A Legacy of Lies and Love

The door slammed shut with a deafening thud. Brent told her to head to the bathroom and take a quick shower. Without hesitation, she obeyed his command. The coldness of the water was biting, but she didn’t flinch—she welcomed it, letting the chill course over her skin.

He had also instructed her to wear the new lingerie she had bought that afternoon. It was a black lace bodysuit—linear-waisted, underwired, delicate yet bold. A piece chosen with him in mind.

Moments later, she stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a silk robe. Her skin carried the subtle sweetness of bergamot, the scent from the oil-based perfume she had misted over herself. As she toweled her hair dry, her mind drifted to how he might look at her—if he would be pleased, if she might finally appear to him the way she longed to be seen. She applied a bold red lipstick and slipped on a pair of oversized corrugated loop earrings, completing the look he favored: an alluring woman with a touch of disarray. That was how he liked her—beautiful, chaotic, almost broken.

It wasn’t just about the money anymore. She wanted him to want her. Deep down, she knew she’d never truly be enough for a man like Brent Collins. But still, she tried.

She sat before the mirror, making final adjustments to her appearance when he entered the room, a wine glass in hand. His presence was imposing, effortlessly commanding the space. Brent—her benefactor, her keeper, the man she could never reach.

She turned to him with a small, uncertain smile. “Have you eaten?” she asked gently. “Do you want me to cook something for you?”

He didn’t respond. His gaze was unreadable, distant. Silently, he finished his wine and placed the glass on the side table by the bed. Nervousness crept into her chest, and she fell quiet, resisting the urge to fill the silence.

He sat on the bed, his head tilted back, eyes fixed on the ceiling as though searching for answers she couldn’t give. She studied him, noticing the exhaustion etched into his face. Wanting to offer comfort, she moved toward him, reaching out to massage his shoulders. But before she could touch him, he pulled away, retreating to the window.

Then, in a cold, detached voice, he said, “Take off your robe. Now.”

She froze, startled. He hadn’t seemed in the mood—tonight felt different. Still, she did as he said. Slowly, she untied the silk ribbon around her waist and let the robe fall away, revealing herself to him piece by piece. She tried to allure him with her body, but he remained expressionless, his eyes locked on her with that same impassive stare.

She could never quite tell what he was thinking. But she always wanted to please him, believing that maybe—just maybe—if she tried hard enough, he might begin to care for her. Appreciate her.

Now standing in only the black lace lingerie, she let her long blonde hair down and met his gaze with a soft, seductive look. His stern expression didn’t waver. And yet, that serious, manly gaze always made her heart ache with longing. His mariner-blue eyes, indifferent and unshaken, held a power over her she couldn’t explain.

He approached her without a word and tugged down the strap of the bodysuit. She had hoped he would admire it, but he never did—he only ever wanted to take things off, to get straight to what he came for. No foreplay, no tenderness. Just need, urgency, and control.

From the beginning, she knew her place. She was never a lover, never a partner. She was a courtesan—a woman meant to give, not to receive. To please, not to be pleased. And though it hurt, though it burned quietly inside her, she kept giving herself to him. Not just for the money. For him. For the impossible hope that, someday, he might want her the way she wanted him.

A few moments later, they lay on the bed, their bodies tangled in silence. Brent was already on top of her, his weight pressing down, his thigh muscles tightening against hers as they moved in sync. The air was thick with tension and need.

He let out a strangled noise while she stifled a soft moan. Their foreheads met, her hands gently cupping his face, seeking closeness. But when she leaned in to kiss him, he turned away, dodging the intimacy, choosing instead to thrust harder. Moments later, he climaxed with a deep breath, then pulled away, separating himself from her as if nothing had passed between them.

This—this unspoken routine—was always how it ended. Detached. Emotionless. Mechanical. She had grown used to it, even if her heart still clenched with every cold withdrawal. For four years, their relationship had remained unchanged: she was his escape, his indulgence, a woman he visited for lust and nothing more. She had no say in the script. She could only play the part given to her.

As she quietly dressed again, Brent delivered his usual line, the one that never failed to sting.

“Don’t forget to take the pills. I don’t want you getting pregnant. You're not the kind of woman I’d want to be the mother of my child.”

She smiled faintly, concealing the ache in her chest. “Don’t worry,” she replied, voice hollow. “I never forget.”

