The lights shimmered over glass and perfume. The hotel rooftop was high-end, no velvet ropes, no loud bass—just whispered jazz and the clink of ice in hundred-dollar tumblers.
Maya's mother leaned against the bar in a tailored black dress, all legs and tension. She shouldn't have come. But there she was, smiling for people who didn't matter, sipping whiskey to stay grounded.
The first glass warmed her stomach. The second made her forget why she felt so empty.
A third arrived without request.
"Compliments of the house," the bartender said smoothly.
She raised a brow, but didn't ask questions. The drink sat there like a small indulgence. Familiar brand. Rich amber color. She picked it up. Took a sip.
Didn't taste off. Just stronger. A bite that clawed through her throat and bloomed behind her eyes.
Her fingers curled tighter around the glass.
Ten minutes later, something shifted. The voices around her blurred into soft static. Lights bled into long smears. Her own breathing grew louder in her ears.
She touched her temple. Tried to steady herself on the bar.
And then she saw him.
Just a flicker at first—reflected in the mirror behind the shelves. Standing at the far side of the room. Not dressed like the others. Not trying to blend in.
Vic.
Panic flashed across her face. Her knees wobbled.
He wasn't supposed to be here. This was her world. Adults, power, expensive silence.
He was just a kid. A high school boy. Her daughter's age. Her daughter's—
Her vision doubled. She blinked, but he didn't disappear.
She turned, but her heel caught the edge of the stool. Her body fell sideways into someone—no, him. Arms caught her. Steady. Too steady.
"Shh. You're alright," he whispered like a friend, like a lover, like something worse.
She tried to speak. Tried to push him away.
The room tilted.
The walls pulled back.
And Vic's voice followed her into the dark.
Soft linen. Cold air against bare skin. The weight of something wrong pressing down on her before her eyes even opened.
She woke up in silk sheets.
Disoriented. Nauseated. Her mouth dry as dust.
And then she turned her head.
Vic was there.
Lying beside her, shirtless. One arm behind his head, like he belonged there. A slow grin spreading across his face.
"Morning," he said, voice low and sticky.
She sat up fast, clutching the sheet to her chest. "What the—what did you—"
"You don't remember?" His eyes flicked to her neck. "You were wild last night."
"No," she snapped. "No, no, I didn't—I didn't—this didn't happen."
Vic rolled toward her, propping himself on one elbow. "You wanted it, remember? Told me I made you feel alive. Told me not to stop."
Her stomach turned. "Shut up."
"You kissed me first," he whispered, almost like it was a compliment. "You begged."
"I'm calling the police." She scrambled for her phone.
It wasn't there.
He laughed, soft and pitiful. "Come on. We're both adults. I didn't force you."
"You're a child."
His gaze sharpened. "Doesn't matter what I am. What matters is what it looks like."
And then he reached over to the nightstand.
Pulled out a phone.
Opened the gallery.
Photo after photo.
Her body tangled in sheets. Her lipstick smudged. Her eyes half-closed. Him next to her, touching her cheek, his shirt open, one hand resting just a little too low on her back.
She gasped.
He didn't flinch. "You want these to stay between us? You'll listen."
"You're disgusting."
Vic's grin widened, wolfish. "You're mine now."
The days after that night felt like a fog Maya's mother couldn't escape. Vic's presence loomed over her like a shadow that refused to fade. The texts started almost immediately, relentless and insistent.
"I know what happened. Don't pretend it didn't."
A few words, but they felt like daggers in her chest. The messages kept coming—always with the same threat, always demanding compliance. The photos from that night. Her secrets.
She wanted to block him, to pretend it hadn't happened. But she couldn't. She knew what Vic was capable of.
The messages became more frequent. More forceful.
"I won't forget about you. I'll make sure the truth comes out."
She felt cornered, suffocated, every moment reminding her of the lie she was trapped in. The life she had built, was suddenly hanging by a thread. If Vic exposed her, she knew she'd lose everything. And he knew it too.
The pressure didn't let up. He showed up unannounced, standing outside her house, in places she couldn't avoid. Each time he asked for more—another dinner, another moment of pretending they were something they weren't. He wanted her to comply, to keep up appearances. He wanted to see her bend under the weight of his control.
And every time, she did.
Meanwhile, Maya was living in a different kind of torment. Trauma from the accident still clung to her like a second skin. But, for a brief moment, Sally and Zeke invited her out—just a simple trip to the mall, a chance to feel normal again.
She agreed, hoping for an escape from the heaviness. Eddie came with her, ever-present, as they spent a few lighthearted hours wandering around, eating, laughing—anything to push the dark thoughts away. For a moment, it felt like a life she could still touch, a life she could still be part of.
But as they approached the restaurant, everything shattered.
Through the glass, Maya froze. Her stomach dropped as she saw her mother sitting across from Vic. Her hand, scandalously, was on his. She couldn't breathe.
Vic looked up, locking eyes with her, a smile curling on his lips. He didn't move, didn't flinch, just smirked as if he owned the world.
Before she could process, Sally grabbed her arm. "Maya, let's go."
But it was too late. Maya couldn't turn away. She stormed into the restaurant, her fury and betrayal fueling every step.
"MOM! What the hell is this?" Maya shouted, her voice cracking with the weight of everything she'd been holding back.
Her mother jumped, face flushed with panic. "Maya, I—I can explain—"
"No, you can't! What the hell are you doing with him?"
Vic, calm as ever, leaned back in his chair with an almost bored expression. "Maya, don't make this harder than it needs to be. It's just dinner."
Her mother's desperation was palpable. She shot a look at Vic, then back to Maya, her voice trembling. "You don't know what you're talking about."
Maya's heart raced as the words rang in her ears. What am I not understanding?
Before she could say another word, her mother slapped her. Hard. The sting burned across her cheek.
Vic sat there, watching, a look of feigned innocence. "I think this is a private matter, don't you?"
Maya could feel her world crumbling. It wasn't just the slap. It wasn't just the betrayal. It was the realization that her mother had chosen Vic over her. Over everything.
In the car, Maya couldn't find the words. She stared ahead, numb, as Eddie gripped the wheel.
The rage in his eyes spoke volumes, but he said nothing.
Maya was a shell, empty and hollow. She didn't know what was worse—the slap or the silence that followed it.