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Falynn

PLAYLIST: ? HUMAN - CHRISTINA PERRI ?

How doyou tell what’s real when everything feels like a dream? The next day and a half passes in a surreal haze. I spend a lot of time in the bathroom. I soak in the tub until I’m pruned all over. Legs drawn up to my chest, I rest my chin on my kneecaps.

Giancarlo refused to tell me what happened the other night. In my heart, I know I never consented. I didn’t want to do anything with him. So why do I feel so guilty?

So…dirty.

I have to remind myself I’d felt the same years ago after Mom’s boyfriend took advantage.

His name was MacKenzie. Everybody called him Mac for short. I can still smell the stale liquor on him and hear the low rasp of his voice. I can still remember the coldness in his touch. I’d felt the same shame in the aftermath.

“I was drugged,” I whisper.

But it’s not enough to chase away the guilt. On some level, I’d let my guard down if he’d been able to coerce me into whatever it is I did.

He couldn’t have had sex with me. I’ve scrubbed my pussy raw. I’ve searched for signs of intercourse. I’ve checked for semen. I’ve emptied the trashcans for condoms. Other than body aches, I don’tfeellike I had sex, but how did I end up naked?

Giancarlo must’ve undressed me. I shudder at the thought. I hadn’t given him permission to lay a finger on me much less lay me to bed naked. It has to be part of his sick mind games. He wants me to think something happened between us when it didn’t. No other explanation makes sense…right?

The city lights twinkle to life by the time the afternoon ends. I emerge from the bathroom in a towel with dripping wet hair. In a few short hours I’ll be having dinner with Giancarlo again. I haven’t eaten a bite in almost two days. Not since the incident. The food and drink can’t be trusted here.

Whatever drug Giancarlo gave me has left me parched and dehydrated. I’ve survived only on water from the faucet. The breakfast and lunch the waitstaff delivered went untouched.

Starvation could be how I wind up going. A hunger strike that whittles away at me day by day. Anything to avoid giving him another chance to drug me.

No. Giancarlo’s a demented asshole. He’d force-feed me. He’d hold me down and strong-arm me into eating just to keep me alive. Just so I’m still around to torment. He gets off on it.

The other night remains a blur, but one image has stuck with me—Giancarlo approaching me, his tall, dominant frame looming over me. Imprinted in his pants an indisputably hard and large cock against his muscular thigh. I’d blacked out to the sight.

If Giancarlo was hard, he’d probably been turned on by whatever he made me do. When he tortures me he gets aroused.

I approach our dinner with a different mindset. It’s been over two weeks since I’ve talked to my best friend, Tasha, but I know what she’d tell me to do in this situation. Since Giancarlo is batshit crazy, she’d tell me I’d have to play into his delusions. Chummy him up as much as I can. Appease him until I can find a loophole escape.

“But keep my distance,” I mutter under my breath. I slip into the revealing cocktail dress he’s asked me to wear for our dinner. “I’ll keep him talking. He says he wants me to behave…so I’ll behave.”

In his own twisted way, he seems desperate for companionship. It’s like he’s too much of a blank slate to form any real bonds with anyone. The little I’ve seen of him around the rest of the crew has shown me he’s not a natural leader. Gio carried himself with an effortless confidence, earning the men’s respect on his own; Giancarlo’s the opposite. He’s a loner ascending the throne, respected by the men because of the power his position holds.

The less charismatic brother of the two, I bet he’s been in Gio’s shadow his entire life.

He needs his ego stroked.

When six o’ clock arrives, I approach our dinner table. The forecast calls for strong desert winds tonight, so we’re having dinner inside the penthouse. The waitstaff have transformed the living area into a dining space complete with candles and fresh flowers. Good to know he’s still pretending to care about winning me over.

The same waiter from the other night pulls out my chair for me. He’s yet to lose the boyish quality about his face, his pointy chin dotted with light stubble. My thank you smile makes him smile. His nerves bounce off of him.

It gives me an idea.

With my gracious smile still on my face, I touch his arm. “Thank you for the meals you brought by earlier. I’m sorry I didn’t eat them.”

The tips of his ears glow red. “It’s not a problem, miss. I know you weren’t feeling well.”

“About that,” I say, dropping my tone into a breathy murmur. I throw a furtive glance over my shoulder, making sure we’re alone. “I know it was you who slipped the tablet in my wine the other night.”

His eyes bulge and he trips over his words. “I was given an order. Mr. Sorrentino wanted your food and drink—”

“It’s okay. I don’t blame you.” I run my hand along his forearm, holding his gaze. I serve my best flirty, bedroom eyes with every blink. “But it made me really sick. Can you please not do it again?”

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