Chapter 3 The Man in the Shower

The air lingered with the fragrance of body wash, so delicate that Alison inhaled deeply, surprised by an unexpected sense of satisfaction.

Her heart was calm now, a still pond—any turmoil would only amplify her agony.

She lay still, listening, staring into the dark, listening to the quiet sounds of the night.

The room was beautiful, yet she couldn’t appreciate it, what’s to come made her sick.

In the dark, her bright eyes stayed fixed on the bedroom door.

She thought she heard the front door open. The sound sliced through the silence, making her heart lurch.

Panic surged inside her. She’d rehearsed staying calm, but her hands trembled uncontrollably, clutching onto the sheets.

Footsteps followed, slow and deliberate, drawing closer to the bedroom.

Alison held her breath, staring at the door with fear. The man had finally arrived.

A figure emerged, moving with casual confidence. He tossed his coat onto the sofa—a sign of familiarity with the apartment. He peeled off his shirt.

He was tall—certainly over six foot three—every inch of him exuded understated elegance.

He said nothing, stripping naked before striding into the bathroom.

Feeling anxious, Alison buried her face beneath the covers. She dared not look, her heart pounding, forcing herself to take deep,, steadying breaths.

Don’t be afraid, Alison. Even if it hurts, it’s just once. Endure, and it will pass. Three months is nothing compared to a lifetime.

The sound of running water echoed from the bathroom—sharp and inescapable.

Resigned, she listened, curled into a tight ball like a child, motionless for what felt like hours.

She was waiting for the moment that would signify her transition into womanhood.

Abruptly, the bathroom door opened; the man stepped out, moving toward the bed where she lay.

A wave of despair hit her—so strong she almost wished she were dead. But then she thought of her parents, how it would break them. She was all they had.

He drew closer, a strange mix of cologne and something savory.

His footsteps stopped. He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress sagged under his weight.

In the darkness, her other senses sharpened. She heard him patting around—maybe searching for cigarettes?

Moments later, tobacco smoke filled the air. Alison gathered her courage and pulled the blanket higher.

Did he know she was here? Whoever sent her must be linked to this man.

She wanted to demand answers: Who took those photos?

This apartment wasn’t huge but it exuded wealth in every detail—far beyond ordinary means. This was no average man. But if he was rich, why stoop to such despicable tactics instead of keeping a mistress?

Her mind raced with questions. She opened her mouth to speak, but the shame of lying there naked strangled her voice.

A naked woman, waiting passively for violation… Alison ached with resentment, tears threatening, but she willed them back. Endure—for the chance to uncover her exploiter and destroy every last photo.

Finally, when she heard the man stub out his cigarette, Alison’s heart sunk: the inevitable moment had arrived.

His hand reached over, fingers casually pulling the quilt aside; he slid under the covers, edging closer. Alison froze, rigid with tension. To her surprise, he stayed just out of reach—close enough to feel his warmth, but not a single touch.

He smelled like cigarette smoke. Usually she hated it, but tonight it felt almost comforting. She held her breath as he stretched his long legs under the blanket—no other movement.

Could he really not intend to touch her…?

Hope flickered: maybe she’d geth through this unscathed.

But just as the thought crossed her mind, the man shifted suddenly, stretching his arms across the bed.

One dropped onto her face -- fast, heavy, and unintentional.

Pain shot through her nose, and warm blood began to drip.

He jerked upright with a grunt, “Who’s there?”

Her hand froze, halfway to her face, torn between stopping the blood and staying still. He genuinely hadn’t known she was there—naked and trembling beside him.

She trembled, caught between fear and helplessness. She tried to speak, but the words choked in her throat.

Should she mention about the blackmail? No—the fewer who knew about the photos, the better. Letting anyone else see them would only deepen her shame.

In the pitch darkness, she stared at his shadowy figure, paralyzed by uncertainty. If he truly didn’t recognize her, maybe she could still escape. But if her captor found out… the consequences could be fatal.

Before she could decide, the man reached for the headboard.

Click.

The bedside lamp flared on, bathing them both in harsh, unflinching light.