When this month's 50 thousand dollar allowance hit my account, I was busy organizing the documents I'd need for the trip back home.

My friend, Velma Wade, looked hesitant. "Rebecca, are you sure about heading back after graduation to get married? What if Christopher finds out? Do you think he'd storm back and hunt you down?"

I paused for a moment, then replied calmly, "He won't."

Christopher was always extraordinarily generous to any sugar baby who suggested parting ways. He never looked back, and he certainly never recycled old flames.

Once I was back home, he'd forget me in a heartbeat and swiftly replace me with another docile doll.

"Alright then," Velma sighed. "When are you leaving?"

I forced a smile. "In a month."

A month later, myone-yearcontract with Christopher would expire. And after that, there would be no renewal.

ThenI'd embark on a brand-new life. I'd change my name, relocate to a different city, and erase Christopher from my memory.

I'd leave the UK—and everything about it—behind. I'd be myself again, nothing more, nothing less.

London was doing its usual moody drizzle when I left the Wilkins Building.

I popped my umbrella and trudged back to the flat. There, by my door, another umbrella propped casually against the wall.

Recognizing who it belonged to, I froze—Christopher was here.

For a second, it felt as if my heart melted into the rain.

I squeezed the folders until the edges bit my palms, then eased the door open.

Golden light spilled across the threshold.

Christopher stood at the stove, back to me, the low bulb carving shadows along his tallframe. Even from here, I could trace the hard line of his jaw.

I drank him in for three heartbeats, then stepped inside. Plastering on a radiant smile, I wrapped my arms around his lean waist from behind.

"You haven't been home for nineteen days," I murmured. "You used to come back every fifteen."

It was a calculated pout. I knew sugar daddies liked to feel missed.

Usually, he'd turn with a smirk, teasingly asking if I was short on cash again.

But this time, Christopher just slid the filet mignon onto a plate, his voice cool and detached. "Eat up, then go shower."

I blinked, confused. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that his sleeves were shoved to the elbow; a raw, scabbed-over bite mark glared from his wrist. The wound was crusted over with a thick scab—it looked vicious, like someone had sunk their teeth in deep.

I swallowed whatever I'd been about to say, let go, and ate in silence. When the plate was clean, I drifted to the bathroom like a good girl.

Under the shower, the woody shampoo curled into my lungs.

It was the exact samescent as the day we first met.

Outside, heavy rain pattered against the windowpane in a rhythmic tattoo.

My thoughts drifted with the downpour, pulling me back tothe night everything began.

It had been my lowest point.

Four years ago, I'd taken the SAT.

My mom had never given a damn about my grades, but that morning, she tucked a "good luck" note into my pencil case. That slip became evidence of cheating, invalidating all my scores.

When I confronted her, she wept, insisting it was for my own good—a blessing, she claimed. Sheacted like shecouldn't fathom why I'd blame her.

I almost laughed because of the sheer absurdity.

She'd always favored Lorraine, my younger sister. Everything I usedwas Lorraine's hand-me-downs.

Yet for the SAT, her so-called blessing went to me instead of Lorraine. How ironic was that?

Thanks to her, I—who could've attended the best universities—wasbranded a cheater, the butt of everyone's jokes.

When I said I wanted to retake the test, my mom wailed in front of everyone in the neighborhood, begging me not to.

"Lorraine's tuition at the art academy is so expensive. We're broke! Please, forget about it for her sake!

"I've already talked to your aunt. You can work at her factory. It's a stable life. I'm securing a future for you."

My once-bright future was crushed beneath the weight of her so-called love. Now, she said she was securing a future for me?

Refusing to give up, I cashed every dime from part-time jobs, bought a one-way ticket, and vanished to the UK for further studies.

My mom had always wielded guilt like a weapon to force my compliance. But when she realized she could no longer control me with that, her mask slipped. Over the phone, she screamed, cursed, and swore she'dcut me off for good.

To survive, I devoted every moment outside class to jobs. Some nights I went to bed hungry, but I held on, determined to finish my studies.

Then one night, I was mugged on my way home. I fought desperately to keep my meager savings, only to end up battered and bruised.

What little I had left wouldn't even cover next month's rent.

After much hesitation, I called my mom, pleading for some money to make it through this month. But she sobbed, "You made your own choices, so don't expect me to clean up your mess if it all blows up."

That was the first time I broke down.

Working myself to exhaustion without sleep hadn't made me cry. Getting beaten in an alley hadn't made me cry. But that phone call shattered me completely.

