I don't hear from Damien all day.
No texts. No calls. Just silence while Victoria's countdown ticks down and the internet loses its mind speculating about my cryptic Instagram post.
At 11:55 AM, five minutes before her threatened exposure, I get a text from an unknown number.
I'm giving you one more chance. End this. Now. Or I release everything. —V
I text back: Do what you have to do.
Noon comes.
Nothing happens.
At 12:05, another text: Fine. You want to play hardball? Let's play hardball. Check your email.
I check. There's a message from some anonymous account. Subject line: PROOF.
Inside: Documents. Photos. Evidence of the twenty-one-night arrangement. Not the actual contract—but close enough. Screenshots of text messages. Photos of us together at the Bellagio. At the Venetian. At my office.
And a note: This goes public in 48 hours unless both of you issue statements ending your arrangement and confirming your engagement is back on. You have two days to comply.
Two days.
Forty-eight hours until my revenge plot becomes public knowledge. Until everyone knows I'm blackmailing my ex-lover into sexual submission.
I should panic. Should call lawyers. Should figure out damage control.
Instead, I text Damien: Night Five. Tonight. 8 PM. My apartment. Come alone.
He responds immediately: I'll be there.
My apartment in Queens feels smaller with him in it.
He arrives exactly at eight. Wearing jeans and a sweater. Casual. Almost normal.
Except nothing about this is normal.
"You saw Victoria's email?" I ask.
"Yes."
"And?"
"And we have two days to figure out our next move." He looks around my apartment—the tiny kitchen, the second-hand furniture, the life I've maintained despite being able to afford so much more. "Why did you keep this place?"
"That's not what tonight's about."
"Humor me."
I lean against the kitchen counter. "Because I needed to remember. Needed to not get comfortable. Needed to—"
"Punish yourself," he finishes. "For trusting me. For loving me. For being human."
He's too close to the truth.
"Night Five," I change the subject. "Different rules than Night Four."
"I'm listening."
"Tonight, you don't get to touch me with your hands." I walk closer. "Tonight, you use your mouth. And you don't stop until I tell you to. No matter how much you want to. No matter how much you need relief. You're going to worship me until I'm satisfied. Understand?"
His throat works as he swallows. "Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, Ms. Sterling."
I lead him to my bedroom. It's small. Modest. The bed's queen-sized instead of king. The sheets are cotton instead of silk.
Real instead of impressive.
"Undress," I tell him. "Everything."
He strips. Slowly. Until he's standing there naked and already aroused and vulnerable in a way that makes my chest ache.
I stay clothed. Power in the asymmetry.
"On the bed. On your back."
He lies down.
I straddle his chest. Fully clothed. Look down at him pinned beneath me.
"You don't get to touch," I remind him. "Hands at your sides. If you break that rule, I stop. If you finish without permission, I stop. This is about my pleasure. Not yours. Clear?"
"Clear."
I move up. Position myself above his face. Let him see what he's going to taste. What he's going to worship. What he lost.
Then I lower myself to his mouth.
The first touch of his tongue makes me gasp. He knows exactly what to do—knows my body like he memorized it. Knows where to press and where to tease and how to make me lose my mind.
My hands brace against the headboard. My hips move despite my attempts to stay still.
He's relentless. Thorough. Worshipping me like I demanded. Like I'm the only thing that matters in the world.
"That's it," I breathe. "Show me what you should've done instead of destroying me. Show me devotion. Show me—"
I can't finish. Can't think. Can only feel.
He groans against me—the vibration sending shockwaves through my body. I look down. See him hard and leaking and desperate. See his hands clenched in the sheets, fighting not to touch himself.
"You don't get relief," I remind him between gasps. "This is your punishment. Wanting what you can't have. Needing what you'll never—"
The first orgasm hits without warning. I cry out. Grind against his mouth. Ride out the waves.
He doesn't stop.
"Damien—"
He doesn't stop. Just keeps going. Building me back up. Taking me apart again.
"Too much—"
"No." His voice against me. "You said until you're satisfied. I'm not stopping until you tell me to stop."
Another wave building. Higher. Sharper.
"I can't—"
"You can." His hands break the rules—grab my hips, hold me in place. "Come for me again. Show me I still know you. Show me—"
The second orgasm destroys me. Harder than the first. Longer. I'm shaking. Sobbing. Completely undone.
