(Briana's POV) She tries to find solace in her Boyfriend

The bathroom door locks behind me with a soft click, and for the first time in what feels like hours, I'm alone.

I don't turn on the light at first. I just stand there in the darkness, my back pressed against the door, my chest heaving with breaths I didn't realize I'd been holding. The cool wood is solid against my spine, grounding me, and I focus on that sensation—the pressure, the stillness—instead of the storm raging inside my head.

What did I just do?

The question echoes through my mind, but I already know the answer. I know exactly what I did. I got on my knees in front of my boyfriend's father and sucked his cock until he came in my mouth. I swallowed every drop. And the worst part—the part that makes my stomach clench with shame—is that I didn't hate it.

I flip the light switch, and the sudden brightness makes me wince. The bathroom is just as pristine as the rest of the house—marble countertops, brass fixtures, a mirror so clean it looks like it's been polished within an inch of its life. I catch a glimpse of myself in that mirror and immediately wish I hadn't.

My lipstick is smeared. Not just smeared—destroyed. It's faded to a faint pink stain around my lips, with smudges at the corners of my mouth like a child's attempt at coloring outside the lines. My eyes are red-rimmed, not from crying but from the effort of taking him so deep, and there's a faint sheen of sweat on my forehead that makes my skin look almost luminous under the harsh bathroom lights.

I look like exactly what I am: a girl who just got used.

I turn on the faucet, letting the water run cold, and I splash it on my face again and again until the chill seeps into my bones. The water drips down my chin, my neck, into the valley between my breasts, and I don't bother to dry it. I just stand there, gripping the edge of the sink, watching the droplets trace paths down my skin.

It's over, I tell myself. It's done. You did what you had to do, and now it's over.

But the ache between my legs hasn't gone away. If anything, it's worse now—a dull, insistent throb that pulses with every beat of my heart. I can feel the dampness in my panties, the slick heat that has nothing to do with the water on my face. My body is still humming, still wanting, and I hate myself for it.

I grab a hand towel from the rack and press it to my face, blotting away the water and the last traces of my ruined lipstick. The towel comes away stained pink, and I stare at it for a long moment before tossing it into the hamper.

He knew, I think, and the thought makes my chest tighten. He knew I was enjoying it. He could see it on my face, feel it in the way I moved. He knew, and he didn't care. He liked it.

I close my eyes and grip the sink harder, my knuckles going white. I can still taste him—bitter and salty, clinging to the back of my throat no matter how many times I swallow. I can still feel the weight of him on my tongue, the stretch of my jaw, the pressure of his hand on the back of my head. I can still hear his voice, low and mocking: Keep telling yourself that. But we both know the truth.

"No," I whisper to the empty bathroom. "That's not true. I didn't want it. I did it for him. Only for him."

But the words sound hollow, even to my own ears.

I open my eyes and look at myself in the mirror again. My reflection stares back at me, and I search her face for some sign of the girl I was an hour ago—the girl who walked into that study with a bottle of wine and a plan, confident and in control. She's still there, somewhere beneath the smeared lipstick and the red-rimmed eyes, but she's harder to see now. Harder to reach.

You're still you, I tell myself. You're still Briana. You're still the girl who loves her boyfriend and would do anything to protect him. This doesn't change that. This doesn't change anything.

But even as I think it, I know it's a lie.

I reach into the cabinet above the sink and find a bottle of mouthwash. I take a long swig, swishing it around my mouth until the mint burns my tongue and the taste of him is replaced by something clean and clinical. I spit it into the sink and watch it swirl down the drain, wishing I could wash away the memory as easily.

The mouthwash helps, but not enough. I can still feel him. Still taste him. Still want him.

Stop it, I snap at myself. Stop thinking about it. You have to go out there and face your boyfriend. You have to pretend everything is fine. You have to be normal.

I take a deep breath, then another, forcing my heart rate to slow. I fix my hair as best I can, smoothing down the flyaways and adjusting the golden cuffs on my wrists. I pull the bustier up, push my breasts back into place, and tug the skirt down as far as it will go—which isn't far. The costume is what it is. There's no making it modest.

I look at myself one more time, and I practice my smile. It's a little too bright, a little too forced, but it'll do. It has to.

You're fine, I tell myself. You're fine. You're fine. You're fine.

I unlock the door and step out into the hallway.

The house is still quiet, but it's a different kind of quiet now—not the tense silence of a party interrupted, but the heavy stillness of a house settling into sleep. The grandfather clock in the foyer ticks steadily, marking the passage of time, and I can hear the faint hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen. Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaks, and I freeze, my heart leaping into my throat.

