And now those memories are lodged in my brain like shrapnel, cutting me every time I close my eyes.
I need them gone. I need them replaced. I need something to think about besides Kozlov's hands and his satisfied grunt and the feeling of being completely powerless while strange men looked at me.
Somehow, some way, I need to reclaim what was taken from me.
The thought crystallizes slowly, taking shape in the darkness. I can't undo what happened. Can't erase those memories or that trauma.
But maybe I can overwrite them.
Maybe I can replace the memory of violation with something I choose, something consensual, something that proves my body still belongs to me.
Maybe I can take back what they tried to steal.
And there's only one person I trust enough to help me do that.
The man who came home covered in blood because he made Al-Zahrani suffer for thinking he could own me. The man who's been trying so hard to give me space and choice and normalcy even though every instinct he has screams to control and protect.
The man who trained me for other men's pleasure while it killed him to do it.
The man who stood outside my door tonight and walked away instead of knocking.
Renato.
I sit up in bed, my heart pounding as I process what I'm considering. Going to him. Asking him to touch me the way hetaught me to be touched. Letting him help me rewrite those terrible memories with something better.
It's fucked up. Psychologically complicated. Probably a terrible idea by any therapeutic standard.
But therapy isn't what I need right now.
I need his hands to replace the memory of Kozlov's hands. Need his eyes looking at me like I'm precious instead of purchased. Need to feel powerful and chosen instead of powerless and owned.
Need to prove to myself that what happened in that salon doesn't define what a man’s touch means to me.
I stand up before I can talk myself out of it, my bare feet silent on the marble floor. I'm wearing simple pajamas. Cotton shorts and a tank top, nothing seductive. This is about taking back what's mine.
My body. My choices. My new memories.
The hallway is dark and silent as I pad toward his room. Every step feels momentous, like I'm walking toward something I can't take back. But maybe that's the point. Maybe some things shouldn't be taken back.
Maybe some things need to be walked toward with open eyes and full awareness of what they mean.
I stop outside his door, my hand raised to knock. But knocking feels wrong somehow. Too formal. This needs to be simple. Direct. A choice I'm making without overthinking it.
I turn the handle and push the door open slowly.
His room is dark except for moonlight streaming through the windows overlooking the lake. He's in bed but not asleep, lying on his back staring at the ceiling. When he hears the door, hishead turns and he sees me standing there in the moonlight. He goes completely still.
"Camilla?" His voice is rough and wary. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"
I don't answer with words. Instead, I walk to the side of his bed, my hands shaking slightly but my resolve steady.
"I need something from you," I say quietly.
He sits up immediately, concern flickering across his face. "What do you need? Are you hurt? Did something happen?"
"I need you to help me forget."
"Forget what?"
