one last night; let him peel it off slowly, his fingers tracing every curve like he owned it.

Then there was the Coach bag I’d been staring at online for weeks.

And maybe most importantly, the new phone I planned to get today. My current one was a mess—always freezing, always dying at the worst moments. I couldn’t afford to be unreachable. Not with him.

My parents sent enough money for tuition, books, and some groceries. Just enough to get by. They weren’t rich. They weren’t even middle class. They thought I was managing fine on my own—and maybe, in a way, I was. But this… this extra? This was survival dressed up as luxury.

I laid back down and stared at the ceiling, the envelope resting on my chest. My heart thudded quietly underneath it. I didn’t feel shame anymore. Not like I used to.

There was something about knowing exactly what a man wanted—and being paid for giving it.

My thoughts drifted, floating backward like pages flipping in a wind. It all started with Macey.

Macey. My best friend.

She was like sunshine—bright, warm, and impossible to ignore. Always smiling, always supportive, always just a little out of reach.

We met during our first year, in the most boring economics class imaginable. Professor Thompson droned on and on about supply and demand, and we sat in the back row, stifling giggles and exchanging notes covered in doodles. We bonded over shared misery and mutual eye-rolls.

But then she disappeared.

The next day, no Macey. Nor the next. Or the entire week after.

I thought maybe she was sick. I worried. But I didn’t have her number, and she wasn’t on social media. For someone so full of life, she was strangely private.

And then, just like that, she reappeared—glowing.

She looked even more radiant than before. Her skin was dewy, her smile a little more polished, like she'd stepped out of a magazine. When I rushed over and asked where she’d been, she waved it off with a laugh.

“Fashion show with my mom,” she said breezily. “It was crazy. And since we live so far from campus, I just took the week off.”

I offered her my dorm bed and said she could always crash after lectures. She did. All through our first year and most of our second, she’d stay over now and then, her perfume lingering on my pillows, her dresses hanging beside my hoodies.

Then, just like that, she moved into the elite hostels—private bathrooms, balcony views, all paid upfront. I was happy for her.

She wore dresses that floated around her like whispers, always branded, always perfect. Her bag? Sometimes, Gucci. Sometimes, Chanel. Sometimes, Prada.

And while she stayed my closest friend, she had others too—Audrey, Chloe, the rich girls. Girls who took summer trips to Europe and posted pictures in yachts and sunhats. They never said it outright, but I knew I didn’t belong.

Then one day, after two years, Macey invited me to her house.

And everything changed.

“You have to come to dinner,” Macey insisted one afternoon, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “My parents are dying to meet you.”

I hesitated. Dinner at her place? It felt like a big step. But I couldn’t say no to Macey. Not when she looked at me like that, with her contagious energy and that bright smile I could never resist.

The day of the dinner, she showed up at my dorm room carrying a gift, her usual confidence in full swing. “I want you to wear this tonight,” she said, holding up a delicate red lace gown.

It was breathtaking. The kind of dress you see in magazines—lace so fine it seemed to shimmer, perfectly fitted to flatter every curve. I’d never owned anything like it. “Macey, I can’t,” I stammered, suddenly feeling small in my mismatched dorm clothes. “This is too much.”

“Nonsense,” she said, pressing it into my hands. “You’ll look amazing. And it’s just a little thank you for all the times you let me crash at your place.”

I swallowed, torn between the luxury of the dress and the unease I felt about stepping into her world. But I couldn’t argue with Macey, not when she had this way of making everything feel like it was meant to happen.

Her house wasn’t a house—it was a mansion. A sprawling estate, with manicured lawns and a fountain in the driveway that shimmered under the evening light.

I felt ridiculously out of place in my red dress, despite how beautiful it was. The air felt heavier here, like wealth and expectation were woven into the very fabric of the place.

Macey squeezed my hand, her smile reassuring as she led me inside. “Don’t worry,” she whispered, “you’re part of the family now.”

The dinner was… an experience. Macey’s parents were gracious, warm, and kind in a way that made me feel both welcomed and out of place all at once. But it wasn’t them who caught my attention. It was her older brother.

Mason.

He sat at the end of the table, silent, intense, and so commanding that it was impossible not to notice him. He barely spoke throughout the meal, but when he did, everyone listened.

His voice was deep and low, like it had weight to it, and when he looked at you, it felt like he was seeing straight through to your soul. A little unnerving, if I’m being honest.

After dinner, Mason offered to drive me back to my dorm. The ride was quiet, the kind of quiet that held something unspoken, something thick between us. The tension was palpable, but I couldn’t bring myself to break it.

As we pulled up to my dorm, Mason turned to me, his gaze locking onto mine. His eyes burned into me, sharp and knowing.

“You act quiet,” he said, his voice low, “but I see it.”

“See what?” I whispered, suddenly nervous.

“That you want to be ruined.”

I didn’t know how to respond. My throat went dry. How did he know?

His face came closer, his lips brushing my ear as he whispered again, his voice rougher this time. “I can give you everything. If you’re not afraid to bleed for it.”

He didn’t wait for me to reply. Without another word, he got out of the car and walked around to open my door. I stumbled out, my mind racing, my heart pounding in my chest. What did he mean? What did he want from me?

I didn’t know. But I felt the pull, deep in my bones.

****

Days later, a text lit up my phone.

Unknown Number: Midnight. Wear red.

I froze.

No name, no context. But I knew exactly who it was.

Mason.

A chill ran down my spine. I hadn’t heard from him since that night. I told myself the talk had been a drunken mistake. But now…

Now he wanted me.

I stared at the message, fingers hovering over my screen. I could ignore it. Pretend I never saw it. Go back to pretending I was normal, just a college girl with messy hair and textbooks and early morning classes.

But curiosity was a dangerous thing.

And Mason? He was even worse.

By midnight, a sleek black car pulled up to the curb outside my dorm. I slipped out the back entrance, my heart pounding in my chest, my red dress clinging to me.

The driver didn’t speak. Just nodded politely and opened the door.

The hotel was lavish and beautiful. The kind of place where people didn’t ask questions.

Mason was already waiting inside the suite. He didn’t smile.

He simply walked over, brushed my hair back from my shoulder, and kissed me like he owned me.

That night blurred into heat and shadow. He was rough, but not careless. He knew exactly what he was doing—how to push me just far enough and how to pull me back when I needed air. It was something I craved in a way I didn’t want to admit.

When I woke, the envelope was on the nightstand.

Back in the present...

I sat cross-legged on my couch, staring at the envelope.

This was becoming a habit.

A sudden knock at the door startled me. My pulse jumped. It couldn’t be Mason. He never came here.

I opened the door to find Macey, smiling and holding two iced coffees.

“Morning, loser,” she said cheerfully. “You look like you got hit by a train.”

I laughed, stepping aside to let her in. “Just didn’t sleep much.”

“Late-night study session?” she asked, raising a brow.

“Something like that,” I murmured, avoiding her eyes.

We sat on the couch, and I winced a little as I sank into the cushion. Macey noticed.

“Jeez, did you fall off a treadmill or something?” she joked. “Your legs are walking funny.”

I shrugged. “Sore from squats.”

“Sure,” she smirked. “You’ve either been lifting weights… or you’ve got a secret you’re not telling me.”

I smiled faintly, sipping my coffee.

Some secrets weren’t meant to be shared.

Not yet.