Betty
After dinner, Marcus followed me upstairs. His footsteps were slower than usual, like he wasn’t sure this was allowed. When we reached my door, he paused—hands in his pockets, shoulders tense like a storm was brewing in his chest.
I rolled my eyes, grabbed the sleeve of his hoodie, and pulled him inside.
“Come on,” I murmured. “You earned it.”
We were supposed to study. Review slides. Something productive. We even made it to the bed—sitting side by side, laptops open, presentations pulled up. But his thigh brushed mine. And stayed there. Firm. Warm.
I felt the air shift before he even looked at me.
“You sure we’re still talking about blood flow?” I teased, voice soft, breath catching in my throat.
He turned his head. His gaze pinned me—smoky, heavy, hungry. “Honestly? Not at all.”
His hand came up, slow but certain, fingers brushing my cheek. I didn’t stop him.
This time, I kissed him first.
It was soft at first—testing, like we were still pretending this was innocent. But then his lips parted. Then mine. Then he tilted his head and pulled me closer, and the heat hit like a fuse catching flame.
My fingers curled in his shirt. He groaned, deep in his throat, and shifted forward, pressing me back into the pillows. His mouth found mine again, more urgent now, more real. His hand slid beneath my shirt, fingers skimming up my stomach—leisurely, like he wanted to memorize every inch.
I arched into his touch.
His lips found my throat. “Say the word,” he whispered, breath hot against my skin. “And I’ll stop.”
My heart hammered. “We said slow.”
He pulled back just enough to smirk. “Then I’ll take my sweet, sweet time.”
He dipped lower, kissing a trail down my neck. My shirt rose with every inch he claimed, exposing more skin, more heat. I moaned—soft, broken. My hands dragged through his hair, pulling him closer.
“I’m not going to survive slow,” I breathed.
“Guess we’ll find out,” he said, voice ragged. His hand slid down between my thighs—over jeans, not yet inside, but enough to make my back arch.
I gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. “Marcus—”
He kissed me again, hard. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want—” I didn’t get to finish.
My phone buzzed, sharp and obnoxious, cutting through the moment like ice water.
“Leave it,” he murmured against my mouth.
I almost did.
Until I saw the notification light up the screen:
@StaceyRules just posted: ‘Some fairy tales are built on lies. 🎥💔 #MarcusMitchell #Receipts’
I froze.
My fingers moved before my brain caught up.
I tapped the notification.
And the video played.
Marcus’s voice.
Harry’s voice.
“You don’t need to be in love with her. Just get her father on board.”
Then the camera panned to Marcus.
His jaw. His silence.
No denial. No protest.
The heat between us vanished like it had never been there.
I pulled away slowly, heart pounding for an entirely different reason now.
“Betty?” Marcus said, breathless. His hands were still on my waist. “What is it?”
I didn’t speak. I just turned the screen toward him.
He watched.
I saw the blood drain from his face.
“She had it,” he whispered. “She recorded it… I didn’t know—”
“Is it real?” I asked, my voice like glass cracking.
His mouth opened. “I didn’t mean it like that. I told him I didn’t want to—”
I stepped back.
He reached for me.
“Don’t,” I said, sharper than I meant to. My shirt was still pushed up. My body still hummed with the ghost of him.
But none of it mattered now.
He stared at me for one second longer—guilt, panic, regret—then turned.
And walked out of my room.
This time, I didn’t stop him.
And this time, the silence didn’t feel like heat.
It felt like betrayal.