It's about us.
She hasn't changed a single detail except the names. The protagonist is "Violet." The stalker is "James."
James has cameras in Violet's apartment. James hacked her laptop. James read all her stories before she published them. James killed her abusive ex-boyfriend with his bare hands.
James tattooed Violet's face across his entire torso before they ever met.
Every scene I recognize. Every confession she puts in Violet's mouth is something Scarletta said to me in that playroom. Every dark fantasy James enacts is something I did to her on that exam table, in those restraints, with my fingers buried inside her pussy.
She's writing our story. Fictionalizing it just enough to publish eventually, maybe. Or maybe this one stays private forever—her way of processing what happened between us.
Her way of telling me she understood exactly what I was doing and wanted it anyway.
On DarkDesires, her readers are losing their minds.
ScarletSins where are you???
It's been 7 weeks since "Confession" posted. Are you okay??
Did something happen to her? Should we be worried?
She always posts at least once a week. This isn't like her.
I've been monitoring the forum obsessively. Watching strangers worry about her disappearance. Watching them speculate.
One commenter—usernameDevotedReader88—posts every single day asking if anyone's heard from her.
I know it's not actually concern. It's entitlement. They want their content. Their free emotional labor. Their parasocial connection to a woman whose real name they don't even know.
But Scarletta isn't writing for them anymore.
She's writing for me.
Her bank account tells a different story than the woman on screen touching herself in my clothes.
I pull up the monitoring software tracking her finances. Chase checking account ending in 4738. Current balance: $6,247.83.
Seven weeks ago, on December 26th, the day after I dropped her off, the balance read $45,047.32.
She burned through thirty-nine thousand dollars in less than two months.
Not shopping sprees. Not vacations. Not the kind of frivolous spending you'd expect from someone who just made more money than she'd ever seen.
She paid her landlord first—one lump sum clearing four months of back rent plus three months forward. Then the utility companies that had sent final notices. Internet, power, water. The parking tickets that had threatened collections. The two maxed-out credit cards that had been accruing interest at twenty-three percent—she paid them to zero and then immediately cut them up.
The student loans got a massive payment. Not enough to kill them entirely, but enough to move her out of default status. Enough to stop the threatening letters. The car payment—she'd been two months behind—caught up and pushed ahead by one.
The rest leaked away in small amounts. Coffee shops. Gas. Groceries. Normal human expenses for someone who'd been operating on empty for months.
She paid off everything she could.
Responsible. Practical. Deeply fucking depressing.
This wasn't "fun money." This was damage control. Financial triage.
She climbed out of the hole just enough to see daylight but not enough to actually stand upright. Still underground. Still surviving, not living.
Still no job.
