37. Aftermath

CHAPTER 37

Aftermath

ILEANA

The car ride home is a blur. My body feels foreign, my skin hypersensitive to every brush of fabric, every shift in position. His cologne clings to me, mingling with the faint metallic scent of the camera he used to immortalize every humiliating moment. I can still feel him—his hands, his mouth, the way he coaxed responses out of me that I didn’t know I was capable of.

And the worst part? I let him.

When he stops the car in front of my building, my stomach is twisted into knots. I open the door and step out, my legs shaking and unsteady, but he’s right there, following me, his presence looming behind me like a shadow I can’t shake. I don't turn around, but I can feel his gaze burning into my back as I walk toward my window.

At the last moment, he grabs my wrist, pulling me back to face him. His eyes lock onto mine with that relentless intensity, the kind that makes my heart race and my chest tighten.

“Remember, pretty Ballerina. Monday. Six A.M. The dance studio. No more hiding.”

His lips brush against mine, and I respond without thinking, leaning into him like he’s the only anchor keeping me upright. My hands press against his chest, his heat seeping into my skin. When he finally pulls away, I feel unsteady, like the ground beneath me has shifted, leaving me scrambling to find balance.

I climb back in through the window, my body still buzzing from everything he did to me. From the orgasms he coaxed out of me. From the confusion, the fear, and then undeniable desire. It's the first time I've let anyone touch me like that. The first time I’ve let myself want it.

Or is that what happened? Did I let him? I didn’t have a choice, did I? He forced me, didn’t he? I couldn’t fight him. But the memory of the way I gasped for him, the way I arched into his touch, the way I begged without using words tells a different story.

My bedroom feels different now. Like Wren’s presence has altered the air, twisting it with something dark and potent that I can't shake. The room that used to be my refuge feels almost alien, a place where I can no longer hide. Every familiar object—my bed, the posters on my walls, the neatly stacked books on my desk—seems to be touched by his energy. I swear I can smell him—a mix of cologne and something primal, like his need has soaked into the walls.

My skin still burns where he touched me, where his mouth claimed me. It's like the ghost of him lingers, tracing over my skin, reminding me how easily I bent to him. I close my eyes, and I'm back there—his fingers on my hip, between my legs, his breath against my neck, the click of the camera capturing my weakness.

The urge to shed my skin, to escape his touch, drives me to move. I listen carefully for any creak of a floorboard, making sure my parents aren't awake. The apartment is silent, and I creep down the hallway, my heart pounding, until I reach the bathroom. I shut the door behind me, lock it, and let out a shaky breath, tears stinging my eyes.

I peel off my clothes, hands trembling as I drop each piece to the floor. My shirt clings to me, damp with sweat, and I hate it. It feels like his hands are still on me, his fingerprints stamped into the fabric.

The water scalds my skin as I step into the shower, twisting the handle until the heat burns away everything else. I scrub my arms, my chest, everywhere his hands touched, but it’s not enough. I can still feel him, his breath on my neck, his fingers exploring every part of me, the click of the camera capturing my surrender.

Surrender.

I shake my head, leaning into the spray. No. It wasn’t surrender. He didn’t give me a choice. He orchestrated every moment, forced me to react, to feel things I didn’t want to feel.

But that’s a lie, isn’t it? Did I give in? Or did he take it from me?

I clench my fists, the water streaming down my face, mixing with the tears I can’t hold back anymore. I wanted it. Not at first, but at some point, I did. And that’s the part I can’t escape.

The steam fills the small bathroom, fogging up the mirror, and I wish I could disappear into it. Dissolve until there's nothing left of his touch. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop feeling him, the imprint he’s left behind.

When the water turns cold, I step out, wrapping a towel around myself and staring at my reflection in the fogged-up mirror. My lips are red, sensitive, and I hate that part of me finds it exciting. My skin is flushed, not just from the heat of the water, but from the memory of his touch.

I press my fingers to my lips, my body buzzing with the echoes of him. It disgusts me. It thrills me. And I hate myself for feeling both.

