Page 9 of Shared Obsession

I remember telling Kyra once, “If I’m ever dumb enough to settle down, I hope it’s with someone who has at least half a clue how to interest me.” I guess Derek fit the bill, at first. He’s objectively good-looking—tall, broad-shouldered, always put together, with that lawyer confidence that makes people listen when he talks. In the beginning, I even caught myself bragging to Kyra about how he looked in a suit. But it didn’t take long for the truth to leak out—territorial, possessive, telling me I didn’t need the money, that he’d take care of everything. Like quitting was some kind of privilege, not a demand. I let myself believe it for a while. How fucking naive was that? Honestly, I don’t even remember who I was before all this.

He finishes his drink in one swallow and sets the glass down hard. “You eat?” he asks, meaning, ‘Did I save him anything?’

“There’s pasta in the fridge,” I say softly.

He grunts again, heading for the refrigerator, and I let myself fade into the background, my hands curled tight around the edge of the counter, wishing—just for a minute—that I was somewhere else. Or maybe someone else. Someone who hadn’t given up everything for a man who barely notices when she leaves the room.

I sit with Derek while he eats, pouring myself a glass of wine to pass the time. He knocks back a few more drinks, his cheeks flushed and his words starting to slur. He gets handsy when he’s tipsy—his palm sliding up my thigh, fingers kneading a little too tightly. I try to steer the conversation, asking about his day, but he barely answers, too wrapped up in himself and the bourbon. Typical.

I’m half-listening, half-watching the streetlights flicker through the window, when something catches my eye—a shadow across the street, a tall figure standing by a motorcycle, helmet on. My heart stutters. No way. It can’t be.

I stand, trying to get a better look, but Derek’s hand clamps around my wrist. “Where do you think you’re going?” he slurs, voice rough.

“Just need some fresh air,” I say, already heading for the door, pulling out of his grasp.

“Now, now, baby. Come back here. Sit with me.” He pats his lap, grinning in a way that makes my skin crawl.

I hesitate, then push my luck. “Just a minute,” I say, slipping out the door and leaving it open behind me. The night air bites at my skin as I stare across the street. The man by the bike hasn’t moved. There’s no fucking way—it couldn’t be…

My thoughts are cut short when Derek storms out after me, his footsteps pounding behind me, rage radiating from every line of his body. He grabs a fistful of my hair at the base of my scalp and yanks hard—I shriek, pain bursting sharp behind my eyes as I stumble backward. Tears sting my eyes, vision blurring with shock and fear, but he doesn’t let up. “I said, come sit with me,” he snarls, dragging me back inside and slamming the door so hard the walls rattle. His grip is iron, bruising, and I have no choice but to follow, my skin prickling and burning where his fingers dig in, the humiliation and terror twisting in my gut.

I barely resist—by now, I know better than to argue. The last thing I want is to make him angry. When he leads me to our bedroom, I mumble, “Baby, I’m tired,” but he doesn’t even acknowledge it. He starts pressing sloppy kisses down my neck, his hands sliding up my shirt. I try to squirm away, but he tightens his grip, pulling me back in. “Derek, please…” I whisper, hoping he’ll stop. He doesn’t.

“Strip,” he snaps, and when I hesitate, his hand cracks hard across my face. “I said fucking strip.”

My body moves on autopilot—I take off my clothes, because resistance is pointless. It only causes more pain.

Derek’s hand clamps around my throat, squeezing hard as he throws me down on the bed. His fingers graze my pussy—cold, clinical, searching for nothing but his own satisfaction—before he thrusts into me, rough and unyielding. There’s no pleasure, only pain, a raw, burning ache as he takes away my air. I can’t breathe—I’m gasping, clawing at his arms, panic rising as black spots dance behind my eyes. I don’t want this, please—the only thing I feel is the agony radiating through my body as he fucks me, his grip on my throat making it impossible to scream. My vision dances in and out, and my body goes limp. When he finally groans and cums inside me, it’s a relief and a humiliation all at once. He lets go, and I gasp, gulping in air, my chest burning. He climbs off without a glance, tossing a t-shirt at me. “Clean yourself up,” he snaps, already getting dressed, walking out, and leaving me alone.

