Page 66 of His to Possess
"Mom told me about the perfect woman today. She said I should only love someone who meets her standards. But what if I'm not good enough for that perfect woman? What if I'm not enough for anyone?"
I closed my eyes, overwhelmed by the weight of his insecurity. It was all there, his obsession with perfection, his fear of abandonment, his desperate need for control. All stemming from a little boy who had never felt worthy of his mother's love.
As I continued to turn the pages, my eyes fell upon printed excerpts nestled among the photographs. They were stories, I realized, tales his mother had told him about the "perfect woman." My stomach twisted as I read through them, each one painting an increasingly impossible ideal.
"The perfect woman is a masterpiece, Rex," one excerpt read. "She is flawless in appearance, graceful in movement, and cultured in mind. She never falters, never shows weakness. She is a work of art come to life."
I felt a chill run down my spine as I connected the dots. These stories, meant to inspire, had instead created an unattainable standard in his young mind. No wonder he had spent his life searching for women who measured up to this impossible ideal. My chest ached for the little boy who had internalized these messages, believing that love was conditional on perfection.
As I delved deeper into the album, I noticed small objects tucked between the pages. Keepsakes and mementos, each one a tangible link to his past. My fingers brushed against a driedrosebud, its once-vibrant petals now fragile and brown. Beside it, Rex's neat script read: "Mother's favorite. The scent always made her smile, even on her worst days."
I found a ticket stub from an art gallery, dated years ago. Rex's annotation revealed his excitement about the outing, followed by disappointment when his mother had been too "tired" to truly engage with him or the art.
My breath caught as I came across a small swatch of emerald fabric. It was silky to the touch, and I could imagine how it must have shimmered in the light. His note read: "From mother's dress at the Rothko exhibition opening. She was radiant that night. For a moment, she saw me."
Each item told a story of a little boy desperate for connection, clinging to these beautiful fragments while surrounded by emotional turmoil. I could almost see young Rex carefully preserving these mementos, hoping to capture and hold on to the fleeting moments of joy and attention from his mother.
As I gently closed the album, I was overwhelmed by the weight of what I had discovered. The roots of his obsessions, his need for control, his distorted view of love, it was all here, laid bare in these pages. I understood now why he collected women like works of art, always searching for that elusive perfection his mother had instilled in him.
Tears streamed down my face as I clutched the album to my chest, overwhelmed by a storm of emotions. Grief for Rex, the little boy who had never received the love he so desperately craved, mixed with a burning rage against his mother. How could she have damaged her son this way? The weight of his past settled heavily on my shoulders, and I struggled to catch my breath.
As I wiped my eyes, pieces of the puzzle started falling into place. His obsessive need for control, his meticulous curation of his environment and relationships, it all stemmed from thechaos of his childhood. His mother's emotional distance had left a void that he had been trying to fill ever since.
I flipped back through the album, seeing each perfectly staged photo with new eyes. His collection of women wasn't just about possession; it was an attempt to recreate the fleeting moments of connection he had experienced with his mother. He was trying to capture and control the love he had been denied, mistaking ownership for genuine intimacy.
My anger began to ebb, replaced by a profound sadness. His obsession wasn't born from malice, but from deep, unresolved trauma. He was still that little boy, desperately seeking approval and affection, trying to measure up to an impossible standard of perfection.
I closed the album gently, my mind reeling with this new understanding. The man I had come to know—controlled, demanding, obsessive—was armor built to protect that wounded child within. My frustration with Rex's behavior melted away, replaced by an overwhelming empathy.
As I sat there, surrounded by the evidence of his past, I was struck by a realization. I had a choice to make. Did I walk away, protecting myself from becoming another notch in his collection? Or did I stay and try to help him confront these demons, to break free from the cycle that had trapped him for so long?
I traced my fingers over the leather cover of the album, my chest aching for the little boy inside. Could I be the one to show Rex what real, unconditional love looked like? Or was I destined to become just another perfectly curated memory, another attempt to fill that endless void?
I carefully placed the album back on the shelf, my mind reeling from everything I had discovered. I found myself seeing him in a completely new light. Instead of feeling betrayed or scared, I was overwhelmed by a surge of empathy and understanding.The complexity of his character, shaped by years of emotional neglect and impossible standards, only drew me in further.
As I sat on the edge of Rex's bed, I realized that I couldn't simply walk away from this.
Just as I was about to leave, my phone chirped with an incoming message. The notification pulled me out of my thoughts, and I felt my stomach drop as I saw Alain's name on the screen. Reality came crashing back, reminding me of the other looming threat in my life.
I stared at Alain's name on my phone screen, wanting to snarl. The weight of my situation crashed down on me like a tidal wave, bringing me back to what needed to be done. I was trapped between two dangerous men: Rex, with his dark obsessions, and Alain, whose machinations threatened to destroy everything I had worked for.
Rex, the man I couldn't reach, who had become an invisible presence in my life. And Alain, a ghost from my past who refused to let me go. The stark reality of my predicament settled in my stomach like a heavy stone. My time was up. Alain was back in town, demanding an answer I wasn't prepared to give.
As I sat on Rex's bed, surrounded by the evidence of his troubled past, a chilling thought struck me. I might not have found an album with my name on it, but I knew now that I was destined to be just another addition to his collection. Another perfectly curated memory, placed on that shelf alongside the others.
If Rex had disappeared after our last night together, it could only mean one thing, he was done with me. The realization hit me like a physical blow, leaving me breathless. My spirit sank, and in that moment, I had never felt more alone in the world.
Whatever I had felt for Rex Compton, I now understood it would only lead to heartbreak. Just like all the other women. Just like Lola. The name echoed in my mind.
For a moment, I was tempted to return to that secret room, to dig deeper and check about Lola, but I shook off the urge. There was no good in uncovering more secrets. I had seen enough to understand the man behind the mask, and it was time to face the reality of my situation. I put the album on the bed.
I stared at my phone as it rang again, Alain's name flashing on the screen. My pulse raced, and I could feel panic clawing its way up my throat. I swallowed hard, fighting to keep my composure. I knew Alain wouldn't tolerate being sent to voicemail for long. He was persistent, dangerous, and he held my future in his hands.
The weight of my predicament settled over me. I was trapped between two impossible choices. I could tell Alain to fuck off, stand my ground, and refuse to be manipulated. But that path led to jail, to the destruction of everything I had worked so hard to rebuild. My career, my reputation, my freedom, all of it gone in an instant.
Or I could accept his offer. The thought made my skin crawl, but a small voice in the back of my mind whispered that it might be my only chance. If I played along, if I got close enough, maybe I could find the items Alain had substituted and hidden. Maybe I could clear my name once and for all.
It was a slim chance, a desperate gamble. But as I stood there in Rex's bedroom, surrounded by the ghosts of his past and the wreckage of my own, I realized it might be the only option I had left.
