The mirror didn’t show you anymore—it showed the girl you had turned into for him. The tight dress clung to your body, the lace underneath barely covering anything. Your makeup was flawless, lips parted just the way he liked. Every little detail—perfected for him.

You had studied for this. You spent hours watching those videos, memorizing every movement, every sound, learning exactly what guys wanted. What Rafe wanted. You changed how you dressed—skirts shorter, tops tighter, no bras when he preferred it that way. You changed how you spoke—softer, sweeter, never questioning. Always obedient.

And when he wanted more, you let him have it.

“You can take it, can’t you, baby?” His voice was smooth, teasing, but you knew it wasn’t really a question. His grip was firm, possessive, fingers digging into your skin as he took what he wanted.

Even when it was too rough. Even when your body trembled, when your breath hitched, when you felt tears sting in your eyes. You never said no. You never pulled away. You let him push you down, let him wrap his hand around your throat, let him use you however he pleased. Because that’s what his perfect girl was supposed to do.

And when it was over, when the room was quiet and he was done with you, that feeling always crept in. That emptiness. The way your body ached, the way your skin felt too tight, the way you felt like nothing.

Used. Spent. Like shit.

But you still stayed. Because you were his. His doll. His to dress up, to play with, to ruin. No matter how much it hurt, no matter how much of yourself you lost, you took it. Because being his was all you had left.