Chapter 3: When the Spell Breaks

"What’s this? Are you sick?"

I hadn’t noticed when Savannah finished her shower. She snatched the report from my hand.

She stood there, dripping wet, towel wrapped haphazardly around her, looking more annoyed than concerned. I could smell her shampoo—sharp, floral, almost overpowering. Like everything about her—too much, too bright. I felt my skin prickle.

My heart skipped a beat, but I forced myself to act calm. I grabbed the report back, crumpled it, and tossed it in the trash.

"Just a cold. Went to urgent care to get checked out."

I tried to keep my voice steady, but my hands betrayed me. Trembling, I forced a half-smile. The lie tasted bitter, but I swallowed it down.

She didn’t press further, just started teasing me, biting my earlobe like she’d done it a hundred times.

"I got some new special pills. I’m starving—be a good boy and put on a show, got it?"

As she spoke, she wrapped her arms around me from behind, running her hands over my abs, almost lovingly.

"A man’s hips are a weapon. Sometimes I wish I could drain you dry."

I used to think this was her way of showing love. I’d go along with everything she wanted. Now? I just felt like an idiot.

Her words echoed in my head, but they sounded empty now, like a joke I no longer understood. I wanted to pull away, to scream, but all I managed was a shiver.

I pushed her away, cold.

"Not interested tonight. I don’t want to."

Savannah paused, giving me a pitiful look.

She pouted, lower lip jutting out, eyes wide and wounded. It was the same look she used to get her way, and I used to melt for it. Now it just made me feel tired. Like I was watching an old rerun I’d seen too many times.

"Then at least put on the see-through outfit for me, let me look, and you can make it up to me tomorrow night."

Feed you how? Like your friends said—squeeze in a breakup fling?

The words sat on my tongue, sharp and poisonous, but I kept them inside. I looked away, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

To please her, I never stopped working out or getting cosmetic procedures, terrified she’d be dissatisfied. I never thought those things would become ammo for her friends to humiliate me. Like that time she sent a gym selfie of me to the group chat, laughing at my "new muscles."

I’m a man, not some plaything.

Thinking of that, my eyes burned. Savannah saw me tearing up and panicked immediately.

She reached for me, her hands suddenly gentle, her voice soft and apologetic. "Hey, hey, what’s wrong, baby? Don’t cry."

"Baby, I was just joking. I love your soul way more than your body."

She always seemed to know exactly what I was thinking—that’s the charm of an older woman, I used to tell myself.

She’d stroke my hair, whispering sweet nothings, her words wrapping around me like a warm blanket. But now, they felt like empty promises—comforting, but hollow.

I’d often wondered if she just wanted me to fill the void, but she’d always insist, over and over, that she was wild because she loved me.

She’d say things like, "You make me crazy, Derek. No one else gets me like you do." I wanted so badly to believe her.

But is this love? If she loved me, would she wear out my body? Trample my dignity?

She gently wiped my tears, eyes full of concern.

Her touch was soft, her eyes glistening with what looked like real worry. For a moment, I almost believed her again.

"It’s all my fault. Let me massage your back and legs, okay?"

With that, she knelt down and started massaging my legs like she meant it.

Her hands were strong and practiced, working out knots I didn’t know I had. It should have felt good, but all I felt was emptiness.

"My dear future husband, I was wrong. Please forgive me, okay?"

Watching her put on this act just to get what she wanted from her so-called boy toy, I felt nothing but emptiness.

Her words echoed in the room, but they bounced right off me. I stared at the wall, feeling like a ghost in my own life.