Page 163 of I’m The Worst

His hand slides up my bare thigh, fingers brushing the base of the plug.

“You were supposed to be at Regent thirty minutes ago. If you⁠—”

“I’m coming.” I hang up.

Shit.

“Leaving already?” he asks as I try to stand, but he grabs my hip and yanks me down onto my stomach.

Before I can protest, he spreads my ass cheeks with rough hands and slowly pulls out the plug. I bite down hard on my lip, fighting the filthy wet sound it makes as it leaves my body. Warmth immediately leaks out of me, dripping down my thighs and onto the couch.

“You look so fucking good with your ass plugged full of my load.” He slaps my ass hard. “Should’ve left it in longer. Let it keep all that cum inside you while you go see your Daddy.”

I push off the couch on shaky legs, grabbing the closest piece of clothing—someone’s oversized shirt—and pulling it over my head. My skin feels disgusting. Flaky with dried cum from who knows how many people. But some sick, ruined part of me doesn’t even care anymore.

Forty-five minutes later, I’m leaving my house showered, makeup layered on, and a tight black dress covering the bruises I know are forming under my clothes.

The driver Dad sent keeps glancing at me in the rear-view mirror while we inch our way through downtown traffic. I pull my phone from my purse and scroll through my texts, ignoring reminder after reminder from assistants, doctors, stylists, therapists.

Until I reach Wolff’s name.

The last messages I sent him stare back at me, unanswered. A hollow ache opens behind my ribs. Clenching my fist around the phone, I fight the stupid urge to text him again. But then I remember what he said to me—about my body, about what I’m good for.

So I delete his number.

For the second time.

I hate that I still have it memorized. I can’t remember what I had for breakfast most days, but his number is burned into my brain like a brand I can’t scrape out.

The car slows outside the restaurant as I shove my phone back into my purse and smooth trembling hands down the front of my dress.

Get your shit together, AJ.

The second I walk inside, my stomach sinks, and I almost turn around and leave.

The restaurant is packed with high-ranking Sovereigns, their wives, and families. Voices and laughter echo off the marble floors. Everyone looks polished, perfect, and fake as fuck.

I spot Gage sitting at a table near the windows overlooking the lake. Dad and David are here somewhere too, but I don’t bother searching for them.

Gage raises his glass the second he sees me, eyes narrowing. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks, asshole.”

I pour myself a full glass of champagne the second I sit down, drinking half of it before setting the glass back on the table.

“So, Dad’s pissed?”

Gage snorts. “Furious.”

Rubbing my fingers against my temple, I try to push away the throbbing behind my eyes.

“He can get over it.” I say dryly.

“AJ—”

“Don’t.” I pour another glass. “I don’t want to fucking hear it, okay? I’m here. That’s all that matters.”

“No. It’s not.”