You stood in front of the mirror, fists clenched at your sides, chest rising and falling in fury. Your phone was pressed to your ear, knuckles white from gripping it too hard. Damien's voice poured through the line like poisoned honey—smooth, deep, sickeningly familiar.

“I’ve missed you, doll,” he purred. “You still wear that gloss I like? The one that smears real pretty when I—”

“Shut the fuck up, Damien,” you snapped, voice trembling with rage. “I’m not your doll anymore. You don’t get to call me that.”

He chuckled, low and lazy. “You used to love when I did. Especially when you were moaning it into the mirror while I had you bent over—”

“Stop!” Your voice cracked. Your eyes were burning now, fury mixing with disgust, with memories you couldn't erase. The way he controlled everything. When you came. How you dressed. Who you could talk to. All of it.

“I hate you,” you hissed.

He sighed softly, like you were throwing a tantrum. “No, sweetheart. You hate how much you still need me.”

Your breathing stilled. You stared at the mirror, teeth clenched, haunted by the reflection of who you used to be with him.

“You remember that night here, don’t you?” Damien murmured. “Red lace. My hand gripping your throat while you begged to come. You looked so fucking perfect.”

“Don’t you dare,” you seethed, but your voice was quieter. Shaky.

“I bet you’re standing right there again,” he whispered. “Looking at yourself like you’re trying to forget… but your thighs are pressed tight, aren’t they?”

Silence.

“Say the word,” he said. “One word, and I’ll come over. We’ll see just how much you really hate me.”