Chapter One - Filth
Nate
The water is scalding—steam curling through the glass, fogging the mirror until the reflection disappears. I need it that way. I don’t want to see myself. Don’t want to look in my own eyes while I’m doing this.
But I can’t stop.
My forehead presses against the tile, the heat pounding against my back, sliding down my chest in relentless streams. My hand’s already wrapped around my cock, fist tight, pumping slow and rough like punishment.
Like penance.
But it isn’t enough.
It never is.
Because all I see—behind my eyelids, under the water, drowning every clean thought—is her.
Talia.
Naked beneath me. Moaning my name in that ruined, breathless way that’s been seared into my fucking bones.
I groan, biting down hard on my lip, stroking faster now. No finesse. No patience. Just raw need—ugly, brutal, sickening.
She’s everywhere.
On her knees in front of me.
On her back beneath me.
Bent over the kitchen counter, gasping as I split her open, her fingers clawing at the wood, begging me for more.
“Fuck,” I choke out, my voice low and wrecked, echoing off the tile walls.
I hate myself.
Hate the way my body betrays me every goddamn time I think of her.
I shouldn’t still want her. I shouldn’t still need her. Not after everything.
Not after Lydia.
My hand moves faster. Harder. My hips snap forward, chasing the high I shouldn’t be craving.
I’m not supposed to want her.
I’m not supposed to remember the way she tasted on my tongue.
But I do.
I remember everything.
The soft sound she made the first time I pushed my fingers inside her.
The way she looked at me while she came, like she was shattering just for me.
The way her nails dug into my shoulders, marking me, owning me.
Her voice—wrecked and raw—as she whispered Nate…
I groan again, louder this time, my forehead slamming against the tile with a dull, brutal thud.
I can’t stop.
My cock is throbbing in my palm, slick with soap and sweat, veins bulging as I fuck into my fist like it’s her.
God, I can feel her.
Tight. Wet. Clenching around me.
Her legs shaking as I ruin her.
Her breathy little gasps turning into filthy, desperate pleas.
“Harder—please, harder—”
I pump faster, hips jerking, my stomach tightening as the orgasm builds—sharp, hot, impossible to stop.
I shouldn’t say her name.
I shouldn’t.
But it spills out anyway—guttural, savage, ripped from somewhere deep in my chest.
“Talia—fuck, Talia—”
I come with a violent groan, spilling hard over my fist, streaks of it shooting up my stomach, mixing with the water as it washes away my shame.
But the filth stays.
It always stays.
My chest heaves. My legs tremble. My hand slides down to the tile, gripping it like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
And still, even now—empty, drained, disgusted—I see her.
Every time I close my eyes.
Every second of every goddamn day.
She’s all I think about.
All I want.
And I hate her for it.
But not as much as I hate myself.
Because I’m trapped.
Chained to a life I can’t escape.
A marriage I can’t leave.
Not after what Lydia did.
Not after what she knows.
I should’ve been smarter.
Should’ve been stronger.
But the second I tasted Talia, I lost every bit of control I ever thought I had.
And now?
Now I’m a prisoner.
To my marriage.
To my guilt.
To my obsession with a girl I can never fucking have again.
And the worst part?
I’m already aching for her again.
Even as the water keeps running.
Even as the guilt keeps choking me.
I’m still hardening again, cock twitching in my palm.
Because there’s no fixing this.
No salvation.
Not anymore.
There’s only her.
And I’m already too far gone.
I towel off rough and fast, not bothering to shave. My skin still burns, but it’s not from the water anymore.
I pull on jeans and a shirt, my jaw tight, breath short, dreading the moment I have to step out of this room. But I can’t hide in here all damn day.
I push the door open and walk out, heading straight down the stairs, ignoring the heavy weight that already thickens the air the second I pass the landing.
She’s waiting.
Of course she’s fucking waiting.
I don’t look toward the dining room. I don’t acknowledge her. I keep moving, straight toward the kitchen, where I can drown myself in black coffee and pretend I’m not suffocating inside my own goddamn house.
But her voice sliced through the air, sweet as poison.
“Diane called.”
I freeze mid-step.
My hand tightens on the back of the chair I was about to pass, knuckled whitening around the groan of the wood.
She knows exactly what she’s doing.
I don’t turn.
But she doesn’t need me to.
Her voice slithers through the room—silky, slow, soaked in amusement.
“She was wondering why you haven’t been returning her calls.” A soft, dry laugh. “Or Kev’s.”
My stomach twists, tight and sharp.
I keep staring at the coffee pot, like if I focus hard enough I can disappear.
But she keeps going.
“Don’t worry,” Lydia croons, her tone dripping with false sweetness. “I didn’t tell her the truth.”
I still don’t turn.
