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I had to battle Control to get him to agree to let me move out of the clubhouse, out of my childhood bedroom, part of the apartments behind the main house set aside for Control’s lieutenants.
He likes keeping an eye on everyone.
In the end, the only way I had managed to convince him to let me go was to promise to come by the clubhouse every single day.
In my studio room, I open the closet door and pull out my portfolio—what’s left of it anyway, since Control ripped up several pieces.
I adjust the lighting and take several shots of various pieces with my phone until I’m happy with the images. Then I upload them and add them to my dating app profile photos.
Addingaspiring professional artistto the description takes only a moment, though anyone who couldn’t figure out that much from my username—RebellionArt770—probably doesn’t deserve the extra information.
Later that evening, I opened the dating app and began swiping through the pictures.
I instantly discard any look like they might be too much like either Control or James, then read through their descriptions of themselves, weeding out anyone who is just looking for sex—I can find that without any help, and anyway, it’s not what I’m looking for these days.
After about half an hour of scrolling through dating app profiles, I realize I haven’t matched with anyone.
Maybe I’ve gotten too picky?
It’s okay to be selective, Rebellion, I tell myself.That just means you care about yourself as much as you care about finding anyone else.
Anyway, James just broke up with me today—it would probably say something unflattering about me if I were able to replace him so quickly.
With a sigh, I make my way to the bathroom, where I run a hot bubble bath.
Then I pour myself a glass of red wine and settle in for a long bath.
Me time. That’s what I’ll be focusing on tonight, I decide.
An hour later, I let the cooling water drain from the tub and get out, wrapping a fluffy towel around myself.
It’s still early, but I’m tired. I pick up a sketchbook and a few soft lead pencils and take them to bed with me, sketching out an image. I’m not even sure what it is yet. But it will turn into something. Sometimes I work from my subconscious as much from any kind of image in my mind, letting the pen or pencil or paint take me where it wants to go.
I’m almost ready to turn off the light and go to sleep when my phone dings at me.
It’s the dating app.
I almost ignore it. It’s probably someone who is looking for a sugar baby or a one-night stand.
I start to put the phone down, but at the last minute, I swipe open the app.
The guy staring back at me from the photo is gorgeous, with blond hair and blue eyes. He’s wearing a leather jacket, and I can see just the edge of a tattoo peeking out from under the collar.
He doesn’t look like someone who would be frightened of my father or his men—but there’s a softness around his mouth that somehow draws me in.
I stare at the image for a long moment, suddenly reluctant to open myself up to more pain.
Because I am still hurting from James’s rejection. I can admit that. Even if I know it proves he wasn’t the right man for me, I still don’t like being dumped.
Oh, get over yourself, Rebellion.
Even saying my club name to myself makes me sit up a little straighter.
What the hell. It won’t hurt just to see what he has to say, right?
So I swipe left, accepting the match.
Then I turn my phone off and roll over, determined not to obsess over some guy, no matter what.
