Chapter 2: Begging and Battles

"I really want everyone to see you like this—just begging for it."

Derek’s voice was low and gravelly, the kind that vibrated in your chest and makes your skin crawl. We were in the cramped bedroom above the pizzeria on Main, the window cracked just enough for city noise to seep in. The old streetlight flickered, shadows crossing tangled sheets. My cheeks burned—anger and shame mixing until I couldn’t tell them apart. I hated how he made me feel so small in my own skin.

"Like a bitch in heat out on Main Street."

He leaned in close, his breath hot and whiskey-sour against my ear. Every word was poison, meant to sting. I could smell his cheap cologne—the kind he thought made him seem rich. His words were so gross, so American, it felt like a line ripped from a bad late-night movie. Still, the way he said it made me shudder—half from disgust, half from something I hated to admit.

Derek nuzzled my collarbone, his words crawling under my skin, sticky and mean.

He traced his lips along my skin, claiming me like a trophy from a rigged carnival game. I clenched my jaw, refusing to flinch. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Outside, the city hummed—cars honking, laughter echoing from a bar—but all I could hear was the pounding in my chest.

"I’m a bitch? Then what does that make you, clinging to this bitch for ten years?"

I met his gaze, sneering coldly.

I lifted my chin, daring him to deny it. My words came out sharper than I meant—years of hurt simmering underneath. My eyes went flat, like I was looking straight through him. He didn’t like that. Not one bit. But for once, I didn’t care. If I was going to be the villain in his story, so be it.

His wild, handsome face twisted, the scar above his brow making him look even more feral.

He had that bad-boy thing—strong jaw, eyes that could cut glass, the kind of looks that made teachers overlook everything. But that scar, just above his right eyebrow, told the real story. It pulsed when his anger flared—a souvenir from the night things went too far.

Desire and anger mixed in his eyes, turning into a storm that always ended in punishment.

His hands tightened on my waist, fingers digging into my skin. It was always the same—a push and pull, punishment and reward. I could see the war in his eyes. He wanted to own me, to break me, but he couldn’t stand the thought of losing me either. The tension was electric and dangerous.

"Watch closely—see how a dog marks its territory."

His whisper was barely audible, but it carried the weight of a threat. The air felt thick, like a thunderstorm about to break. I braced myself, heart pounding, refusing to show fear. In that moment, I hated him more than anyone—but I hated myself for staying even more.

……

The sound of running water came from the bathroom.

The pipes rattled—a reminder that the building had seen better days. I heard him humming off-key, careless, as if nothing had happened. The city outside was waking up, traffic building on the street below. I moved quietly, careful not to wake the neighbors through the paper-thin walls.

I slipped $30 from Derek’s wallet and tucked it into my piggy bank.

His wallet was always carelessly tossed on the dresser, stuffed with receipts and loose bills. Thirty bucks—three crisp tens, a little victory in a world where I had so few. My piggy bank was hidden in the back of the closet, behind thrift-store sweaters. Every time I slipped a bill inside, it felt like planting a flag—one tiny victory in a war I was still losing.

Derek never understood. He thought I just loved money, so he tried every way he could to win me over with gifts.

He’d show up with flowers from the bodega, jewelry in velvet boxes, keys to cars I couldn’t afford insurance on. Once, he bought me designer boots I’d admired in a magazine. He thought money could fix everything, that a new gift would erase last night’s fight. But what I really wanted was something he couldn’t buy—respect, safety, a real future.

The deed to a two-million-dollar house—I ripped it up without hesitation; a $200,000 diamond ring—I tossed into a filthy gutter.

I still remember his face when I tore the deed in half, the pieces fluttering like confetti. He looked at me like I was crazy, like he couldn’t believe I’d throw away something so valuable. The ring was easier—I slipped it off during a late-night walk, dropped it into a gutter on 5th Avenue, and never looked back. I wanted him to know I couldn’t be bought. My freedom was worth more than anything he offered.

Only those glaring green bills I kept, letting them pile up until they nearly spilled over…

Every dollar was a step closer to leaving. I’d count the bills at night, the soft rustle in my hands the only sound in the darkness. In America, cash is king, and I was building my own escape route—one dollar at a time. I dreamed of cashing it in and running far away, to a place where he’d never find me.