Page 24 of Once A Villain

I’ve fucked rich, dirty, and powerful men. I’ve been tied up, beaten, humiliated, and treated like trash. But it’s always been on my terms. It’s what I agreed to, and it was my choice.

Until now.

This isn’t on my terms. I don’t have the power. I have no idea who he is or how he found me.

The scariest part is that I can’t stop thinking about him—how he made me feel. I should be horrified, angry, and furious. I should have blocked him and deleted his text. But I haven’t.

I can’t.

Deep down, I’m ashamed to admit I want more. I want the masked man. The thrill of being entirely at his mercy. The fear, the powerlessness, the pain, and the pleasure.

It’s the same feeling I get when I’m in the air performing a dangerous routine; knowing the fall could be deadly makes me feel alive. I can’t explain it, but I crave the fear. I crave the idea that this could be it, that the next trick or jump could end my life. I crave control over my life but not over my death.

I take a deep breath, willing the tears to stay put.

Fingers wrapped around the delicate pearl pendant necklace, I feel the weight of it. My mother’s necklace, the only piece of her I have left.

We never got to discuss weddings, and right now, I wish she were here more than anything. The ache in my chest is raw, grief crashing over me like an unforgiving wave. She died when I was just ten—a violent, horrific death that no child should ever witness. The nightmares still haunt me.

My need for control began after she died. The anxiety and grief from her death were too much for me to handle. The panic attacks would hit me at the worst times—in the middle of class or the dining hall. I was constantly on edge and couldn’t sleep. Eventually, I found ways to cope and numb myself using drugs, alcohol, eating disorders, sex, dance—anything that helped me forget. I was desperate, and nothing was off-limits.

After her death, my dad transformed into a stranger. My mother was his world, and losing her shattered something vital in him.

Unable to cope, he spiraled into a deep depression, sending me off to boarding school as if I were an afterthought. When I finally returned, he had stripped the house of any trace of her. The house was a hollow shell, and I was lost.

All that remained of her was this necklace and one framed picture, which Spencer had managed to save.

Spencer was the only one who cared about me. My father never recovered, and I eventually stopped hoping he would.

One drunken night, he let slip that looking at me was like staring at her ghost. The resemblance was uncanny; I was a younger version of her, a painful reminder he couldn’t bear. That’s why he sent me away.

Her death and my father’s absence changed everything.

Spencer stepped up, becoming the protector I desperately needed. We grew closer after she passed away. Without him, my grief would have killed me.

With time, the anxiety and panic attacks faded, but the need for control remained.

Now, today, I get married—I’ve lost control of my life completely.

My makeup is soft and natural. My long blonde hair falls in waves. The wedding dress is strapless with a sweetheart neckline, form-fitting with a long train. The gown is stunning, and the lace detailing is exquisite. The entire bridal suite is filled with flowers, candles, and champagne. All which Dad picked, and insisted on.

“Auntie!” a small voice squeals, and my four-year-old niece, Emma, runs into the room. She’s a carbon copy of her mother, Heather, dressed in a frilly pink dress. Her older sister, Ivy, is right behind her, dressed the same. They wrap their arms around me.

“Hi, baby girls,” I say, hugging them tightly.

“You look pretty,” Emma says.

Heather, Spencer’s Servant of choice, walks in with flowers.

“Thanks, Em.” I smile at her and stand.

“Oh, Rory! You look stunning.” She sets the flowers down and pulls me into a hug. “I can’t believe you’re getting married.”

“Me either,” I mumble. I glance at the girls sitting on the couch, giggling and playing. Dad insisted the wedding be as traditional as possible to keep up appearances. It’s ridiculous but typical of him. He’s always cared more about appearances than reality. So here I am, having a traditional wedding to a man I barely know, surrounded by people who barely care.

I glance at Heather, who is busy organizing the flowers, and then at my nieces; their innocence starkly contrasts with the turmoil inside me.

“Auntie, are you happy?” Ivy asks, her big blue eyes wide with curiosity. Her question catches me off guard, and I force a smile.

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