He stood, buttoned his shirt, and lit a cigarette. The room filled with the scent of smoke as he walked toward the window, staring out over the city lights. She retreated to the bathroom, splashing water on her face, trying to wash away the tears that came too easily. She didn’t know why she still cried—maybe it was habit, maybe it was hope clinging to her despite everything. But tonight, she forced herself to stop.

As she turned to leave, something caught her eye—her bottle of contraceptive pills, sitting empty on the shelf. She stared at it, her breath caught. Had she taken one today? She couldn't remember. Her heart fluttered, but she dismissed the thought. Surely she had.

Back in the room, Brent was preparing to leave. This wasn’t his home; it was just one of the many properties he owned. He let her live here as part of their arrangement, just one more benefit of being his courtesan.

Before he could step out the door, she finally spoke—something she had been holding back for weeks.

“Brent,” she said softly, “I heard… you're getting engaged. Is it true? Who is she?”

He turned sharply, his tone colder than the wind outside. “That has nothing to do with you. Don’t meddle in things that aren’t yours to ask about. You’re not my girlfriend—you’re a woman I pay. So know your place. I don’t need your feelings. I only need your body. Remember that.”

Her head dropped. Shame pooled in her chest as she stood frozen in place, unable to meet his eyes. Without another word, he slammed the door behind him, leaving her alone with the echo of his cruelty.

When his car disappeared down the street, the tears returned, heavier this time. She sank to the floor, her strength gone. Her heart felt raw, bruised from years of pretending she could endure this. She wanted to scream, to claw her way out of the pain she had been drowning in for four long years. But something pulled her back—something deeper than pain. A memory.

A reason.

She closed her eyes and drifted back in time—back to the night everything changed.

It had been a bleak, misty evening. The sky was heavy with shadows, the streets silent and tense. She was only nineteen then—young, naïve, still full of belief in the goodness of people. That night, her father had been attacked—mugged in the quiet corner of their small town by men who had no mercy. He was old and frail, and they beat him until he collapsed. His skull had been fractured; the doctors weren’t sure he would survive.

Desperate and terrified, she had searched for help. She had no one but her mother—Eva Brooks—a woman who had left long ago to start a new life with another man, taking her half-sister, Claire, with her.

Her father would never have approved. But this was life or death.

She arrived at their gated mansion in an exclusive village, her nerves fraying. There was a celebration going on inside—a graduation party for Claire, now a college graduate. Everyone was dressed in elegance and ease. The contrast to her own world couldn’t have been sharper.

At the gate, the security guards stopped her.

“Miss, do you have an invitation? Are you a guest?”

She hesitated, unable to answer. Rejected, she stepped back and scanned for another way in. Her eyes landed on the catering staff heading toward the back entrance. Seizing the moment, she approached one of the maids.

“I’m part of the catering team,” she lied quickly. “I just need to use the restroom, it’s urgent. Can you help me?”

The woman looked at her, hesitant but kind. “Alright, come with me. I’ll show you.”

Grateful, she followed the maid inside. Once the woman had gone, she didn’t head to the restroom—instead, she began searching for her mother. But as she stepped forward, her shoelace came undone, and she knelt to tie it.

That’s when she bumped into someone—hard.

A tall man, sharply dressed, with an air of quiet power. His eyes were intense, distant, and impossibly beautiful. He looked down at her, startled but composed.

“Hey. Are you okay?” he asked.

She smiled in spite of herself, brushing off the pain. “Yeah… I’m fine. Just clumsy.”

He nodded and walked away before she could say more. She watched him disappear into the crowd.

But she wasn’t here for him. She had come for a reason. Her father needed her. And her mother was her only hope.

Of course, she had to do this. There was no point in turning back now.

Stella’s steps slowed as she neared the living room. Her eyes fell on a large portrait centered on the wall—a grand family image. Her mother, Eva Brooks, stood smiling beside her husband, with Claire, Stella’s half-sister, standing joyfully between them. They looked complete. Content. A picture of happiness.

It struck her like a cold slap. All she could think of was her father—pale and breathless, clinging to life in a hospital bed miles away. She lifted her chin, pushing the ache down her throat. No matter how she tried, the past clawed its way to the surface. How had everything twisted into this cruel reality?

Just as she turned her head to scan the room for her mother, footsteps approached from behind.

“Who told you to get in here?” a sharp voice demanded.

Stella spun around and found herself face-to-face with a woman in a thigh-high sl*t gown, elegance dripping from every inch of