They grin in their separate frames, and even April claps her chubby hands like she’s in on the plan. I know that look too well,the one that tells you once they decide on something, there’s no stopping them. Being Mafia brats has made them fearless, entitled, and somehow impossibly loyal. I wouldn’t change them for the world though.
Once we hang up, the silence feels different. Softer, but charged.
I lean back in my chair and glance at the lace piece I’ve been working on, fingers ghosting over the delicate trim. It’s designed to contour the curves of my body, each line calculated to tease and command. It’s the kind of thing Jen would have hated.
If she could see me now—threading lace through a sewing machine with a thigh slit daring the world to look—she’d probably curl her lip and tell me I looked like a fat whore.
And maybe I do.
But I’ve never felt more in control, more worshipped than I do now.
Because the same body she tried to shrink, the curves she resented and punished, are the very things that pay my rent, fund my future, and keep me free. Much to her disdain, I love every single inch of me, and I refuse to ever hide parts of myself to become what society wants. Every stitch in this design is a quiet rebellion against her, and my only regret is that she isn’t alive to see it.
As much as I detest alarms, when my phone buzzes hours later, I’m glad I set one. I was so wrapped up in my design process that I lost all sense of time, and tonight’s stream is one I can’t afford to be late for or rush.
Because ghosts have a way of finding you, no matter how far you run.
And sometimes, revenge doesn’t look like bullets or blood. Sometimes it looks like turning the man who broke you into your biggest fan.
Tonight it’s not just about getting him off. It’s about making himfeelme. About haunting him until I’m all he can think about in the dark hours before dawn.
I tie my hair into soft pigtails, adding little white bows. A touch of gloss, and a coat of mascara. Slipping the white lace mask into place and looping the silk ties behind my head, under my pigtails, completes the look.
When Matt logs on tonight and sees me in my old school uniform, I want him to feel like he’s been dragged back four years into the past. I want him to remember how it felt to peel this blouse off my shoulders, to push up my pleated skirt, and lose himself in me. I want him to choke on the memories of us sneaking around behind our parents’ backs, slipping into each other’s rooms, pretending we couldn’t sleep.
I want him to rememberexactlywhat he threw away, and know it’s the one thing he’ll never touch again.
And if the uniform is verging on indecent these days? Well, all the better. Let the hem flirt with danger. Let the buttons strain with intention. Let every inch of me echo the version of myself he never had the courage to claim publicly.
Going through the motions helps halt my spiralling thoughts, at least for a while. Setting up my camera, flicking on the ring light, checking my angles—each step is mechanical, grounding, something my hands understand even when my head is a mess. For a few minutes, the routine is enough to keep me steady.
But once I’ve logged in, once it’s just me and the blank screen waiting for me to become whoever he wants me to be tonight, thesilence turns thick and heavy. It leaves too much room for the thoughts I’ve spent all day outrunning.
I close my eyes, inhale until my lungs ache, and force my heartbeat into something resembling calm before unwrapping a red lollipop. I straighten my shoulders, lift my chin, and pull the version of myself I need from the wreckage of the girl underneath.
Then I repeat the mantra I’ve told myself a thousand times:
This isn’t about him. It’s about power. It’s about control.
But when the feed goes live, and I see his name appear, all thoughts of power and control come to a crashing halt as anticipation takes over.
BegForMe:Fucking hell.
BegForMe:You’re trouble, you know that?
I shift forward, thighs inching apart until the pleats of my skirt barely bother pretending to cover me. I drag the lollipop across my lower lip before sucking it between my teeth, eyes lifted coyly to the lens.
“Trouble?” I echo, letting the word purr out of me.
I twirl a strand of pink hair and smile a soft, sugary curve that hides every wicked thing I’m thinking. “Baby, I’m harmless.I’mthe one who should be scared.”
BegForMe:You don’t play fair, do you?
BegForMe:Does that taste good? Show me. Take it deeper.
I slip the red lollipop fully between my lips, hollowing my cheeks and swirling my tongue around it before pulling it free with a slick pop and dragging it down the valley between my breasts until the fabric clings, transparent and sticky, to my skin.
And for a second, I imagine it’s his tongue touching me instead.
