What's next?
(Briana's POV) Trying to cling to normalcy, the next day
I don't sleep.
I lie there in the gray half-light, my head on his chest, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing. He's warm beneath me, solid and familiar, and I try to anchor myself to that warmth—to the rise and fall of his ribs, the faint thump of his heart, the way his arm curls around my waist even in sleep. This is real. This is what matters. This is the life I chose.
But the other thing is real too. The memory of it clings to me like smoke, seeping into every breath, every blink, every quiet moment when my mind tries to drift toward sleep. I close my eyes and I'm back in that study, on my knees, the taste of him flooding my mouth. I open them and I'm here, in this bed, with the man I love. The two realities press against each other, grinding like tectonic plates, and I'm caught in the fault line.
It's over, I tell myself for the hundredth time. It's done. You did what you had to do, and now it's over.
But my body doesn't believe me. Even now, with my boyfriend's arm around me and the evidence of our lovemaking still slick between my thighs, I can feel the ghost of Richard's hand on the back of my head. The weight of it. The way he held me there, not forcing, just guiding, like he knew exactly how far I'd go without being pushed.
I shift slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position, but the movement only makes me more aware of my own body—the ache between my legs, the tenderness in my jaw, the faint rawness at the back of my throat. I press my thighs together, and the sensation sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the cold.
Stop it, I hiss at myself. Just stop. Think about something else. Think about anything else.
But there is nothing else. There's only this room, this bed, this man, and the secret I'm carrying like a stone in my chest.
The light outside the window grows stronger, shifting from gray to gold, and I watch it creep across the ceiling in slow, silent increments. The room is taking shape around me now—the band posters, the trophies, the desk cluttered with old textbooks and forgotten mementos. It's a boy's room, preserved in amber, and I'm lying in it like an intruder.
He grew up here, I think. He slept in this bed, dreamed in this bed, probably jerked off in this bed a thousand times. And now I'm here, in his childhood sanctuary, with his father's come still coating the back of my throat.
The thought makes me nauseous. I swallow hard, and the taste rises again—bitter, salty, unmistakable. I've brushed my teeth, used mouthwash, drunk water, but it's still there. It's in my sinuses, my throat, my stomach. It's in my memory, and that's the worst part. That's the part I can't wash away.
My boyfriend stirs beside me, his arm tightening around my waist, and I freeze. For a terrible moment, I think he's going to wake up and look at me and know. But he just mumbles something unintelligible and settles back into sleep, his breath warm against my hair.
I let out a slow, shaky breath and close my eyes.
Sleep, I tell myself. Just sleep. The morning will come, and you'll figure out what to do. You always figure it out.
But sleep doesn't come. It hovers at the edges of my consciousness, tantalizing and unreachable, like a word on the tip of my tongue. Every time I start to drift, something pulls me back—a sound, a memory, a sudden spike of anxiety that makes my heart race and my palms sweat.
The hours crawl by.
At some point, I must have dozed off, because the next thing I know, the room is bright with morning light and the bed beside me is empty. I sit up, disoriented, my head pounding and my mouth dry. The sheets are tangled around my legs, and I'm still naked except for the red boots, which I apparently never took off.
Classy, I think, and the absurdity of it almost makes me laugh.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit there for a moment, trying to gather myself. The house is quiet, but it's a different kind of quiet than last night—not the heavy stillness of secrets and shame, but the ordinary quiet of a morning in progress. I can hear birds outside the window, the distant hum of a lawnmower, the faint clatter of dishes from somewhere downstairs.
He's awake, I think. He's already up, already moving, already living his life like nothing happened.
Because nothing did happen. Not to him. He doesn't know. He'll never know.
I stand up, my legs unsteady, and I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the dresser. I look like hell—my hair a tangled mess, my eyes puffy from crying, my skin pale and drawn. The red boots are still on my feet, absurd and out of place against the morning light, and I feel a sudden, overwhelming urge to tear them off and throw them out the window.
Instead, I sit back down on the bed and pull them off, one by one, setting them neatly beside the nightstand. Then I find my discarded costume on the floor—the bustier, the skirt, the panties—and I gather them up, holding them against my chest like a shield.
I need a shower, I think. I need to wash this off. All of it.
I find a robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door—his robe, probably, or maybe a spare—and I wrap it around myself, grateful for the coverage. Then I slip out into the hallway and make my way to the bathroom, my bare feet silent on the hardwood.
The bathroom is bright and clean, and I lock the door behind me with a sense of relief. I turn on the shower, letting the water run hot, and I step under the spray without waiting for it to warm up. The cold shocks me at first, but then the heat comes, and I stand there, letting it pour over me, washing away the sweat and the tears and the lingering traces of the night.