Here, for penniless international students like me, extra cash meant either scholarships or finding a sugar daddy.

On the day the landlord demanded rent, I scraped together my last pennies for the most alluring, seductive makeover I could afford. Then, I askedmy senior, Velma, to take me to one of those late-night parties, the kind where rich men hunted for new toys.

There, in the heart of the crowd, I spotted him—the man everyone fawned over, bending over backward to please.

I didn't recall exactly how I approached. All I remember was how I'd kneel before Christopher, close enough for his hand to brush against the vulnerable curve of my neck.

Under the kaleidoscopic lights, he narrowed his eyes at me, then let out a mocking chuckle...

Suddenly, a crack of thunder ripped through the air.

The boom ripped me out of the past.

I killed the water and stumbled out of the bathroom, my heart pounding wildly.

The bedroom was shrouded in darkness, lit only by the faint glow seeping from the headboard lamp.

Christopher stood by the window, staring quietly at the sheets of rain outside.

The warm light softened the edges of the room, but it did nothing to thaw the icy sharpness of his features. He still looked every bit the aloof, untouchable king he was.

I watched him in silence. Even after three years together, I still knew there was a distance between us that I would never be able to cross.

I had no clue just how loaded the Hendersons were.

But those so-called "big shots" other girls bragged about as their sugar daddies turned into simpering yes-men the moment Christopher walked into a room.

While I was lost in thought, his low, detached voice cut through the air. "Come here."

I obeyed without hesitation, and in the next breath, he yanked me onto the bed.

Tonight, Christopher was restless, feral almost.

He fucked me like a man possessed, thrusting deep and mercilessly.

I bit down hard on my lip until I tasted copper, my face draining of color, but I didn't dare make a sound.

A cold smirk curled his lips. "You're not even going to ask about the bite mark? Or why I'm pissed off?"

I forced a smile through the ache, looping my arms around his neck and pressing my lips against his.

"As long as you're happy," I whispered against his mouth, "nothing else matters."

In the early days, I'd been too naive to tell lust from love. Back then, I'd convinced myself his indulgence meant he cared.

The first time he'd been this rough, I'd sulked and snapped at him, "Christopher, that's too much—you're being an asshole!"

But he hadn't melted me with his usual sweet talk. Instead, he'd stubbed out his cigarette with deliberate calm and said, "Don't like it? Then get the fuck out."

The second time it happened, I didn't dare accuse him. Trembling, I'd begged him to stop.

He'd just pinned me down harder. "Shut up and take it," he'd said.

After that, I learned my lesson.

I realized I was nothing more than his pet—a pampered toy when he was in a good mood, a punching bag when he wasn't.

And toys got discarded when the shine wore off.

But I wasn't made of plastic. I had my own plans. And now, I was the one walking away first.

I clung to him tighter, losing myself in the raw, punishing rhythm of our bodies slamming together, yet a single, involuntary tear slipped from the corner of my eye.

When I woke the next morning, Christopher was already gone.

Because of his business, he spent half of each month in Washington, D.C. and the other half in London.

Among the international students who sugar dated, there was a group chat for sharing intel. When I opened my phone, hundreds of new messages flooded the screen overnight.

To my shock, half of them were tagging me.

Clicking in, I found a grainy, clearly covert video.

In the video, Christopher held a woman's hand. She bit his wrist hard, leaving deep marks. He flinched but didn't let go.

The way he looked at her... God, it was a gaze I'd never seen directed at me—raw devastation laced with aching tenderness.

His bodyguards lunged forward, but he barked at them to stand down.

Then, cupping her chin with unyielding force, he claimed her lips in a fierce, possessive kiss.

The clip cut off there.

I thought of the scabbed bite on his wrist from last night. My fingers tightened slowly around the phone.

The chat exploded.

"@Rebecca, better keep a tight leash on your man. First time we've ever seen someone bite Christopher and get kissed for it."

"He's not just any guy—he's a walking ATM worth 50 grand a month. Lose him, and how the hell are you gonna survive?"

"@Rebecca, want some bedroom tricks? I can teach you how to keep him interested in bed."

They pretended to fret over me, but really, they were all salivating for my downfall.

Velma texted privately, "You okay?"

I typed back, "I'm fine."

I'd long accepted it. A sugar baby should live in illusions, never peeking behind the curtain of their sugar daddy's real life.

Besides, I was leaving Christopher soon anyway.

