You’ve known Olivia since you were kids. The girl with the perfect hair, the perfect smile, the perfect insults. She never hit you. She never screamed. She just said things like:
“You look fat lately. Maybe stop eating so much.” “No guy wants a girl who can’t fit into skinny jeans.” “You’re lucky you’re cute. That’s all you’ll ever be.”
You smiled. You laughed. You swallowed it. Because what choice did you have?
Then came Aleksei Volkov. Olivia’s husband. The man you were supposed to never touch. Russian. Tall. Cold. Dangerous. The kind of man who holds himself like a king but watches you like a predator.
Flashback:
The night she said those words—after a party where you spilled wine on your dress and felt like a joke—Aleksei pulled you aside. He stood behind you, voice low, his breath hot on your ear:
“She thinks you’re fat? I think you’re my fucking queen.”
Before you could process it, he lifted you, gripping your waist so hard it left bruises, and f*cked you standing up right there in the hallway.
“I’ll carry you anytime. You’re not fat enough to stop me.”
You gasped, legs wrapped around him, as he devoured you like you were his last meal.
Now, it’s been a year. You live under their roof. You wear her clothes, her perfume, even her damn lipstick. You answer her calls while he’s ins*de you. And you don’t care.
Because tonight is Olivia’s birthday.
She’s out celebrating with her friends. You’re waiting in her car. Lipstick smudged. Dress hiked up. Aleksei’s wedding ring scraping your thigh as he rips into you like he’s punishing you and worshipping you all at once.
“Look at me,” he growls, fingers clutching your hair. “Why?” “Because I want you to know exactly who you belong to.”
He slams into you over and over, the leather seats squeaking beneath your bodies. His hand wraps around your throat, possessive, claiming. Your m*ans fill the car, muffled but loud enough for the whole world to hear.
“You wore red,” he rasps against your neck. “She told me to wear it.” “Good. She wanted me to see you. To hate me for it.” “I wanted you to see me.”
He pulls out just enough to make you gasp, then th*usts back in with brutal need. You cry out, fingers digging into his shoulders.
Outside, the night is quiet. Inside, you both lose control.
When he finally comes, deep and ragged, he growls your name, shattering every bit of self-control left.
You fix your lipstick in the mirror, trembling. Button his shirt. Step out as the perfect best friend while you’re wearing her husband like a trophy.
You used to feel guilty. Now? You don’t even flinch at the thought of her finding out.
Because she never deserved him. She never deserved you.