I wash my hair twice. I scrub my body until my skin is pink and raw. I brush my teeth until my gums bleed. And still, when I close my eyes, I can taste him.
It's in your head, I tell myself. It's not real. It's just your mind playing tricks on you.
But it feels real. It feels as real as the water on my skin, as real as the ache between my legs, as real as the memory of his voice saying good girl in that low, mocking tone.
I turn off the water and stand there, dripping, staring at the tile wall. The steam rises around me, thick and suffocating, and I feel a sudden, desperate need to get out of this house. To run. To go somewhere far away where no one knows my name and nothing reminds me of what I've done.
But I can't run. I have to face this. I have to face him.
I dry off, wrap myself in a towel, and stare at my reflection in the fogged-up mirror. My face is flushed from the heat, my eyes still red-rimmed, but I look more like myself than I did an hour ago. More human. More Briana.
You can do this, I tell myself. You can walk downstairs, smile, make coffee, and pretend everything is fine. You've done harder things. You've survived worse.
But as I reach for the door handle, I hesitate. Because I know that when I walk out of this bathroom, I'll have to face my boyfriend. And when I look into his eyes, I'll have to lie.
I love you, I'll say. Everything's fine. Your dad and I worked it out. Nothing happened.
And he'll believe me. Because he trusts me. Because he loves me. Because he has no reason to suspect that the girl he's been dating for two years would ever do something so monstrous.
The thought makes my stomach turn, but I push it down. I have to. There's no other option.
I open the door and step out into the hallway.
The house is brighter now, the morning light streaming through the windows and painting everything in shades of gold and cream. It's beautiful, in that cold, impersonal way that rich people's houses always are—every surface polished, every object in its place, every detail carefully curated to project an image of effortless perfection.
Just like Richard, I think, and the thought sends a shiver down my spine.
I make my way downstairs, my bare feet silent on the hardwood, and I find my boyfriend in the kitchen. He's standing at the counter, pouring himself a cup of coffee, and he looks up when I walk in. His hair is still messy from sleep, and he's wearing a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt that's seen better days. He looks young, vulnerable, utterly unguarded.
"Hey," he says, and his face lights up when he sees me. "I was wondering when you'd wake up. Coffee?"
"Please," I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I expected.
He pours me a cup and hands it to me, his fingers brushing mine. The contact is warm, familiar, and I feel a surge of something that might be love or might be guilt. It's hard to tell the difference anymore.
"How'd you sleep?" he asks, leaning against the counter.
"Okay," I lie. "You?"
"Like a rock. I think the bourbon helped." He grins, and it's so genuine, so unguarded, that I feel my heart crack a little. "So, what's the plan for today? You want to get breakfast somewhere? There's a diner down the street that does amazing pancakes."
I take a sip of coffee, buying myself a moment. The taste is bitter and hot, and it helps clear some of the fog from my head. "Maybe later," I say. "I should probably help you clean up first. The living room was pretty trashed last night."
He winces. "Yeah, I know. I was hoping we could just... pretend it didn't happen? Hire a cleaning service? Flee the country?"
I laugh, and it almost sounds real. "We can't flee the country. Your dad would find us."
"Probably." He sets his coffee down and moves closer, his hands finding my waist. "But seriously, thank you. For last night. For talking to him. I don't know what you said, but it must have worked, because he didn't murder me in my sleep."
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I don't know what you said. If he knew what I did—what I let his father do—he wouldn't be thanking me. He'd be packing his bags. He'd be calling the police. He'd be looking at me with the same disgust I feel every time I look in the mirror.
But he doesn't know. And he never will.
"It was nothing," I say, forcing a smile. "He just needed to vent. Once he got it out of his system, he was fine."
"Really?" He looks skeptical, but also hopeful. "Because he seemed pretty pissed."
"He was. But I reminded him that you're his son, and that one party isn't worth ruining your relationship over." I pause, my throat tightening. "He listened. That's all."
My boyfriend stares at me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine, and I feel a spike of panic. He knows, I think. He can see it. He can tell something's wrong.
But then he smiles, and the moment passes. "You're amazing," he says, pulling me into a hug. "I don't deserve you."
No, I think, burying my face in his shoulder. You don't. You deserve someone so much better than me.
But I don't say that. I just hold him, letting his warmth seep into me, and I try to forget the taste of his father's come.
The morning passes in a blur of cleaning and small talk. We tackle the living room first, picking up cups and plates, wiping down surfaces, trying to erase the evidence of the party. My boyfriend is in good spirits, joking about the mess, telling stories about the guests, and I do my best to keep up. I laugh at his jokes, nod at his stories, and I try not to think about the study down the hall.
But the study is always there, at the edge of my awareness, like a dark star pulling me toward it. Every time I pass the door, I feel a jolt of something—fear, shame, a sick kind of curiosity—and I have to force myself to keep walking.