Yet even as I thought that, I couldn't tear my eyes from the video. I replayed his gentle expression over and over until tears blurred everything into a haze.

With graduation looming, I'd been swamped lately.

One day, after picking up some materials from my professor, I hurried home through another bout of rain.

Huddled under my umbrella, I hurried toward the apartment, but just as I reached the door, the melodic strains of a piano drifted from inside.

I knew it wasn't Christopher. He never came home this early...

A flicker of surprise coursed through me as I pushed the door open. There, in the living room, sat a woman at the grand piano, her fingers dancing gracefully over the keys.

The soft, white glow of the lights bathed her face, illuminating a profile that matched the mystery woman in that video.

I froze in the doorway, rooted to the spot.

She heard the creak of the door and turned, the music halting abruptly in a lingering echo.

Up close, her features were delicate, almost fragile, like a porcelain princess in an oil painting.

But the second she opened her mouth, every trace of elegance shattered. "So you're the little pet Chris keeps in London?" she asked, her tone dripping with disdain.

My grip tightened on the umbrella handle until my knuckles blanched.

Still, I forced a polite smile. "Hello, I'm Rebecca Lloyd."

She didn't bother introducing herself and just waved a hand dismissively. "This piano's tuned to perfection. Chris must have pros coming by all the time, right?"

Her tone made it clear—she didn't see me as anyone worth acknowledging.

Biting back a retort, I replied evenly, "Yes, it's serviced regularly."

That piano was Christopher's sacred relic in this place—he had tuners at the door every month without fail.

When I'd first settled in, I figured he was a music lover, so I poured a whole year into lessons, dreaming of surprising him.

But the day I finally gathered the courage to play for him, he stormed over, grabbed me by the arm, and yanked me away from the keys.

"Who the hell do you think you are to touch this?" he'd barked.

It was the one and only time he'd unleashed his fury on me.

And now, the woman who apparently held that privilege was sitting right in front of me.

I stood there, watching her, waiting for whatever came next.

She only curved her lips into a faint smile, then turned away and started playing once more, ignoring me completely.

The music swelled, but it felt like a vice around my chest, squeezing until I could barely breathe.

Just then, the door swung open behind me.

Christopher strode in, freezing solid the instant he spotted her.

It took him a while to speak. "Quarreling with my brother again? He's your husband, after all—you..."

I reeled, the revelation hitting like a thunderbolt.

I hadn't expected this woman to be Christopher's sister-in-law.

She met his gaze, her tone dipping into quiet vulnerability. "Chris, do you really have to talk to me like that?"

Christopher's jaw tensed, a flicker of emotion breaking through his cold mask.

"When did you get here?" he asked finally, his voice low.

She didn't answer. Her face looked even paler now.

The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. Finally, Christopher sighed, his tone softening.

"You haven't eaten yet, have you?"

She shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. "I've been waiting for you."

Christopher shrugged off his suit jacket without another word and headed straight to the kitchen. "The usual, then—filet mignon with Merlot?"

I froze again, a bitter twist in my gut.

Filet mignon paired with Merlot—that was the exact dinner Christopher often prepared for me, a ritual that felt intimately ours.

Sugar Daddies rarely cooked for their sugar babies. I'd foolishly convinced myself it was his way of showing favoritism, a spark of genuine affection.

But no—it was her favorite, borrowed and bestowed upon me like a hand-me-down.

A sharp stab of pain lanced through my heart. Before I could process it, the woman turned and asked, "What about you? Hungry for anything?"

Christopher turned at her words.

It was the first time since he'd walked in that his gaze finally settled on my face.

I opened my mouth to decline, but before I could speak, his voice cut through like a blade. "Leave us."

I met his indifferent eyes, summoning every ounce of strength to force a casual smile.

"Sure, I'll head out and come back later."

But he didn't even let me have that.

"No need. Stay at a hotel for the next few days. I'll let you know when to return."

The color drained from my face, leaving me ashen.

After a long, hollow pause, I managed to choke out, "Okay."

I bowed my head and slipped out. The moment I crossed the threshold, a fierce gust slammed the door behind me with a resounding bang, echoing like a final verdict.

Warm, golden light spilled from the windows inside, a cozy haven. Outside, the rain pelted down like icy needles, stinging my skin.

Inside and out—it felt like two different worlds.

I lingered on the doorstep, soaked and small, feeling every bit as pathetic as I had three years ago when my landlord had booted me out into the night.

So this was how it ended. I was still the one being cast aside.