As I waited for his reply, my fingers idly scrolled through our past messages.
Thousands of texts sent from me.
Barely a handful of replies from him—each one short, indifferent, dismissive.
I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror—a hollow smile on my lips, eyes dull with exhaustion.
With a bitter chuckle, I tossed my phone onto the seat.
Half an hour later, I arrived at his hotel room. In my hands was the lace lingerie he had purchased.
The first time he bought me something like this, I had been nervous, shy—but I hadn’t refused.
That night, I gave him everything.
And yet, as he moved above me, lost in pleasure, he moaned only one name.
Lisa.
I had lain awake beside him till dawn, silently crying as he slept.
From that night on, I never wore lingerie like this again.
But Christopher always had his ways.
If I refused, he’d simply make another woman wear it—then send me the pictures as casually as if he were saying good morning and good night.
A cruel game. One he played well.
The door swung open.
Christopher stood there in a loose bathrobe, smirking down at me. His eyes glinted with amusement.
“Hmm… You’re one minute late,” he drawled. “I’ll forgive you this time. But don’t be late again.”