Florence promised her safety, and she believed him.

She had been nothing before him—a discarded thing, a girl left to rot in a filthy br/thel that smelled of sweat and despair. But then he came, offering warmth where there had only been cold. He fed her, clothed her, whispered soft reassurances in the dark.

"You’re mine now," he had said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. And she fell.

She worshiped him. She put him first, burned for him, let herself disappear inside the small spaces he allowed her to exist in. If he needed her to be quiet, she silenced herself. If he needed her to wait, she waited. If he needed her to bleed, she did so with a smile.

But it was never enough.

Florence had once held her like she was something precious. Now, he looked at her like a stain he couldn’t wash away.

"You should leave."

The words rang through her, sharp and final.

"Why?" she whispered.

His lips curled into something cruel. "I’m tired of you."

She laughed—she had to laugh, because if she didn’t, the tears would come.

"You promised me," she choked out. "You told me I was yours."

Florence’s expression didn’t change. "You should’ve known better."

"You're pathetic," he said, voice devoid of emotion. "Clinging to me like some desperate wh/re."

The word wh/re struck like a whip. She staggered, breath hitching, hands trembling.

"Florence… don’t call me that."

His cold stare didn’t waver. "Isn’t that what you are?"

He turned to leave.