But no one appears. The house settles again, and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

I make my way toward the living room, my boots clicking softly against the hardwood. The sound seems impossibly loud in the silence, and I find myself walking on my toes, trying to minimize the noise. It's ridiculous—I'm not a burglar, I'm a guest—but I can't shake the feeling that I'm doing something wrong. That I'm sneaking through a house where I don't belong.

The living room is dark, lit only by the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the windows. I can see the outline of the couch, the coffee table, the overturned chair that someone must have knocked over during the chaos. And there, sprawled across the cushions, is my boyfriend.

He's still asleep, just like Richard said he would be. His mouth is slightly open, his breathing slow and even, and there's a half-empty glass of bourbon on the floor beside him. He looks peaceful, almost childlike, and the sight of him makes something twist painfully in my chest.

He doesn't know, I think. He has no idea what I just did. He's sleeping like a baby while I'm standing here, still tasting his father's come on my tongue.

I should wake him. I should tell him what happened. I should confess everything and let him decide what to do with the wreckage of our relationship.

But I don't.

Instead, I cross the room quietly and kneel beside the couch, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. His skin is warm, and he mumbles something in his sleep—my name, maybe, or just a sound—and I feel tears prick at the corners of my eyes.

I love you, I think. I love you so much, and I'm so sorry.

But I don't say it out loud. I just sit there, watching him sleep, and I try to figure out how I'm going to live with what I've done.

The minutes stretch on, and I lose track of time. At some point, I hear footsteps upstairs—Richard, probably, heading to bed—and I tense, my whole body going rigid. But the footsteps fade, and a door closes, and the house falls silent again.

I should go to bed. I should find a guest room, or curl up on the other couch, or do anything other than sit here on the floor, staring at my boyfriend's sleeping face. But I can't move. I'm frozen in place, caught between the need to be near him and the fear of what he'll see if he wakes up and looks into my eyes.

He'll know, I think. He'll take one look at me and know something's wrong. He'll ask me what happened, and I'll have to lie, and the lie will eat me alive.

But he doesn't wake up. He just sleeps on, oblivious, and I stay there on the floor, my knees aching against the hardwood, my mind spinning in endless circles.

Then, slowly, his eyes flutter open.

I freeze, my hand still resting on his forehead. He blinks, disoriented, his gaze unfocused, and then it lands on me. For a long, terrible moment, I see the confusion in his eyes—the question forming on his lips—and I brace myself for the accusation I know is coming.

But instead, he smiles.

"Hey," he says, his voice rough with sleep. "What time is it?"

"Late," I whisper. "Or early. I don't know."

He groans, rubbing his face with both hands. "I feel like shit. What happened? Did everyone leave?"

"Yeah. Everyone's gone." I hesitate, then add, "I talked to your dad. It's... it's going to be okay."

He looks at me then, his eyes focusing, and I see the hope flicker across his face. "Really? He's not mad?"

"He's not happy," I say carefully. "But he's not going to disown you. We'll talk about it more in the morning. Right now, you should get some real sleep. In a bed."

He nods, wincing as he sits up. "Yeah. Yeah, that's probably a good idea." He reaches for me, his hand finding mine, and I feel the familiar warmth of his touch. "Thank you, Bri. For everything. I don't know what I'd do without you."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I don't know what I'd do without you. If he knew what I'd done—what I'd let his father do—he wouldn't be thanking me. He'd be disgusted. He'd never look at me the same way again.

But I don't say that. I just squeeze his hand and help him to his feet, and I let him lean on me as we make our way up the stairs.

His bedroom is at the end of the hall, and I guide him inside, closing the door behind us. The room is exactly what I expected—navy comforter, band posters, a shelf of trophies—and I can feel the weight of his childhood pressing down on us. But I don't care about any of that. I just want to be close to him. I want to feel his body against mine. I want to forget, even for a moment, what I did downstairs.

He sits on the edge of the bed, still groggy, and I kneel in front of him, my hands on his knees. "Let me help you," I say, and I start to unbutton his shirt.

He watches me, his eyes half-lidded, and I can see the desire starting to stir beneath the exhaustion. "Bri," he says, his voice low. "You don't have to—"

"I want to," I cut him off. "I need to."

I push his shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor, and I run my hands over his chest, feeling the familiar planes of his body. He's warm, solid, safe. This is what I need. This is what will make everything okay.

I lean in and kiss him, and he responds immediately, his hands coming up to cup my face, his mouth hungry against mine. I can taste the bourbon on his breath, and underneath it, something else—something that reminds me of the way Richard tasted, bitter and salty and wrong.

No, I think fiercely. Don't think about him. Think about your boyfriend. Think about the man you love.