I can’t.
But I hear her shift in the chair, the scrape of it against the floor as she crosses one leg over the other, smug and satisfied.
“I didn’t tell her you’ve been ignoring them,” she says, voice dipping lower, colder, deadlier. “Because you’re too busy jerking off to the memory of fucking their perfect little daughter.”
My stomach sinks.
I grip the counter now, hard enough that my fingers ache, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth throb.
She laughs again, soft and cruel.
“Such a good girl, wasn’t she?” Lydia taunts. “Daddy’s angel. Mommy’s sweetheart. They never would’ve guessed what she let you do to her. How she begged for it. How she fucking screamed for it.”
My chest burns.
I hate her.
I hate every word falling from her lips.
But the worst part—the part that makes me feel sick—is that my cock still twitches at the memory.
“Anyway…” Lydia’s chair scrapes again, slower this time, deliberate. She rises to her feet, footsteps light but certain as she walks toward me.
I still don’t move.
Can’t.
I hear her heels click across the floor.
Hear her stop right behind me.
I feel her breath against my neck as she leans in, voice soft, mocking, victorious.
“She also invited us,” she purrs.
Silence.
My pulse hammers.
“To Talia’s college send-off barbecue. This Saturday.” Lydia finishes, her words slicing like glass. “Kev insisted. Family only.”
I go cold.
Fucking ice.
Lydia’s hand brushes my shoulder, her nails dragging across the fabric of my shirt—mocking, taunting, daring me to react.
“I told them we’d love to be there,” she whispers.
My stomach sinks to my fucking knees.
And when I finally turn, too late, too slow, Lydia is already walking away.
Victorious.
Smiling.
Because she knows I’m going.
And she knows exactly what it’ll do to me.
I stand there—numb, seething, drowning in it—watching her disappear down the hallway, her laughter echoing in my ears.
Because in two days, I’ll be back at their house.
Back under their roof.
With her.
And there’s no fucking way I’ll survive it.
I’m still standing there—frozen, gutted—when her voice drifts back through the open archway, soft and breezy, like she’s discussing dinner plans instead of gutting me alive.
“Oh,” Lydia adds, pausing just long enough to twist the knife deeper. “Don’t forget…”
My stomach turns, but I can’t stop listening.
“We have our appointment this afternoon.”
My chest seizes.
Her heels click once, twice—slow, deliberate steps meant to make sure I hear every word as she strolls toward the stairs.
“You wouldn’t want to miss that,” she continues, her voice dripping with venomous amusement. “After all…”
Another pause.
I squeeze my eyes shut, praying she won’t say it.
But of course she does.
“…we’ve got a future to plan, darling.”
Her laughter follows her up the stairs—sharp, cruel, triumphant.
And I stand there, drowning in the wreckage.
Because I already know what that appointment means.
It’s not about hope.
It’s not about love.
It’s not about fixing what’s been broken between us for years.
It’s about control.
About punishment.
About tying me to her forever.
Because Lydia’s not letting me go.
Not after what she saw.
Not after what she knows.
And I’m already too deep in her trap to claw my way out.
I stare at the floor, fists clenched, chest hollow, heart pounding.
Because this afternoon, I’m supposed to sit in a fucking fertility clinic with the woman I hate.
While all I can think about is the daughter of the man who trusts me most.
And for the first time in my life, I’m not sure I’ll make it through the day without destroying everything.
It’s hours later before I even glance at the clock.
Past two.
Her appointment was at one-thirty.
The phone on my desk won’t stop buzzing—her name flashing across the screen again and again, vibrating against the wood like it’s mocking me.
I don’t answer.
I don’t even fucking look at it.
Let it ring.
Let her sit there alone in some sterile waiting room, flipping through outdated magazines while she seethes and plots her next punishment.
I don’t give a shit.
I’m not going.
I knew it the second she said it this morning, her voice dripping with poison. That sugary smile when she reminded me. That taunting look, as if she thought I’d still play her game.
Fuck that.
I’d burn this whole fucking marriage to the ground before I let her drag me to a fertility clinic.
I’m at the site instead.
The guys cleared out for lunch over an hour ago, leaving me alone in the half-framed skeleton of what’s supposed to be a million-dollar lakefront custom home. Exposed beams overhead, sawdust thick in the air, the scent of pine sharp in my lungs.
I should be working.
I should be double-checking the blueprints spread across the makeshift table, measuring out the placement for the kitchen island, making sure the plumbing lines match the new floor plans.
But I can’t focus.
My eyes blur over the pages.
My pen taps absently against the edge of the wood, sharp and quick and impatient.
Because my mind isn’t here.
It’s there.
Back at the lake house.
Back in those first few days after we left.
God, those days were hell.
