No exit

Day 1: The Suite

The penthouse suite swallows us whole—floor-to-ceiling windows framing the city’s neon veins, a bed dressed in black silk wide enough to drown in, and a minibar stocked with Vic’s favorite single malt. He tosses his keys onto the marble counter, the clatter echoing like a gunshot. His eyes are already darkening, pupils swallowing the whiskey-gold of his irises.

“Three days,” he says, crowding me against the glass until my breath fogs the view. Rain streaks the skyline like tears. “No phones. No lies. Just us.”

He undresses me with his teeth—zipper tugged down with a growl, lace shredded between his molars. When he fucks me against the window, it’s possessive, brutal, his palm smearing my crimson lipstick across the glass like a crime scene. “Mine,” he snarls, teeth sinking into my shoulder hard enough to draw blood. “Say it.”

“Yours,” I gasp, fingernails carving half-moons into his back.

Later, we lie tangled in silk sheets that reek of sex and regret. His fingers trace the scar low on my stomach—a four-inch line, pale and raised, from the second pregnancy I never told him about. He pauses, calloused thumb pressing into the tissue. “This is new.”

I stiffen. “Old gym injury.”

His hand stills. “Bullshit.”

“It’s nothing.”

He props himself up on an elbow, eyes narrowing to slits. “You don’t get scars like that from a treadmill.”

“Vic—”

“Tell me.” His voice drops to a whisper that raises the hair on my arms. “Or I’ll drag you to the ER right now and ask them.”

I shove him off, scrambling to the edge of the bed. “Fine. I had to go back to the clinic, okay? Happy now?”

He freezes, muscles locking like a predator scenting weakness. “What clinic?”

“The one you paid for after the first time. The one you never asked about.”

His face hardens, jaw ticking. “You’re lying.”

“Why would I lie about that?”

“Because you’re scared I’ll—” He stops, fists clenching the sheets. “Fuck. Was it mine?”

I laugh—a brittle, shattered sound. “Who else’s would it be? You were the only one I was with for a year.”

He staggers back like I’ve shot him.

Night 1: The Floor
He drags me to the rug by the fireplace, pinning my wrists above my head. “You think you can hide from me?” he growls, biting a bruise into my inner thigh that’ll bloom violet by dawn. “I’ll fucking find every scar.”

When he enters me, it’s slow, deliberate, his eyes locked on mine like he’s carving his initials into my soul. “Feel what you do to me?” he whispers, grinding against me until the ache turns white-hot. “That’s how deep I’ll dig to own you.”

His hands slide under my hips, lifting me to meet every punishing thrust. “You’re gonna scream it tonight,” he snarls, teeth scraping my collarbone. “Tell me who you belong to.”

I bite my lip until copper floods my tongue—until he pins my clit between his thumb and forefinger, circling roughly. “Say it!”

“You,” I choke out, back arching as he drives into me harder, faster, the rug burning my skin. “Always you.”

He groans, low and feral, biting my nipples as he comes. “Mine,” he mutters against my sweat-slicked skin, licking the salt from my neck. “Every fucking scar. Every fucking scream.”

Day 2: The Spa

Vic books the entire spa, throwing a wad of cash at the trembling receptionist. “Couples’ everything,” he barks, already dragging me toward the massage rooms.

The masseuse works on him first. I watch his muscles tense under her hands, his jaw clenching when she grazes his lower back—the same place I scratched raw last night. “Enough,” he snaps, flipping onto his side to watch me. “Her turn.”

Oil drips down my spine as he takes over, palms rough, thumbs digging into the bruises he left yesterday. His fingers linger over a small, faded scar on my ribcage—one he’s never noticed before.

“What’s this?” he asks, tracing the thin line with a reverence that terrifies me.

I stiffen. “Nothing.”

His hand stills. “Tell me.”

“Later.”

Midday 2: The Steam Room
He drags me into the private steam room, slamming me against the wet tile. “Now,” he orders, biting my nipple as his fingers slide inside me. “Tell me who gave you that scar.”

“Not here,” I gasp, arching into his touch as the steam swallows our moans.

He drops to his knees, tongue circling my clit. “Here. Now.”

I shatter, screaming his name as he laps at my release, the sound swallowed by the hissing pipes.

Night 2: The Bath
He fills the marble tub with rose petals and steaming water, dragging me in before it’s full. “Talk,” he orders, biting my earlobe as his hands slide between my legs.

“Not now,” I gasp, arching into his touch.

“Now.” He pinches my nipple hard, then soothes it with his thumb.

I break. “It happened during the two times you were working for my brother. That year you left me.”

He freezes. “Who?”

“Someone I knew from my past. Someone who didn’t ask permission.”

Vic’s face darkens, veins bulging in his neck. He grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him. “Name.”

“Why? So you can cause him harm?”

“Yes.”

I laugh hollowly. “Too late. I handled it.”

He kisses me then—hard, desperate, like he’s trying to erase the memory with his teeth. “I’ll never hurt you like that,” he mutters against my lips.

“You already did, my love,” I say, nodding to the pregnancy scars and bruises.

Day 3: The Bed

We don’t leave the room. Room service trays pile up—oysters glistening like sin, champagne bubbles popping like secrets, chocolate-covered strawberries half-eaten and abandoned.

He’s obsessed with my body now—biting my breasts, sucking bruises into my thighs, his fingers always returning to the ribcage scar. “You should’ve told me,” he growls, pinning me to the mattress.

“You weren’t here,” I whisper, wrapping my legs around his waist.

He slams into me, fucking me with a fury that borders on worship. “I’m here now,” he snarls, teeth sinking into my neck. “And I’ll burn the world down for you.”

Afternoon 3: The Shower
He pins me under the scalding water, hands roaming my scars. “Every mark on you,” he mutters, biting my shoulder, “is a fucking failure of mine.”

“Then fix it,” I challenge, guiding his cock inside me.

He does—rough, relentless, his thrusts shaking the glass door.

The Breaking Point

On the fourth morning, he slams me against the bathroom mirror, steam fogging the glass. “Tell me everything,” he demands, hand splayed over my stomach. “Now.”

“Ours,” I whisper.

“What?”

“Two years ago. You were in Dubai. I didn’t tell you.”

His face fractures—rage, grief, guilt. “Why?”

“Because you’d have stayed. And I didn’t want you to stay out of guilt.”

He sinks to his knees, forehead pressed to my stomach. “Fuck. Fuck.”

The Morning After

He books another week.

At breakfast, he watches me sip coffee, his voice hoarse. “I’ll leave her.”

“Don’t.”

“Why?”

“Because then this…” I gesture to the suite, the scars, the bruises, “…becomes real. And we’ll destroy each other faster.”

He smirks, bitter. “Race you there.”

The Tenth Day

We spend the week in bed, taking our time.

His hands chart my body like a cartographer mapping ruins—lips worshiping the scars he once bit, tongue tracing apology patterns on my inner thighs. When he finally sinks into me, it’s slow, aching, our foreheads pressed together.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, thrusts gentle but no less possessive.

“Don’t be,” I murmur, nails scraping his back. “We’re past redemption.”

He proves me wrong between my legs—no choking, no bruises, just hours of him murmuring filth-tinged devotion while his tongue works miracles. When I come, it’s with tears in my eyes and his name on my lips. His name will always be on my lips and in my heart.