Chapter 12: The World Stops Spinning

My parents were upstairs, probably wondering where I was. Neighbors all around—people who’d watched me grow up.

It wasn’t even late; kids played basketball, couples walked dogs. Someone could come out at any moment.

I got in the car. The leather was cold, the air thick with his cologne. Nathan didn’t speak—just texted, took calls in rapid French.

At the Hay-Adams, he pressed me against the door as soon as we entered, wrists bound with his Hermès tie. My pajamas—old flannel, cartoon cats—made him laugh, but he tore them off anyway.

He undid his belt, the sound loud in the quiet room. I cried without sound, glaring at him with swollen eyes.

"Nathan Brooks, if you stop now, I won’t hate you..."

He laughed. "Rachel, I wish you would hate me. Better than nothing."

"You’re crazy."

"Yes, I am."

He gripped my waist and took me, slow and deliberate, no kindness. My tears flowed, but he didn’t care. He moved hard and fast, like he wanted to shatter me.

He carried me to the window, city lights blurred by my tears. I knelt on the carpet, knees burning.

Back in bed, he wouldn’t let me go. My body betrayed me, responding despite everything.

"Rachel Morgan, will you come back to D.C. with me?"

I shook my head, eyes closed. No. Never.

He laughed, then grew angry. His hands tightened, his thrusts turned punishing.

"If you’re so disobedient, why should I feel sorry for you? Just endure it, Rachel Morgan."