He's in there, I think. Richard is in there, probably working, probably thinking about last night. Probably thinking about me.
The thought makes my skin crawl, but it also makes something else stir—something hot and unwanted that I refuse to acknowledge.
Stop it, I tell myself. Just stop. Focus on the cleaning. Focus on your boyfriend. Focus on anything else.
But my mind keeps drifting back. The weight of his hand on my head. The sound of his voice, low and mocking. The way he looked at me when I was on my knees, like I was exactly where I belonged.
Good girl.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the memory, and my boyfriend glances over at me. "You okay?" he asks.
"Yeah," I say quickly. "Just tired. Didn't sleep great."
He nods, accepting the lie, and goes back to scrubbing a stain on the rug. I watch him for a moment, his brow furrowed in concentration, and I feel a wave of affection so intense it almost hurts.
I love him, I think. I really do. And that's why I did it. That's why I got on my knees. To protect him. To fix things. To make sure he didn't lose his father over one stupid party.
The justification feels flimsy, even to me, but I cling to it. It's all I have.
By noon, the house is mostly back to normal. The living room is clean, the kitchen is spotless, and the only remaining evidence of the party is a faint smell of beer that lingers in the air. My boyfriend collapses onto the couch, exhausted, and I sit beside him, my body aching from the effort.
"We should get lunch," he says. "I'm starving."
"Me too." I pause, glancing toward the hallway. "Should we... invite your dad?"
He makes a face. "I don't know. He's probably busy. And honestly, I'd rather not push my luck."
I nod, relieved. The last thing I want is to sit across from Richard at a diner, pretending everything is normal while he looks at me with those cold, knowing eyes.
"Let's just go," I say. "Just the two of us."
He smiles, and for a moment, everything feels almost normal. Almost okay. We grab our things and head for the door, and I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—I can put last night behind me.
But as we step outside, I hear a voice from behind us.
"Leaving so soon?"
I freeze, my hand on the doorknob, and I turn to see Richard standing in the doorway of his study. He's dressed casually—a button-down shirt, dark slacks—but he still manages to look imposing, his presence filling the hallway like a shadow.
"Just going to get lunch," my boyfriend says, his voice carefully neutral. "We'll be back in an hour or so."
Richard's eyes flick to me, and I feel the weight of his gaze like a physical thing. "Briana," he says, and there's something in his voice—a hint of amusement, maybe, or satisfaction—that makes my stomach clench. "You look well-rested."
I force a smile. "Thank you, Mr. Hartley."
"Please," he says, his lips curving into that thin, knowing smile. "Call me Richard."
The words hang in the air, heavy with implication, and I feel my boyfriend tense beside me. He doesn't know what it means—he can't know—but he senses something, some undercurrent that he can't quite identify.
"Okay," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "Richard."
The name feels wrong in my mouth, too intimate, too familiar. But I say it anyway, because I don't know what else to do.
Richard's smile widens, just a fraction, and he steps back into his study. "Enjoy your lunch," he says. "We'll talk more when you get back."
The door closes behind him, and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
"What was that about?" my boyfriend asks, frowning.
"Nothing," I say quickly. "He's just... being polite."
He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push it. We walk out to his car, and I slide into the passenger seat, my heart pounding, my mind racing.
We'll talk more when you get back.
The words echo in my head, and I know—with a sick, sinking certainty—that this isn't over.
It's only just beginning.
The diner is warm and bright, filled with the smell of coffee and bacon and the low murmur of conversation. It's the kind of place I'd normally love—cozy booths, friendly waitresses, a jukebox in the corner playing oldies—but today, I can barely taste my food. I push my pancakes around my plate, cutting them into smaller and smaller pieces, while my boyfriend devours his omelet like he hasn't eaten in days.
"You're not hungry?" he asks, gesturing at my plate.
"Not really," I admit. "I think I'm still full from last night."
He nods, accepting the excuse, and goes back to his food. I watch him eat, and I try to focus on the present—on the warmth of the diner, the taste of the coffee, the sound of his voice as he tells me about some class he's struggling with. But my mind keeps drifting back to the house, to the study, to the man waiting for us to return.
We'll talk more when you get back.
What does that mean? What more is there to talk about? I did what he asked. I got on my knees. I swallowed his come. What else could he possibly want?
The answer comes to me unbidden, and I push it away, horrified. No. That's not going to happen. I won't let it happen. Last night was a one-time thing, a transaction, a mistake. It's over.
But even as I think it, I know I'm lying to myself. Because Richard doesn't strike me as the kind of man who lets things go. He's patient, calculating, and he knows exactly what he has on me. He could destroy my relationship with a single sentence. He could ruin my boyfriend's life with a phone call. And he knows I know it.