I try to ignore the heat that still lingers low in my stomach, the way my body remembers every touch, every kiss, and head back to my room. The sheets are cold as I crawl into bed, wrapping myself tightly in them, trying to shut everything out, to make myself small enough to forget.

But sleep refuses to come. Every time I close my eyes, I see the photographs he took—revealed, aching, wanting. A version of me I can’t recognize, a stranger who let herself be stripped and ravaged without a fight. The images are seared into my mind, one after the other. Pieces of me, moments that no one else should ever see.

The memory of standing half-naked on the street, letting him touch me where anyone could see, stretched out in his car with his hands on me, sends a wave of arousal through me, even as shame twists my stomach. It makes no sense. This pull he has over me, this need I can't suppress. He’s infected me, and now I’m left grappling with parts of myself he’s awakened. Parts I didn’t want to acknowledge. Parts that scare me.

I curl up tighter, pressing my face into my pillow, trying to silence the war inside me. The clash between fear and desire, disgust and need. I tell myself I hate him. Hate the way he makes me feel, the way he’s shattered every defense I’ve built. But the truth, the one I can’t escape, is that I don’t want him to stop. I crave the way he looks at me, like I’m something he’ll never let go of. The way he makes me feel visible, real. And that, more than anything, terrifies me.

Sunday passes in a haze of anxiety. I wake late, my body aching, my mind racing with thoughts I can’t silence. Every attempt to focus on something else—homework, chores, the book I’ve been reading—falls apart. My thoughts always circle back to him.

The way his hands moved over me, his voice, the way he looked at me like I was something he owned.

The way I let him.

The memory sends a shiver through me that I can’t control, and I force myself to push it down, to bury it under layers of shame.

Dad notices. He always does.

“You’ve been acting odd all day.” His tone is probing, as he watches me across the kitchen table. “What’s going on?”

I keep my gaze down, pushing the food around on my plate. “It’s nothing. I’m just tired. School is hard right now.”

His eyes narrow, and I can feel him scrutinizing me, dissecting every word. “Do I need to speak to the principal?”

My stomach twists. “No! It’s nothing like that.” I try to keep my voice even, but the bite in my tone makes his eyes narrow further.

“You’re hiding something.” His voice is calm, deliberate. “Is there something you’re not telling me? ”

My chest tightens, panic rising. Does he know? Can he tell what I let Wren do to me? “No,” I say quickly, too quickly. “I swear. I’m just tired. There’s a lot of homework. Tests coming up.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “You’re lying.”

My heart skips a beat. “No. I swear. I’m just tired, that’s all.”

He leans back in his chair, his eyes still on me. “If you are, and I find out, there will be consequences. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.” The words are automatic, a habit ingrained in me since childhood.

He lets it drop, but the tension remains as I scrape my plate into the trash and retreat to my room. My hands are trembling as I close the door behind me, leaning against it for support.

Lying to him is easy. Too easy. It’s a skill I’ve honed over years of keeping myself invisible, of making sure he never has a reason to look too closely.

But this feels different. The lies feel heavier, harder to carry.

Wren’s words echo in my mind.

No more hiding.

He broke through every defense I’ve built, shattered years of careful walls with nothing more than a touch, a whisper, a look.

And I let him.

I hate myself for it. For the way I wanted him, even when I knew better. For the way my body still hums with the memory of his touch, the way I can’t seem to shake the desire he’s awakened in me. I try to push it down, to bury it under the shame, but it’s there, stubborn and unyielding. A part of me that wants him, that wants more, even though I know it’s dangerous. Even though I know he’s dangerous.

I drop onto my bed, my hands curling into the blanket as my thoughts spiral. I think about the way I melted under his touch, the way my body arched into him, the way I gasped for him like he was something I couldn’t survive without. The way I let him touch me and photograph me without resistance.

My throat tightens, my stomach twisting with the memory. What kind of person does that make me?

What kind of person craves the attention of someone who sees me as a possession, as something to be captured and kept?

I tell myself I hate him. I tell myself I had no choice. That he forced me.

But the truth, the one I can’t escape no matter how hard I try, is that I didn’t stop him.

I didn’t stop him because I didn’t want to.