Page 10 of F*ckboys

Taking a deep breath, I recount the events of the gala, my voice wavering as I detail the unexpected dance with Aksel, Carissa'sinsults and threats, and the relentless pressure from my father's towering expectations. "I—I don't know how to make sense of it all, Mia. It's like all the memories from the past came crashing back at once, and I can't help but blame Aksel for some of the things that happened after he broke my heart. Last night just ripped everything back open again. Andshewas even there, to make matters worse. It felt like history was on repeat."

Mia listens intently, her expression a mix of sympathy and understanding. I watch as she grips the edge of her chair, leaning forward slightly. The air in the room seems charged with the weight of my revelations.

"Fallon, you can't hold onto resentment forever," she says softly, her words laced with empathy. "You need to find a way to move past what happened between you and Aksel. Holding onto all this anger won't change the past and it's only going to cause you pain. I'm sorry that last night brought up lots of feelings for you, which is understandable because it's been so long since you've seen him, but it also means you haven't healed after all this time."

"I know," I admit, my voice barely a whisper as I rub my temples, feeling the headache building. "But every time I think I've moved on, something happens to remind me of the pain he caused."

My phone buzzes, interrupting our conversation. Glancing at the screen, I see a new message from Aksel. My pulse quickens. I want to ignore it, to continue burying the emotions his presence stirs, but I can't help myself.

"It's him." I sigh.

"Fallon," Mia prompts, her eyes softening as she studies my face. "What does he say?"

I hesitate, my fingers hovering over the screen. The walls I've built around my heart feel fragile, ready to crumble at the slightest touch of Aksel's words. But I can't let him in again. Ican't risk giving him the power to break me once more. I unlock my phone and preemptively flinch as I open his message.

Aksel: Fallon. I'm so sorry that I upset you. I don't really understand what I did. Will you just please talk to me? I mainly just want to make sure you're okay. I do care about you, despite what you clearly think. A.

"He's trying to understand," I say, my voicefdesefedd clipped as I force myself to maintain a semblance of composure. "But he can't. He doesn't know what he did to me."

"Maybe you should tell him," Mia suggests, hesitating as if testing the waters. "You don't have to forgive him, but it might help you both find some closure."

"Maybe," I concede, the word tasting bitter on my tongue. But I'm not ready to share that part of my past with him. Not yet. For now, I'll keep those memories locked away, where they belong—and hope that one day, I'll be strong enough to confront them head-on. Besides, there's only going to be one way for me to achieve real closure. Revenge.

The door clicks shut behind Mia as I'm left enveloped in the silence of my office, the sleek, minimalist space now feeling cold and stark. My heart races, and I can hardly catch my breath, each inhalation a reminder of everything that has led to me feeling such hatred for Aksel.

I pace the room, the sound of my combat boots against the polished concrete floor echoing through the stillness. The blister that formed from the heels I wore last night serve as a reminder of why I was wearing such painful shoes. The memories of Aksel—his touch, his warm gaze, the whispered promises we once shared—are both bitter and sweet, lingering in the air like a haunting melody. But instead of offering solace, they only serve to remind me of the darkness that followed.

"Damn him," I mutter under my breath, clenching my fists as I recall how my life spiraled out of control after he broke my heart. In my desperate attempt to forget him, I'd fallen in with the wrong crowd, seeking solace in the numbing embrace of alcohol and drugs. One night, when I was most vulnerable, a group of guys from my school took advantage of me, leaving me broken and bruised in more ways than one. That was only the start of a series of abusive relationships that followed, each layering on trauma that I haven't yet begun to process.

The thud of bass reverberates against the walls of the dingy flat on the outskirts of the city's main party area. The space is unfamiliar, and I barely remember how I got here. The plan was to have a few drinks at home, then go to the club for some dancing. To get our minds off the idiot guys we normally hang out with. At some point, I must have gotten separated from my friends. I look around the room at the five men who flank me on the couch and surrounding armchairs. They're my new friends, now.

They offered to take me home with them, said there would be good music and more drinks. A couple of them are particularly good-looking, and one of them seemed interested in me. It feels nice, having this attention. And there's no Carissa in sight, trying to steal any of my new friends from me. Plus, these guys seem more mature. They're older, wiser, more confident.

"Drink up," says one of the guys, thrusting a plastic cup in my direction. I glance at the contents but can't quite figure them out. I quirk an eyebrow at the man. "It's my special cocktail. I made it especially for you. You're our guest. Drink up!" I shrug. It's not like I have anywhere else to be. Taking a sip, I flinch at the sharp taste and the slightly effervescent tingle I feel on my tongue. I gulp and press my lips together. "Delicious," I say,nodding, eager to please the man who took the time to make me a special drink.

"That's my girl," he says, approvingly. His teeth begin to morph in front of me, growing sharper, as my mind grows fuzzy at the corners. He starts to say something else, but it sounds like a warped groan, and everything fades to black.

I come to, gasping for air and feeling the unmistakable grip of a hand wrapped around my throat. "Can't… breathe!" I manage to rasp as I attempt to flail my arms and legs around me. But quickly, I realize that each of my limbs are being held firmly, too.

"Shut the fuck up, slut! We're giving you what you were asking for. We're taking what's ours." The pain hits me like a knife searing me from within, threatening to rip my insides out. "You may as well have been walking around that club naked, looking like that," one growls as he pulls his cock out of his pants.

I can't keep track of the rough hands, the cold voices, directing me and yelling at each other.

And then they're inside me. Pounding away. I can't move. I can't breathe. I try to cry out but a hand presses against my mouth so tightly I'm helpless.

My body feels numb. My mind feels numb.

I float away to safety…

I'm dirty, sticky, and I have the overwhelming urge to be clean.

I sit under the shower, water running over my back. Grabbing a loofah from the caddy, I lather it with soap and begin to scrub myself. Dirt runs from me, ridding me of the soil that clung to my skin when they smashed me into the ground.I'm washing away every hint of body fluid I can find as well. Unfortunately, there's quite a bit of that.

My skin grows red and begins to bleed in several areas as I continue to grate the harsh material against my tender, swollen skin.

They treated me like a vessel for their warped needs. In their flat, and out into the garden. By some miracle, one of them had the sense to drive me home and discard me on my front doorstep. Otherwise, I'm pretty sure they would have left me for dead.

There's no way I can tell my parents. They'd never understand. They'd judge me, tell me I should have been at home studying. That I should be more like my brothers. Anyway, Mom and Dad have both seemed preoccupied lately. Something's going on between them, I can feel it. So I'm the least of their worries.

---