Freya's POV
I stepped out of the ballroom, and the rain hit me like a slap.
Relentless water soaked through the lace in seconds. The gown clung to my skin, heavy as guilt, the veil plastered across my face like a shroud. I didn’t run. I walked. One foot in front of the other, my heels sinking into the gravel as puddles pooled around my ankles.
Inside the ballroom, they were still screaming, crying, and filming.
But out here, it was just me and the storm.
And the pain.
God, the pain.
It wasn’t the kind that made you scream. It was a silent agony. The kind that settled in your chest and made every breath feel like swallowing glass.
Ten years.
Ten years of believing he loved me.
Ten years of being the loyal girl.
I thought about the nights I’d sat on his couch while he ranted about his dad, about how hard life was. I’d listened. I’d held him. I’d kissed his tears away when he cried over his mother. I’d cooked for him when he was broke. I’d spread my legs for him even when I was tired, even when it hurt, because I thought that was love.
I thought I was enough.
And he’d called me a ragdoll.
Lifeless. Used.
The words kept replaying. I wrapped my arms around myself, but nothing helped.
Mom would have known.
She would have seen through him. She would have held me and told me I deserved better. She would have brushed my hair back and said, "You are not invisible, Freya. You are fire."
But Mom was gone.
And Grandma—my bedridden Grandma—was all I had left. She’d be proud of me today. She’d have clapped her hands and said, "That’s my girl. Don’t let them break you."
Instead, I was walking alone in the storm, my dress ruined, my heart shattered. The two people who were supposed to love me most had laughed in my face.
I didn’t know where I was going.
I just kept walking.
The streetlights blurred through my tears. Cars honked. Someone yelled, but I didn’t hear it.
My mind was deafening.
He never loved me.
He used me.
Ten years… and I was just convenient.
The sobs came harder now. I couldn’t stop them. My chest ached. My throat burned. I felt pathetic.
I stepped off the curb without looking.
Headlights flared. Tires screeched against the asphalt.
I turned, but it was too late. My eyes widened as a car sped toward me.
The impact was sudden—a blinding pain in my hip, the world tilting, and then nothing.
Just black.
When I opened my eyes, the first thing I heard was rain drumming on the roof.
Not the wild roar anymore—something steady.
The second thing was the smell: clean linen, faint cedar, and male skin.
My body ached. My ribs throbbed, and my hip bruised, but I was mostly dry. The gown was still damp, clinging to my skin, but I was lying on a mattress. A blanket was half-pulled over me.
I blinked.
The room was masculine. Hardwood floors. Tall windows streaked with rain. A lamp cast an amber glow. It didn't have that sterile hotel vibe. This felt… lived-in.
Then I heard footsteps. They were heavy.
He stepped through the doorway, and my breath caught.
Early forties, maybe. Tall. Broad. Built like he used his body for more than sitting behind a desk. He wore no shirt, just low-slung trousers that hung on his hips, exposing the V-line that disappeared beneath his waistband. His abs were carved ridges that shifted with each breath. A trail of hair led from his chest down the center of his torso. Veins stood out along his forearms. His hair was damp, like he’d been out in the rain too.
God… he was handsome.
He radiated a dominant aura, like the room itself belonged to him.
He carried a towel in one hand and a T-shirt in the other.
His gaze met mine—unreadable.
“You’re awake.”
His voice was deep. Rough. The kind that vibrated low in your chest and settled right between your thighs.
It rolled over me like thunder.
And despite everything—the betrayal burning fresh, the ache in my ribs, the humiliation—my core clenched.
A shameful rush of heat flooded between my legs.
My pussy throbbed, growing instantly slick with arousal.
I pressed my thighs together beneath the damp gown, mortified.
What the hell is wrong with me?
How could I be thinking about this—about him—right now?
He was older.
And yet…
He didn’t seem to notice the chaos inside me. Or if he did, he didn’t react.
“You almost got yourself killed,” he said, stepping closer. “I saw the car clip you. I pulled over and carried you back here because my place was the closest shelter.”
He held out the towel.
“Dry off before you catch pneumonia.”
I sat up, wincing. The movement made the wet fabric shift against my nipples, hardening them into tight peaks. I took the towel with trembling fingers, clutching it to my chest like armor.
“Thank you,” I whispered. My voice cracked.
He nodded once, tossing the T-shirt onto the mattress.
“Bathroom’s through there. Change. I’ll get you something hot to drink.”
He turned to leave, his muscles flexing across his back. I watched the play of his shoulders, the way his trousers rode low enough to show the dimples at the base of his spine.
Another pulse of wet heat surged through my slit.
I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood.
“Wait,” I called out desperately.
He paused in the doorway, glancing back. One brow lifted.
I didn’t know what I wanted to say.
Don’t go. Touch me. Fuck my tight pussy. Make me forget.
Instead, I just stared at him, my cheeks burning, my thighs slick beneath the ruined gown.
His gaze dropped deliberately, taking in the way the wet dress molded to my curves. He stared at the hard peaks of my nipples visible through the lace, watching the rapid rise and fall of my chest.
Something flickered in his eyes.
It wasn't pity. It was hunger.
“Change,” he repeated, his voice even deeper now, edged with something dangerous. “We’ll talk after.”
Then he was gone, leaving me alone with the pounding rain, the throbbing ache deep inside my cunt, and the terrifying realization that heartbreak hadn’t killed my desire.
It had only redirected it.
Straight toward the stranger who’d just saved my life.
I sat there for a moment, the towel clutched to my chest as my heart hammered.
Then my eyes drifted to the nightstand.
A framed photo sat there.
Three people.
A younger Dylan—maybe twenty—grinning.
His late mother, laughing.
And the man who’d just left the room, his arms around them both, smiling like he belonged there.
My breath caught.
That was Dylan’s stepfather.
Ryder Hawthorne.
The man I’d just spent the last ten minutes thinking filthy thoughts about.
I stared at the photo, at Ryder’s face, younger but already carrying that same dominance.
A reckless thought slipped into my mind.
I got back at Helene tonight.
But Dylan?
He walked away thinking he won.
He called me a ragdoll.
Maybe… maybe I should show him what a ragdoll can do when she finally wakes up.
I looked toward the doorway where Ryder had disappeared.
My pulse thundered in my ears.
For the first time since I walked in on them, I didn’t feel broken.
I felt dangerous.
I'm gonna seduce this man. I'm gonna let him stretch my pussy out, so when Dylan comes home and sees me riding his stepfather's cock…
Oh my God. His expression would be pure satisfaction.