I tapped into the group chat–and nearly dropped the phone.
Pinned at the top was a photo of a scheduling chart.
My schedule.
Each date was labeled with a different name.
“Hey Brandon, when’s Rachel’s next slot? The guys are getting impatient.”
“Right? With a body like that, I’d be first in line for a monthly VIP.”
Their vile comments turned my brain to static. I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.
Humiliation washed over me in waves, violent and relentless,
And then, a new message popped up.
It was from Madison.
“Hey boys, I’m finally back in town! Brandon booked out the entire Rosewood Elite Club tonight to celebrate–don’t miss it. There’s gonna be a surprise ;)”
Attached to it… was a photo.
The second I saw it, the world tilted. My knees nearly gave out.
It was me.
A photo taken without my knowledge. Dressed, posed–no, displayed–like some obedient pet.
The words “Good Girl” were scrawled over it in bold, mocking letters.
A sharp, gut–deep chill settled over me. My instincts screamed.
I grabbed my own phone and started copying everything. Every message, every image.
I was about to call the police when a voice sounded behind me.
“Babe, you’re shaking. Are you cold?”
Brandon’s voice. Way too soft. Too sweet.
He dr
draped a blanket over my shoulders before I could even turn around.
I quickly shut off my phone and slid it back into my pocket.
“It’s been chilly lately. You’re pregnant, you need to stay warm,” he added, his concern so fake it
made my skin crawl.
“I booked out the Rosewood Elite Club for Madison’s welcome back party. Make sure you dress
nice.”
At the mention of that place, my stomach turned. I stiffened, my expression icing over.
“I’m not feeling well. I think I’ll sit this one out.”
His smile vanished instantly.
“Madison suffered enough overseas because you forced her to leave. She’s forgiven you you’re bailing on her celebration?”
“She just got back, Rachel. Don’t make things difficult. You’re going. That’s final.”
and now
He didn’t wait for a response. Just grabbed my wrist and dragged me out the door–ignoring my
protest, my size,
my very pregnancy.
The moment we stepped into the club, all eyes locked on me.
There was something in those stares–glee, amusement, something darker. Like they were all in on some twisted joke.
“Look who finally showed up. The star of the night.”
Madison’s voice rang out, syrupy and smug.
She grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the center of the dance floor.
I looked her square in the face, my tone flat. “Isn’t tonight about you?”
Madison gave a dainty little laugh, covering her mouth in mock modesty.
“Oh, come on. You’re the raeal star tonight. You’ve got guys lining up for a shot at you, don’t you know?”
Her words echoed in my head–along with that sickening image of the schedule.
My fists clenched at my sides.
“I’m not feeling well. I’m going home.
It felt like I was standing there naked, exposed in front of a crowd. Humiliation crawled all over n skin. I just wanted to disappear.
I turned to leave–but Madison stepped in front of me.
“Did I say something wrong?” she asked, pouting “If I upset you, I’m really sorry, Rachel.”
She raised a glass of champagne, eyes gleaming with fake remorse.
Brandon swooped in, snatching the drink from her hand.
“You’re on your period. You shouldn’t be drinking.”
And then he turned and held the same glass out to me.
“Rachel,” he said, voice sharp, “I let that whole ‘you forced Madison out‘ thing go. But it’s her party tonight–what kind of face are you pulling?”
“Drink the champagne. Consider it your apology.”