I deepen the kiss, pressing my body against his, and I feel his hands slide down to my waist, pulling me closer. The bustier is still tight around my ribs, and I can feel the heat of his palms through the thin fabric. I want him to tear it off me. I want him to take me, hard and fast, until I can't think about anything else.

He breaks the kiss, breathing hard, and looks at me with those eyes—the eyes I fell in love with, warm and brown and full of trust. "Are you sure?" he asks. "After everything that happened tonight..."

"I'm sure," I say, and I mean it. I need this. I need him. I need to feel like his girlfriend again, not like the girl who got on her knees for his father.

I stand up and turn around, lifting my hair so he can unzip the bustier. His fingers fumble with the zipper, still clumsy with sleep, but he manages it, and I feel the fabric loosen around my ribs. I shrug it off, letting it fall to the floor, and I turn back to face him, my breasts bare, my nipples hard in the cool air of the room.

He stares at me, his eyes dark with want, and I feel a surge of power. This is what I'm good at. This is what I know how to do. I can make him want me. I can make him forget everything else.

I step out of the skirt, leaving me in nothing but the red boots and a pair of lacy panties that are already soaked through. I can feel the dampness against my thighs, and I know he can see it too—the dark patch of fabric, the evidence of my arousal.

"Fuck, Bri," he breathes. "You're so beautiful."

I smile, and for the first time since I walked into his father's study, it feels real. "Then come here and show me."

He stands, pulling me into his arms, and we fall onto the bed together, a tangle of limbs and heat and desperate need. His mouth finds my neck, my collarbone, my breasts, and I arch into him, my fingers digging into his shoulders. He's rough, urgent, and I match his intensity, grinding against him, feeling the hard length of him through his jeans.

This is what I need, I tell myself. This is what will make it all go away.

He pulls off his jeans, his boxers, and then he's naked above me, his body familiar and warm. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, and I feel the head of his cock press against my entrance. I'm so wet, so ready, and I moan as he pushes inside me, filling me in a way that's both familiar and desperately needed.

"Yes," I gasp. "Yes, baby, don't stop."

He starts to move, slow at first, then faster, and I close my eyes, letting the rhythm take over. This is good. This is right. This is what I'm supposed to be doing—fucking my boyfriend, not his father.

But even as I think it, the memory intrudes. The weight of Richard's hand on the back of my head. The taste of him on my tongue. The way he looked at me, cold and knowing, like he could see every secret I'd ever tried to hide.

No, I think, but my body doesn't listen. The memory makes me hotter, wetter, more desperate. I can feel the orgasm building, coiling tight in my belly, and I don't know if it's because of my boyfriend or because of what I did with his father.

"Harder," I gasp. "Please, harder."

He obliges, slamming into me with a force that makes the headboard bang against the wall. I cry out, my nails raking down his back, and I feel myself spiraling toward the edge. The memory of Richard's cock in my mouth, the taste of his come, the shame of it all—it's all tangled up with the pleasure, and I can't separate them anymore.

I'm sorry, I think, but I don't know who I'm apologizing to. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

The orgasm hits me like a wave, crashing over me, pulling me under. I scream, my body convulsing, my inner walls clenching around my boyfriend's cock. He follows a moment later, groaning my name, spilling himself inside me.

For a long moment, we just lie there, tangled together, breathing hard. The room is quiet except for the sound of our ragged breaths and the distant tick of the grandfather clock downstairs.

"Wow," he says finally, his voice muffled against my hair. "That was... wow."

"Yeah," I agree, but my voice sounds hollow, even to my own ears.

He rolls off me, pulling me close, and I rest my head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. He's already drifting off, his breathing slowing, his body relaxing into sleep.

But I'm wide awake, staring at the ceiling, my mind racing.

It didn't work, I think. I thought it would make me forget, but it didn't. I can still taste him. I can still feel him. I can still want him.

The tears come then, silent and hot, sliding down my cheeks and onto his chest. I don't wipe them away. I just lie there, crying quietly, while my boyfriend sleeps beside me, blissfully unaware of the storm raging inside my head.

What have I done? I think. What am I going to do?

But there's no answer. Just the darkness, and the silence, and the weight of my own shame pressing down on me like a physical thing.

I close my eyes, but I don't sleep. I can't sleep. Not with the memory of Richard's hands on me, his voice in my ear, his taste on my tongue.

It's not over, I realize, and the thought fills me with a strange, terrible mix of dread and anticipation. It's not over at all.

The hours pass in a blur of half-formed thoughts and restless shifting. At some point, the darkness outside the window begins to soften, the black giving way to a deep blue, then a pale gray. The first light of dawn creeps into the room, painting the walls in shades of silver and rose.

Morning has come.

I lie still, watching the light grow stronger, and I know that whatever happens next, nothing will ever be the same.