**** Trigger warning: the following scene includes a non-consensual act which may be triggering for some viewers (not written in explicit detail.) Reader’s discretion is advised.****

“Yes or no?” he repeats, like he’s asking about something casual. 

My skin prickles and my hands curl at my side. I hate this, how my first instinct is to calculate instead of scream. That’s all my life has ever been. Calculations. No matter where I am, I can never escape it. 

The pictures are already on his phone. And he already knows who the mother of the child is. There’s nothing I can do to help him now. 

Left without a choice, I sit next to him, stomach already turning from his overpowering smoky scent. 

“If I do this… you’ll delete them?” I ask naively. 

He raises a palm, a small smile tugging at his lip. “You have my word.” 

I hesitate once more before I reluctantly nod, moving closer to him. 

His palm lowers to unfasten his belt and his zipper lowers, the sound sharp in the quietness. 

I try not to think too much while I perform the act, or listen to his sighs of pleasure. I simply fix my eyes on the whisky bottle instead of him and count down the seconds until it ends. 

A thought flashes in my mind, one where I brutally poison him and it makes me smile momentarily. But then I become angry— thinking about how it would still cost me so much despite the fact that he is the one taking advantage of me right now. 

The awareness that this is— and has always been, the cheapest option I have— has a sob settling in my throat, my lashes wetting. 

When it’s finally over, he leans back against the couch like it belongs to him, refills his own glass, and takes a big swig. 

I get up and wipe my hands with a tissue. 

He hisses from the alcohol, then stands, patting his jeans. “I’ll be in touch,” he says and starts toward the door. 

“The photos,” I call. 

He pauses near the threshold and looks at me. 

“You said you’d delete them,” I remind him, trying not to think of how disgusted I am with myself. 

He lifts an eyebrow. “Oh that?! Well, I think I’ll hold onto them for now.” 

My expression cracks. I take a step forward, annoyance flashing on my face. “That wasn’t the deal.” 

“What does it matter, Sugar Plum? Even without the pics, I can still sell your story.” 

That strikes me silent. 

He’s right, he can. 

I basically just sold my dignity for a few moments of silence. My face drops and my scent sours. He must have noticed because he comes over to me again. Then he places his hands on my arm, squeezing me softly. 

“Just be a good girl, Sugar Plum,” he says. “Then you have nothing to worry about.” 

I don’t answer. 

He pats my arm. “I’m leaving now. It’s almost month end, so I’ll come collect your installment in person. Tell your guard to remember my face.” 

Silence. 

He grabs the bottle of whiskey, then walks out. 

After he leaves, I stand there for a long moment, willing myself not to cry again. Once my eyes dry, I pick up my phone and delete his message thread without opening it again. 

— 

The days after that were worse. Thomas keeps texting, keeps showing up whenever he feels like it, always wanting the same thing. 

Once he nearly put his hands on me. I manage to dodge his advances but it didn’t make me any less miserable. 

Most times, I wonder if the secret is even worth all of this. 

Then, one afternoon, I get the answer to my unasked question. 

Celeste comes by with gifts and as usual, touches me and talks to her baby. It still makes me feel uneasy. I would probably never get used to people like her touching me. 

“Ramirez told me a man’s been coming around,” she says without preamble while she still caresses my stomach. Her tone is calm, but then her eyes meet mine and she watches me closely. “Is that true?” 

“Yes,” I admit, my stomach twisting into a knot. I hope she doesn’t notice it. 

“Is he bothering you?” she asks simply. 

My throat tightens. 

“No,” I lie, the word slipping out too fast. My heart starts to pound. 

She studies me for a moment, then nods slowly, like she’s choosing not to push it further. 

A pause follows, long enough that I can tell whatever she wants to say next isn’t easy for her. 

“I know I told you that you could let your family visit,” she starts carefully. “But I’d rather you not have intercourse with anyone while you’re carrying my baby.” 

My heart drops. Heat immediately rushes to my face. “No— no. Nothing like that happened, Celeste. I promise.” 

She smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Mhm. Well, just to be safe, I’m restricting visits from now on to twice a month. That includes your own visits or outings too.” 

I blink, caught off guard by this ‘new rule’ and how sudden it feels. She was essentially trapping me here. 

“But—” I start to argue but she cuts me off. 

“It’s for your own safety,” she says, her voice softening as she reaches for my hand, “and that of my baby’s. This child means everything to me, Evelyn. I looked into that man’s background and though I don’t know how you became involved with someone like him, I’d rather not have him anywhere near you or my baby. I hope you can understand me.” 

Her words loosen something tight that had begun to form in my chest. I relax instantly. 

She wasn’t trying to control me. She was trying to protect her baby… and me. The both of us. I nod, and she squeezes my hand gently before getting up to get me a glass of water. 

That night, when Thomas texts asking for another ‘favor’, I don’t hesitate. 

Me: I’m not doing anything for you anymore. Fuck off. 

I hit send before I block his number. For good this time. I have his account number, so I can meet my monthly payments without having to converse with him. 

This time around my mind is set. I won’t be unblocking him for anything. 

I turn off the light and go to bed. And for the first time in days, I sleep without an uneasy feeling in my chest. 

When I wake up the next morning and check my phone, my stomach drops all over again. 

All over the internet are photos of me a few weeks ago, standing outside the apartment Celeste moved me from. It’s all in 4k and my face and growing bump is clear in every single one. 

The headline is written in bold, red font: 

Lucien Cross’s secret woman?