Page 80 of Cruel Deception
I went straight to the bathroom. Stripped slowly. Looked at myself.
The mirror was cruel. My reflection, unfamiliar.
Red lashes marked my back and thighs. My shoulder bore a welt. My cheek was discolored. But beneath all of it—I still saw her. Me. The girl who survived.
My gaze dropped to my chest. The faint, surgical scars that still made me self-conscious.
But I lived.
The cancer hadn’t taken me.
So why should shame?
I cleaned up—perfumed lotion, lip balm, oil in my hair, everything soft and sweet and womanly. But this time... I didn’t hide under oversized clothes.
I wore the sheer nightgown I never dared touch.
No bra. No panties. Just silk and skin.
The fabric clung to me like whispered sin.
When I stepped out, I didn’t expect him to look.
But he did.
He turned his chair, eyes sweeping over me with all the control of a man who noticed everything.
I walked to the bed. Slow. Deliberate. My heart thundering in my chest. My body raw, but lit with defiance.
I lay down gently, aching everywhere, but not looking away.
His gaze dragged over me—down the fragile slope of my collarbone, lingering at the sheer fabric where my chest had once held more—then down to my thighs, barely hidden beneath the nightgown’s hem.
He said nothing.
Did nothing.
Just watched.
And it felt like I was burning alive.
But at least now, I wasn’t invisible.
I didn’t bother looking at him.
Just lay there, eyes fixed on the ceiling, pretending the cracks above were more interesting than the man who made my chest ache just by existing.
“Wearing a nightgown now?” His voice was casual, but I heard the undertone—low, calculated, curious.
“Surprised?” I asked, still staring upward.
“You never did.”
“That’s because I was insecure about my body.” I finally turned my head, meeting his gaze. “Nightgowns show everything I try to hide. The absence... where my curves used to be—it makes me feel like less than a woman.”
My voice didn’t crack—but it almost did. Even now, with the silk clinging to my skin and no bra to hide behind, I felt theweight of shame sitting right beneath my breastbone. But I was done hiding. If he wanted to see it—see all of me—he could choke on it.
“I haven’t touched you the way I burn to,” he said calmly, walking toward me. “Because I figured you weren’t comfortable in your own skin.”