He gentles now. Soft kisses. Careful touches. Bringing me down slowly.
I collapse beside him. Boneless. Wrecked.
He's still hard. Still desperate. Still denied.
"Please," he whispers. "Aria, please. I need—"
"I know what you need." I'm still catching my breath. "And you don't get it. That's the point."
"I'm dying here."
"Good." I roll to face him. "That's what you get. Three years I've been dying. Now it's your turn."
We lie there. Both breathing hard. Both wanting different things.
His hand finds mine. Threads our fingers together.
I should pull away. Should maintain distance.
I don't.
"I think about you every day," he says quietly. "Every single day for three years. I wonder what you're doing. If you're happy. If you've found someone else. If you've moved on. And I hope you have. Hope you're happy. Even though the thought of you with someone else makes me want to burn the world down."
"Don't."
"Don't what? Tell the truth? You demanded truth. Here it is. I'm obsessed with you. Ruined by you. Everything I do is colored by the knowledge that I destroyed the best thing that ever happened to me. I measure every moment against what we had. And nothing—nothing—measures up."
I turn to look at him. "You don't get to say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because it makes this harder. Makes you harder to hate."
"Good." He squeezes my hand. "I don't want you to hate me. I want you to—" He stops. "I don't know what I want. Forgiveness seems too much to ask for. But maybe understanding? Maybe acknowledgment that I'm not just the villain in your story?"
"You are the villain."
"I'm also a victim." He turns his head. Meets my eyes. "My father's victim. My own weakness's victim. Circumstance's victim. That doesn't excuse what I did. But it complicates it."
He's right. I hate that he's right.
"Seventeen nights left," I say instead of responding.
"Seventeen nights."
"This doesn't change anything."
"Doesn't it?" He brings our joined hands to his mouth. Kisses my knuckles. "Feels like everything's changing."
It does. It is. And that terrifies me.
My phone buzzes. A text from Maya: Aria. Check outside. Now.
I get up. Walk to the window. Look down at the street.
There's a car parked across the road. Someone in the driver's seat. Camera with a long lens pointed up at my apartment.
"Shit."
Damien's beside me in seconds. Looks where I'm looking.
"Victoria's PI," he says. "They photographed us. Everything we just did. They—"
"They got it all." I feel sick. "Every moment. Every intimate second."
My phone buzzes again. This time it's a photo message from Victoria. It's us. Through my bedroom window. The angle's wrong—they couldn't see everything—but they could see enough.
Me straddling him. His naked form. The intimacy unmistakable.
The caption: Thanks for the show. The photos go public in 24 hours unless you comply. Last chance. —V
Damien's phone buzzes too. Same message.
We stand there. Naked and clothed. Exposed and photographed. Trapped.
"What do we do?" he asks.
I think about Victoria's ultimatum. About the photos. About the twenty-one nights that have now become weapons against us both.
About the fact that I'm falling for him again despite knowing I shouldn't.
About the fact that he's already fallen.
About the fact that we're both so broken that destroying each other might be the only thing keeping us alive.
"We go to war," I say finally.
"Against Victoria?"
"Against everyone." I turn to face him. "Victoria. Your father. Everyone who thinks they can control us. Everyone who thinks we're pawns in their games."
"How?"
I smile. It's not a nice smile. It's the smile my grandfather taught me. The one that says I'm done playing defense.
"We stop hiding. Stop being ashamed. Stop letting other people define our story." I grab my phone. Start typing. "We tell everyone. Everything. On our terms."
"Aria, that's—"
"Insane? Probably. But I'm tired of being controlled. By you. By Victoria. By the past. I'm taking back my narrative. And you're going to help me."
I show him what I'm writing. A post. For Instagram. For the world.
Three years ago, I loved a man who destroyed me. Now I'm destroying him back. Not through revenge. Through truth. Not through hiding. Through exposure. Stay tuned. The full story drops tomorrow. No filters. No PR spin. Just two broken people trying to survive each other.
"If you post that, there's no going back," Damien warns.
"Good." I hit publish. "I'm done going back. It's time to burn it all down and see what rises from the ashes."
"We could both lose everything."
"We've already lost everything." I look at him. "What's left to lose?"
He doesn't answer. Just pulls me close. Holds me while the notifications start flooding in. While Victoria's deadline ticks down. While the world watches and judges and waits for our next move.
Sixteen nights left.
And no idea if we'll survive them.