He's got me, I realize, and the thought fills me with a cold, creeping dread. He's got me, and he knows it, and there's nothing I can do about it.
My phone buzzes against the table, and I flinch like it's a gunshot. My boyfriend glances up from his omelet, but I wave him off, reaching for the phone with a hand that's steadier than I feel.
The email preview glows on the screen: Re: Summer Internship Application—Final Decision.
My stomach drops. I'd been waiting for this email for weeks, refreshing my inbox at odd hours, rehearsing the acceptance in my head. The internship at Halstead Marketing was supposed to be my summer—my foot in the door, my chance to prove I was more than just a pretty girl with good grades. I'd made it to the final round of interviews. I'd nailed the presentation. I'd let myself believe.
I open the email.
Dear Ms. Callahan,
Thank you for your interest in the Halstead Marketing Summer Internship Program. We were impressed by your qualifications and your enthusiasm for the position. However, after careful consideration, we regret to inform you that we are unable to offer you a place in this year's cohort...
The words blur together. I read them twice, three times, but they don't change. We regret to inform you. Unable to offer you a place. We wish you the best in your future endeavors.
I set the phone down, face-up, and I can feel the blood draining from my face. My boyfriend is still talking, still eating, still oblivious. I watch his mouth move, but I can't hear the words. All I can hear is the echo of that email, the sound of a door slamming shut.
It's fine, I tell myself. It's fine. There are other internships. Other opportunities. This doesn't mean anything.
But it does. It means I'm not good enough. It means I was fooling myself. It means the one thing I'd been counting on to make this summer bearable—to make myself bearable—is gone.
"Bri?" My boyfriend's voice cuts through the static. "You okay? You look kind of pale."
I blink, forcing myself back to the present. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired."
I flip the phone over, hiding the screen, and I smile at him like nothing's wrong. Like I didn't just watch my future crumble in the middle of a diner. Like I'm not sitting here, still tasting his father's come, wondering how many more doors are going to slam in my face before the day is over.
He reaches across the table and takes my hand, his thumb tracing small circles on my palm. "I know last night was stressful," he says. "But it's over now. We got through it. And it's all thanks to you."
The words are meant to comfort me, but they only make me feel worse. It's all thanks to 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.
"Let's not talk about last night," I say, pulling my hand away. "Let's just... enjoy the rest of the day. Okay?"
He looks hurt, but he nods. "Okay. Sure. Whatever you want."
---
The drive back to the house is quiet. My boyfriend keeps glancing over at me, like he wants to say something but doesn't know how. I stare out the window, watching the trees blur past, and I try to prepare myself for what's coming.
We'll talk more when you get back.
The words play on a loop in my head, and I feel my stomach churn with anxiety. What does he want? What more can he possibly take from me?
When we pull into the driveway, I see Richard's car still parked in the same spot, and my heart sinks. He's home. He's waiting. And I have no idea what he's going to say.
We walk into the house together, and the silence hits me like a wall. It's too quiet, too still, like the house itself is holding its breath. My boyfriend heads for the kitchen, but I linger in the foyer, my eyes drawn to the closed door of the study.
"Bri?" he calls from the kitchen. "You want something to drink?"
"No, I'm fine," I say, but my voice sounds distant, even to my own ears.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at the study door, and I feel the pull of it—the same dark gravity I felt last night. It would be so easy to walk over there, to knock, to open the door and face whatever's waiting for me. But I can't. Not yet. Not with my boyfriend in the next room.
Later, I tell myself. I'll deal with it later. Right now, I just need to get through the rest of the day.
I turn away from the study and walk into the kitchen, where my boyfriend is pouring himself a glass of water. He looks up when I enter, and I see the question in his eyes—the one he's been wanting to ask all morning.
"Bri," he says slowly, "is everything okay? Between us?"
The question hits me like a punch to the gut. I want to tell him the truth. I want to fall into his arms and confess everything and let him decide what happens next. But I can't. Because the truth would destroy him. It would destroy us. And I can't bear the thought of losing him.
"Everything's fine," I say, forcing a smile. "I'm just tired. It was a long night."
He studies me for a moment, his brow furrowed, and I can see the doubt in his eyes. But he doesn't push. He just nods and takes a sip of his water, and I feel the distance between us grow a little wider.
I'm losing him, I think, and the thought makes my chest ache. I'm losing him, and it's all my fault.
But I don't know how to stop it. I don't know how to bridge the gap I've created. All I can do is stand there, smiling my fake smile, pretending everything is fine while the walls close in around me.
The afternoon stretches on, slow and heavy. We watch a movie, but I can't focus on the screen. We make small talk, but the words feel hollow. We sit on the couch together, but there's a space between us that wasn't there before—a space filled with secrets and shame and the ghost of a man I can't stop thinking about.
And through it all, the study door remains closed, waiting.
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