Page 11 of Bad Girl Dilemma

“Because you’ll never take option two. Because you might convince yourself that’s what you’ll do. But the hunger will keep gnawing at you until we’re back here. With you tied to my chair. Still hungry. Still beautiful. Still craving me as much as I crave you.”

I force my spine straight. Straighter. Because, holy shit, it wants to melt so bad and I don’t recognize myself. Or maybe I do. Far too much. Because the next words out of my mouth are not what I mean to say.Nope.

And yet… “Fine,” I say. “You want thirty days? You’ve got them.”

He nods. Smug. Superior.

“But here’s the thing, Dante,” I add, voice like steel wrapped in silk.

“You think you’re playing me. But I’m watching you, too. And by the end of this, when you break—I’ll be the one collecting yourpieces.”  His smile is slow, wolfish. “Ah, Dahlia,” he murmurs. “Please make it worth my while andtry.”

CHAPTER 5

Dahlia

Three Weeks Ago

It’s 3:43 AM.

The glow of my laptop screen is the only light in my tiny apartment in Brooklyn, half-covered by blackout curtains and the weight of too many secrets.

The heist is done. Clean. Fast. The money routed. Another corrupt asshole bankrupted. Another charity funded under a burner identity.

I should feel good. Triumphant. But I don’t. I feel… empty. Wired. Angry and aching.

I tell myself it’s adrenaline. That the crash will pass. But I know the truth.

I’ve been lying to myself for months.

Because the truth is: every time I take something from them, I want someone to take something from me.

The thought slips in uninvited.

I shouldn’t feel this way. Not after everything I’ve achieved. Not after putting another monster down.

I close the tracking scripts. Then I hover over the icon I swore I’d delete—The Club.

Its sleek black logo pulses. Discreet. Dangerous. Invite-only. A digital dominion for people like them. The ones who want control. The ones who crave surrender.

I opened an account on a dare to myself. No photos. No name. Just a profile. Anonymous. Private. Safe.

Looking for something real.

That’s what I wrote. Pathetic. But under the filters, the tags, the preferences… there was something more honest.

Submission.

Not the fake kind. Not roleplay. Not the watered-down power games everyone likes to pretend is enough.

I want the kind of surrender thathurts. That exposes. That strips me raw and makes me forget.Makes me feel.

Even if it terrifies me.

I scroll the message requests.

Dozens of them. Most I delete without reading. Too crass. Too boring. Too fake.

Then I pause.

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