CHAPTER 10: CHAPTER 10: HATE ME, BUT DON’T LEAVE

When I stepped into his room, I froze for a second.

It wasn’t just a room. It looked like an entirely different house on its own. Massive. Expensive. The kind of place where even silence echoed luxury. The maids were still there, quietly re-arranging the scattered mess on the floor, pillows tossed aside, a shattered glass near the minibar, clothes draped like he’d torn through them in frustration. It looked like he had thrown a tantrum before I arrived.

Once the space had been restored to perfection, they slipped away without a sound, leaving me alone. Before I stretched a shimmering expanse of floor-to-ceiling glass, revealing the city’s twinkling skyline in all its nocturnal glory. It was stunning, almost surreal. But the moment barely lasted. Because that’s when I saw him.

He was seated on the couch, not in a suit, but in something expensive, nonetheless loose, designer loungewear that hung perfectly off his frame. He looked more like a mafia boss than someone who claimed to be sick. Sitting there, legs spread, arms resting like he owned the world.

And he dared to look perfectly fine.

That’s when it hit me, maybe sick didn’t always mean the kind you go to a doctor for. Maybe it meant the kind of sickness that gets into your mind. Your soul. The kind of sickness that spreads to the people around you.

"I texted you," he said, his voice cutting through the air.

"I was busy," I replied, not looking at him.

"I called. You didn’t pick up."

I gave the same reply. "I was busy."

He stood slowly, walking toward me with that same unreadable expression he always wore like a mask. "Doing what?"

I narrowed my eyes. "You know exactly what I do."

He stopped in front of me. "You’ve got someone else doing that for you. So why didn’t you answer?"

"Enough of your questions," I said, trying not to yell. "You look perfectly fine. If this is your idea of sick, then I should just go back."

His voice dropped, low and sharp. "Why?"

I stared at him. "Why, what?"

"Why are you ignoring me?"

"I’m not here to play questions and answers with you," I said coldly, turning toward the door. "I’m leaving."

"No," he said, and I could feel the chill behind his tone. "Until I say so, you’re not stepping out of this room. And if you try, they won’t let you."

I turned to him, frustrated, trembling. "What do you want from me? Why do you keep messing with my life? I’m sorry I crossed paths with you that night, but it’s enough. I’m done with this twisted game. Stop texting. Stop calling. Let’s end everything here."

He didn’t answer that. Didn’t flinch. Just stared. Then, in that same quiet voice, he repeated, "Why didn’t you pick up?"

My voice cracked as I snapped. "Because I didn’t want to. Yes, I’m ignoring you. I’m trying to ignore your whole damn existence. I don’t want anything to do with you anymore. Just stay away from me."

I could see he was holding something back. Anger. Hurt. Maybe both. His jaw clenched, fists curled slightly, like he was fighting himself. But I didn’t stop. I kept going, stabbing the air with my words.

And then something I said must’ve triggered him. He moved suddenly, grabbed me by the neck not tightly, but enough to send panic through my chest.

"How dare you talk to me like that?" he growled, eyes flashing with something dark.

I shouted back, voice cracking, Who the hell are you? I don’t care how much money you have, you’re nothing to me, just leave me alone.

His lips curled, and the next thing I knew, he was unbuttoning my shirt. "Fine," he said. "I’ll leave you alone. Just do this with me. One last time. I promise, I’ll walk away afterward."

There was something broken in his voice, something trembling under the surface. Like he wasn’t just trying to win... he was losing.

He wasn’t angry anymore. Just desperate.

Then I thought maybe I should’ve asked why he called me here. Maybe I should’ve been gentle instead of lashing out. But I let my anger guide me. I let it blind me.

He pulled down my shirt, not roughly, but not tenderly either. Like he was in a hurry. Like he needed to touch me, remember me, before I disappeared for good.

His hands roamed my skin with strange reverence, like he was memorizing every line, every inch, as if this was goodbye. Then his lips met my chest, his mouth closing around my nipple, sucking with a hunger that made me gasp.

Pleasure surged through me, and for a moment, the anger was gone. The sadness in his eyes was still there, I saw it. But I forced myself not to care. I just wanted it to end and be free.

