Page 74 of Johan.

“Here’s a towel for you to use tomorrow,” I say, my voice shaky. “Would you like to settle in first?”

Astrid smiles at me, her excitement palpable. “I’m already settled,” she says, moving closer, her eyes locking onto mine.

Before I can react, she’s on me, kissing me hard on the mouth. Her urgency leaves me breathless and more than a little nervous. I try to pull away gently, but she’s persistent.

“Help me undress,” she whispers between kisses.

My hands tremble as I reach for her dress, struggling with the zipper. Each second feels like an eternity, my mind screaming for a reprieve, but I manage to slide it down. She’swearing a red lace set, incredibly sexy, but I feel nothing but anxiety. She continues to kiss me, her hands skillfully unbuttoning my shirt and removing it. I try to focus on my breathing, but it’s shallow and erratic.

Her fingers linger all the way down to my belt, unfastening it with practiced ease, and then she unzips my fly, pushing my pants down until they’re discarded. I stand there, feeling exposed and vulnerable.

Noticing my lack of erection, she starts touching me down there, her fingers probing and stroking. I shut my eyes tightly, struggling to respond. My mind is a whirlwind of thoughts—what if the castor oil doesn’t work? What if I have to have sex with her now but can’t get hard? I can’t stop the spiral of panic.

“You seem very stressed,” she whispers, her voice soft and soothing. “Lay down.”

She guides me to the bed, and I lay down, feeling a sense of helplessness wash over me. Astrid pushes my boxers aside, her intentions clear. I keep my eyes shut, unable to watch, my mind racing. I feel her mouth on me, and I try desperately to relax, to pretend it’s Hannah instead. My hands clutch the sheets, knuckles white from the tension.

My heart pounds in my chest, each beat a reminder of the turmoil within me. I grit my teeth, trying to suppress the flood of emotions. I feel Astrid’s efforts intensify, her wet tongue caressing the sensitive skin, but my thoughts are elsewhere, tangled in a web of guilt, anger, hatred, and desire. The night stretches on, an agonizing blend of physical sensation and mental anguish, as I cling to the fragile hope that my plan will somehow come to fruition.

27

Johan

While Astrid sleepspeacefully beside me, I can't stop thinking about what we just did. The only saving grace is that I used a condom with her. My mind keeps drifting back to what just happened and how the only way I managed to get through it was by picturing Hannah instead. I reach over to the nightstand and check the time on my iPhone; the screen flashes 2 am. I turn onto my side, trying to find a comfortable position, but the sheets feel scratchy and the pillow too firm. I flip onto my back, then to the other side, seeking any angle that might coax me into sleep. I close my eyes tightly, willing my mind to quiet down, but it’s a storm of anger and frustration.

For a brief moment, I manage to drift off, only to be jolted awake by the sudden, harsh sound of Astrid rushing to the ensuite bathroom. My heart pounds as I sit up, listening to her retching.

Springing up from the bed, I follow her, forcing a look of concern onto my face. “Astrid, are you okay?” I ask, my voice heavy with fake worry.

She’s on her knees, clutching the toilet bowl, her body convulsing with each bout of nausea. The smell is horrible, a pungent mix of alcohol and bile, making my stomach churn. I hover near the bathroom door, keeping my expression neutral. “Did you drink that much?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

“No,” she manages to reply between heaves, her voice weak and strained.

“Maybe you’re still sensitive from yesterday’s alcohol,” I suggest, hoping she accepts the explanation without suspicion.

Astrid finishes retching and sits back on her heels, looking pale and drained. She leans against the cool tile wall, trying to catch her breath. “I need to wash up,” she murmurs, her voice barely audible.

I quickly grab a washcloth and wet it with cold water, handing it to her. “Here, use this,” I say softly, trying to sound soothing.

She takes the washcloth with trembling hands and wipes her face, the coolness seeming to revive her a little. She then gets up slowly and moves to the sink to splash water on her face and brush her teeth. The smell of mint toothpaste fills the bathroom, slightly masking the unpleasant odor. I watch her, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions—anger at being coerced into this, hope that the castor oil will take full effect and anxiety about what comes next.

After rinsing her mouth, Astrid looks at herself in the mirror, her eyes reflecting exhaustion. I stand behind her, meeting her gaze in the reflection. “Let’s get you back to bed,” I say gently, helping her to her feet. Her body feels fragile under my grip, and I guide her back to the bedroom, her steps unsteady.

I pull the covers over her as she collapses onto the bed. She looks up at me with tired eyes, and I force a reassuring smile. Then, I reach for a bottle of sleeping pills I keep in the nightstand drawer, shaking one out into my palm. “Here, takethis. It’ll help you sleep,” I say, handing her the pill and the glass of water.

Astrid swallows the pill without protest, her eyelids already drooping with exhaustion. She lies back down, and within minutes, her breathing evens out as she slips into a deep sleep.

I return to my side of the bed, but sleep continues to elude me. I stare at the ceiling, my thoughts racing. Every time I close my eyes, I see Hannah’s face and feel the weight of what I just endured. I toss and turn, the sheets tangling around my legs, my mind unable to find peace.

The room is dark and quiet, save for the soft sound of Astrid’s breathing. I turn to look at her, her face peaceful in sleep, a stark contrast to the turmoil within me. I close my eyes again, praying for a few hours of rest, but knowing that the real storm is far from over.

My eyes snap wide open to the sound of Astrid vomiting, this time on her side of the floor before she had time to leave the bed. The pungent of bile and alcohol assaults my senses, jolting me fully awake. I reach for my phone and check the time: 8 a.m.. I hope the staff is awake by now as I carefully get out of bed, trying not to disturb Astrid further, and head downstairs to find a housekeeper who could help clean the room.

In the kitchen, I find the housekeeper and the butler taking their breakfast, enjoying a moment of peace before the day's duties begin. I approach them with urgency, feeling slightly guilty for interrupting their quiet time. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Astrid isn’t feeling well. She just threw up on the floor in the bedroom.”

The housekeeper and the butler exchange a concerned glance before quickly gathering their cleaning supplies. They nod at me, signaling that they’ll take care of it. As they head upstairs, I can’t help but wonder if the effects of the castor oil are being accentuated by the sleeping pill I gave Astrid. The combination of chemicals worries me, but I shove the thought aside, focusing on the immediate task of managing the situation.

I go back upstairs, deliberately taking my time as I ascend the stairs. Each step feels heavy, my mind racing with the potential consequences of my actions. I dread the smell that awaits me, but now I must face it. As I approach the bedroom, the odor intensifies, nearly making me gag. I steel myself and march on, pushing open the door.

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