Page 99 of Intense
I don’t last two minutes before I peel back the lid.
One that screams money, obscene wealth, and dominance.
The other, quieter, but somehow worse.
It’s the kind of ring you only give someone when you plan to keep them.
My fingers hesitate; it’s like being a kid and trying on your mom’s expensive jewelry when she’s out, knowing she will scream in your face if she catches you.
I shake away the memory. That’s part of the reason I’ve never wanted relationships. What if I end up like my parents? What if I fuck up my kids worse than they did to me? It could be genetic.
Fuck it.
I slide on the rings and hold my breath as I hold my hand out.
The engagement ring catches the light.
The wedding band settles too easily on my skin.
Like it belongs there.
Like I belong to him.
I take a sip of wine and sink deeper into the couch. I should take them off.
I should laugh at how ridiculous this is.
But I don’t.
Instead, I look down at my hand and wonder, what would it be like to have a life with someone?
A husband.
A home.
Maybe even… kids.
Jesus.
I’ve never let myself think that far ahead.
There was never a finish line for me. Just survival.
Because how do you dream about a white picket fence when your hands are stained with the lives of men who used you?
Men who thought pain was love.
Men who taught me how to take it and, eventually, how to give it back.
I’m not wife material.
I’m not even human some days.
I’m a ghost with a scalpel and a vendetta.
But still—tonight, on that chair, tied down while he looked at me like I was a fucking prize…
I wanted him.