He stripped both of us down until we were naked. Fully exposed. Flesh against flesh. His eyes raked over me, no hesitation, no shame. Just aching, greedy need.

At first, his touch was filled with longing. But then it shifted.

He became rough. His kisses turned frantic, biting, as if something had snapped inside him. Like he remembered every rejection, every wound I gave him, and now he wanted to brand me with them.

He kissed me like I owed him something. Like I belonged to him.

And even in the chaos of his touch, I felt the pain buried beneath his lust. I felt the tears he didn’t want me to see. But I ignored them, too.

Because I hated that he still haunted me.

Because I hated that part of me wanted him just as much as I wanted to be free.

He didn’t say another word.

Just pushed my back, slammed his lips into mine, no warmth, no tenderness. His kiss was a claim, a punishment. His teeth scraped my lips, biting down hard enough to make me gasp into his mouth.

And he didn’t stop.

His body pressed into mine, forcing me backwards until the backs of my knees hit the edge of the bed. I fell onto it, and he climbed over me, not slowly, not like a lover. Like a storm.

His hands gripped my wrists and pinned them above my head. His weight on me was heavy, suffocating, but I didn’t fight it.

Maybe I wanted it or I wanted to feel something other than the way he’s ruined my life.

"Is this what you want?" he growled, voice breaking as he ground his hips into mine. "You want to forget me, right? I’ll make sure you never do."

I didn’t answer.

My breath hitched as he grabbed the back of my neck and kissed me again, rougher, more desperate. Like he was angry, I hadn’t kissed him back. Like he wanted to hurt me with pleasure.

His fingers slid between my legs, no teasing, just straight pressure. I gasped again, trying to hold in the moan, but he caught it, eating it from my mouth as his hand moved harder.

"I hate you," I whispered.

He froze for half a second. His breathing is sharp. His eyes were full of pain, and he refused to show. Then he said, "Good. Then hate me while I’m inside you."

He flipped me over onto my stomach, pulled my hips up, and spat into his palm. No condom. No gentle prep. He was burning from the inside out and using me to put the fire out.

I clutched the sheets, my back arching as I felt him enter me without warning, hot, thick, too sudden.

I choked on a sound, half-pain, half-need. He didn’t pause. Just gripped my waist tight and slammed into me again, then again.

Every thrust was brutal.

Every movement is rough.

His hips snapped forward with a rhythm that felt punishing. He wasn’t making love to me. He was breaking into me. Like he needed to bury his grief so deep inside me it couldn’t claw out again.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

The sound of skin on skin filled the room, filthy and furious. The bed creaked beneath us. My body jolted with every push.

He leaned forward, his chest pressing into my back, one hand wrapping around my throat, not tight, just enough to remind me I couldn’t escape. That he didn’t want me to.

"I think about you every fucking night," he said through gritted teeth, his breath hot on my ear. "And you ignore me like I’m nothing. You want me gone? Then take it. Take all of me."

His voice cracked at the end. That’s when I knew, he wasn’t doing this to win.

He was doing this because he’d already lost.

I bit down on the pillow, my body trembling beneath him, the pain dulling and pleasure rising until they became one. I felt myself getting close, but I didn’t want to let go. I didn’t want to cum for him.

But he reached under, stroked me in time with his thrusts, and I broke.

My release hit me like a violent wave hot, shaking, shameful. I let out a cry I didn’t recognize as mine, collapsing into the bed as he kept moving.

Faster. Harder. Angrier.

His rhythm turned wild, sloppy, like he was unraveling, like he didn’t care if it broke both of us.

Then he let out a deep groan, hips slamming into me one final time before he stilled. I felt his pulse inside me, burying everything he couldn’t say.

He collapsed on top of me, breathing hard, sweat dripping from his skin to mine. And for a long moment, neither of us moved.

I felt the weight of him... and the weight of his silence.

Then, I felt it.

Tears.

Not mine. But his.

They hit my neck, one by one, hot and bitter.

I closed my eyes.

I wanted to hate him.

But all I could feel... was his pain echoing inside me and then I heard it.

A low broken voice.

"Hate me but please don’t leave me."