I barely remember driving back. The miles blurred together, the highway stretching endlessly beneath the tires while Lydia sat beside me, humming along to the radio like she hasn’t just detonated a bomb under my life.
She didn’t mention the video.
Didn’t mention Talia.
She just fucking smiled.
Smiled and played the perfect wife, her hand resting on my thigh, her nails tracing idle circles through my jeans as if we were just another couple heading home from vacation.
I couldn’t speak.
I couldn’t fucking breathe.
The weight of it sat on my chest, thick and suffocating, every mile dragging me closer to the noose she’d wrapped around my neck.
And when we got home—when I killed the engine and sat there gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping me from falling apart—she leaned over, kissed my cheek, and whispered so softly it still makes my skin crawl.
“Welcome back, darling.”
Like nothing had happened.
Like she hadn’t already decided how this was going to end.
I stayed numb for the first few days.
Moving through the house like a ghost, showing up at work, pretending to give a damn about floor plans and permits, when all I could hear—every second, every breath—was her voice in my head.
I wonder what Diane would think.
Or Kev.
How do you think they’d react to finding out their perfect little girl let you fuck her like that?
I can still feel the sickness that rolled through me when she said it. The way my stomach twisted, the bile burning up my throat.
She’s let me sit with it.
Let me drown in it.
Smiling. Laughing. Pouring me a drink and pretending we’re fine, like she wasn’t holding my entire life in her palm.
I should’ve known she wouldn’t stop there.
Lydia doesn’t make threats she won’t follow through on. She’s patient like that—strategic. She waits until you’ve convinced yourself maybe it’s over. Maybe she’s done playing her games.
Then she reminds you exactly who you’re dealing with.
It was three nights after we got back when she finally struck.
I came home late, later than usual, after driving aimlessly around town until I could barely see straight. I remember walking through the door, exhausted, starving, desperate to forget everything—even if just for a fucking hour.
She was waiting.
Sitting on the couch, legs crossed, wine glass in hand, the flicker of the fireplace casting shadows across her face.
Like a scene from a goddamn horror film.
“Rough day?” she asked, voice syrupy sweet.
I ignored her. Walked straight toward the kitchen. I couldn’t even look at her.
But she didn’t let me get far.
“Nate.”
I froze, hand on the fridge handle, chest tightening.
Her heels clicked against the hardwood, slow and deliberate as she walked toward me, taking her time, savoring every step.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said, circling around me like a predator. “About us. About the future.”
I didn’t answer.
I couldn’t.
She set her wine down on the counter, close enough that the scent hit me—sweet, dry, sharp.
And then, she pulled her phone from her pocket.
My stomach dropped.
She unlocked it, casually swiping through her gallery with a smug little smile, as if she was browsing vacation photos.
Then she held it out to me.
The video.
I didn’t need to see it to know what it was. My gut already told me.
But I looked anyway.
Because I’m weak like that.
And there it was.
Me.
Her.
Talia.
Naked, writhing, drenched in sweat and sin, her voice raw and broken as she begged me to keep going.
I remember the way the room spun. The way my knees nearly gave out.
Lydia’s voice was soft when she finally spoke.
“This is what you threw everything away for?” she asked, tilting her head, feigning curiosity. “She sounds so desperate, doesn’t she?”
I couldn’t move.
Couldn’t breathe.
“And the best part?” She leaned in, close enough her perfume nearly choked me. “Now she hates you and you’re stuck with me.”
Her smile widened.
I flinched.
She laughed.
It wasn’t loud—not that sharp, dramatic cackle she saves for dinner parties and public shows. No, this one was soft, low, meant only for me.
A private victory.
“She’ll never look at you the same way again,” she murmured, her lips grazing the shell of my ear. “You killed it, Nate. Whatever little fantasy she built around you—whatever pathetic little dream she had—it’s gone now.”
I was shaking.
My hands curled into fists at my sides, knuckles burning white, my breath shallow and ragged.
Lydia’s voice dropped lower, smug and poisonous.
“And you know what the funniest part is?” she whispered. “I didn’t even have to lift a finger.”
She pulled back, her eyes glittering with malice.
“You did it all by yourself.”
That’s when she walked away.
Calm. Graceful. Like she hadn’t just ripped out my spine and left it bleeding on the kitchen floor.
I don’t know how long I stood there after she was gone.
Long enough for the ice in my veins to thaw into rage.
Long enough to realize that it wasn’t just her I hated—it was myself.
Because she was right.
I ended it.
I gutted her.
I looked Talia in the eye and shattered her on purpose.
I was the one who walked out, leaving her in that room, to save my own fucking ass.
That wasn’t Lydia’s doing.
That was me.
All fucking me.
I shoved her away.
I broke her.
And I’d never hated myself more.