I stumble to the bathroom, numb, every step heavy and disconnected from my own body. My hands shake as I clean myself up, scrubbing at skin that doesn’t feel like mine. The harsh light of the mirror finds every mark—tonight’s fresh red handprint, the bruises already blooming on my throat, the faint shadow from the last time I dared to say no. I barely recognize my own face. Each mark is its own humiliation, a silent scream I can’t let out. I want to cry—scream, even—but I choke it down, swallowing the pain because there’s no one left to hear it. A single tear slips down before I can stop it, but I swipe it away fast, refusing to let it linger. My father’s old words creep in—‘this is what you were made for, my princess’—and I shove them down, burying the ache with all the others. Shame and rage twist together inside me. I want to disappear, to be someone else, someone unbreakable. But all I can do is wrap myself in a towel, sit on the edge of the tub, and wait for the shaking to stop. I don’t know how long I sit there, staring at the floor, but the ache doesn’t go away. It just settles deeper, a hollow, gnawing thing that might never leave.

Derek storms in, turns on the shower, and barely spares me a glance before barking, “Get out.” I slip from the bathroom, closing the door behind me, numb and invisible. My hands shake as I walk down the hall to my room, shutting the door softly behind me. I move on autopilot, pulling a T-shirt and baggy sweats from the drawer and slipping them over my skin as if the soft fabric might shield me from everything raw and exposed inside. The clothes don’t make me feel safe; they just make me slightly less breakable.

My mind flickers back to the shadowy figure outside. For a moment, I almost let myself believe it could be Alex—that maybe, impossibly, he’s come back for me. But I know that’s ridiculous. He’s been gone for a year, silent and unreachable. If he cared, he wouldn’t have disappeared without a word. I sent a few texts after that night at the club and in the weeks after—just a few, all delivered and unread, never a response. Still, my fingers hover over his contact as if muscle memory alone could conjure him back. Against my better judgment, I type out, Was that you?—but deep down, I don’t believe for a second it really could be.

I don’t wait for a reply. I step out onto the back porch, needing air, trying to steady my nerves and banish the impossible hope nagging at me. There’s no way it could be Alex. He’s just a ghost in my head, a memory I can’t let go of. But then, out of the darkness, someone steps forward—and it’s really him.Holy shit. He looks even stronger than I remember, more real and solid than any dream. My mind refuses to believe it’s actually him—I’m convinced my exhaustion is playing tricks. I can’t speak. My heart races, my mouth goes dry, and all I manage is to stare at him, completely stunned. “Hey, darling,” he says, his voice sending a shiver down my spine, as familiar and unreal as a song from another life.

When I finally find my voice, it’s sharp and cold—anger spilling out before I can stop it. “What the hell are you doing here, Alex? You have no right to just show up after a year. You disappeared without a word. You don’t get to waltz back into my life as if nothing happened.”

Alex just smirks, not missing a beat. “Why? Is it gonna piss off that piece of shit inside? I saw what he just fucking did.”

“Leave,” I bark, my voice sharp with fear—Derek will lose it if he finds me out here with Alex.

“I just wanted to see you, and I’m glad I came,” Alex says, his tone growing more lethal.

“Why now?” I snap, anger still bubbling over as I keep glancing anxiously at the door. “You disappeared, Alex. You don’t get to just show up.”

Alex steps into me, but his voice softens. “Darling, how can I help?”

How can he help? The question almost makes me laugh. He can’t fucking help me. The universe seems hell-bent on putting me in impossible situations.

“I’m getting married,” I bite out, my jaw clenched. “You need to leave. I’ve done just fine without you. I don’t need your help.”

Alex lets out a low, humorless huff. “Yeah? Says the bruises on your face and throat. He do that often, Ayla?”

“This is none of your fucking business,” I snap, my voice shaking with fury. “You need to go. Now. Leave, Alex. And don’t come back—I mean it.”

I don’t wait for him to answer. I turn, storm inside, and lock the door behind me without looking back, hands trembling with anger and heartbreak.