Alexia – POV
He didn't make love to me.
He fucked me.
At the counter. Hard. Ruthless. Like I was just a body. A hole. A thing to pour his hatred into.
I don't know what hurt more—the way he took me like I was nothing, or the way I let him. Craved it. Welcomed it. Because for just those few minutes, he touched me like I still mattered. Like I was still his.
But it wasn't love. God, no.
He never kissed me like he used to. Never whispered my name like it meant anything. He gripped me, used me, and came inside me like a man possessed. And then tossed me aside like trash.
"That meant nothing," he'd said.
The words hit harder than any slap.
I stood there for what felt like hours after he left the kitchen. My legs still shaking. My thighs sticky. My heart—shattered.
I wasn't a fool. I knew the difference. Knew that wasn't passion or tenderness. That was punishment. A reminder. Of who he thought I was. Of who I used to be.
And maybe I deserved it.
Maybe this was the price.
