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I’ve made you breakfast, finish it or I won’t let you finish.

That usually does it.

I might have collected them, stacking the little bundle of pink notes in my suitcase.

Even though I hate pink.

When he first left and I forgot to eat, he glared at me once, beckoning me over and spanked some sense into me, leaving me on the verge of crying.

He made me sit on his lap as I finished the food and only moved when I was done.

He tortured me all day, making me chase my climax countless times and stopping right before I could come.

That was not very fun.

He didn’t let me come that day…or night.

I never forgot after that. Partly because the punishment was too cruel but mostly because when I finished the food the next day, he almost smiled and dropped a sweet gentle kiss on my forehead. Calling me his good girl.

So what if I seek his validation? Sue me.

That night he also worshipped my body, and made me cum five times, or something like that because at one point I stopped counting.

We rarely fuck during the day, because of school and also since it’s become an unwritten rule that no curtains will be closed during the day ever since he hid the remote from me one morning.

That was his silent defiance, probing me to open up to him. I didn’t.

Every night he would come over after switching the lights off, and attacks my body, some days he is gentle but some days he’s so rough as if almost angry.

I know he’s unhappy with me hiding my body from him, but he’s never once forced me. Not once.

Instead, he only mentions how perfect I am. As if trying to make me fall in love with myself.

The first week, I had nightmares every night, and he was always there to chase them away.

He’d hold me, kiss me, tell me how strong I was, fingers soft in my hair—never once complaining when I woke him in the middle of the night.

The second week, there were only three. The numbers kept falling, and this week, I didn’t wake up screaming even once.

For the first time in a long time, it feels like he has inked the next chapters of my life white and I think he is healing something in me, but I’m not a fool.

While I always wonder when he’s going to discard me, I also regret that the clock is ticking.

I have just one month left and I need all of him, everything he can offer because I’ve turned greedy.

I tried to leave the penthouse once, but he gently shook his head. “Oh! Someone broke your door again, baby. Let me get that fixed and then you can go.”

The next week I half-heartedly tried again, to which he replied. “Baby, don’t.”

“Why?”

“The penthouse finally got used to you. It gets separation anxiety.”

And then I stopped trying altogether—for the penthouse’s sake, of course.

Who was I kidding? I loved it here.

He also loves to call me baby whenever he’s in a good mood. He calls me solnyshko when he’s serious, and malyshka when he fucks me and loses all the battles with English.