The Price of His Control

The Price of His Control

Gavin

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The rain that had veiled Emily' s funeral still clung to my black dress as I approached Mark' s gleaming penthouse, a place that now felt like a tomb. The elevator opened directly into the living room, and the first thing I heard was Mark' s easy laughter, a sound that felt like a physical blow. He stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, oblivious, while I, his fiancée, had just buried my little sister. His eyes swept over me, from my damp hair to my scuffed shoes, and disgust flickered across his features. "Sarah. What are you doing? You didn' t follow protocol," he hissed, stepping back as if I carried a plague. Then, he grabbed the worn leather purse Emily gave me, holding it like a dead rat before dropping it into his high-tech trash chute. "Now go," he commanded. "Get out. And don' t come back up until you' re clean." That' s when I saw it. He wasn' t afraid of germs. He was afraid of losing control. He never touched my dying sister, citing "contamination risk," but freely shared mai tais with his assistant, Lisa, and her family in Hawaii, while Emily withered in an impersonal hospice. Every humiliating cleansing ritual, every compromised dream, every sacrifice I made for this man-it was never about love. It was about breaking me, about proving I was worth nothing. Something inside me, long dormant, finally shattered. I didn' t go to the sanitation suite. I walked out of that building, leaving behind his sterile, loveless world. I didn't know where I was going, but I knew I was never going back.

Introduction

The rain that had veiled Emily' s funeral still clung to my black dress as I approached Mark' s gleaming penthouse, a place that now felt like a tomb.

The elevator opened directly into the living room, and the first thing I heard was Mark' s easy laughter, a sound that felt like a physical blow.

He stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, oblivious, while I, his fiancée, had just buried my little sister.

His eyes swept over me, from my damp hair to my scuffed shoes, and disgust flickered across his features.

"Sarah. What are you doing? You didn' t follow protocol," he hissed, stepping back as if I carried a plague.

Then, he grabbed the worn leather purse Emily gave me, holding it like a dead rat before dropping it into his high-tech trash chute.

"Now go," he commanded. "Get out. And don' t come back up until you' re clean."

That' s when I saw it. He wasn' t afraid of germs. He was afraid of losing control.

He never touched my dying sister, citing "contamination risk," but freely shared mai tais with his assistant, Lisa, and her family in Hawaii, while Emily withered in an impersonal hospice.

Every humiliating cleansing ritual, every compromised dream, every sacrifice I made for this man-it was never about love.

It was about breaking me, about proving I was worth nothing.

Something inside me, long dormant, finally shattered.

I didn' t go to the sanitation suite.

I walked out of that building, leaving behind his sterile, loveless world.

I didn't know where I was going, but I knew I was never going back.

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My world revolved around Jax Harding, my older brother's captivating rockstar friend. From sixteen, I adored him; at eighteen, I clung to his casual promise: "When you're 22, maybe I'll settle down." That offhand comment became my life's beacon, guiding every choice, meticulously planning my twenty-second birthday as our destiny. But on that pivotal day in a Lower East Side bar, clutching my gift, my dream exploded. I overheard Jax' s cold voice: "Can't believe Savvy's showing up. She' s still hung up on that stupid thing I said." Then the crushing plot: "We' re gonna tell Savvy I' m engaged to Chloe, maybe even hint she' s pregnant. That should scare her off." My gift, my future, slipped from my numb fingers. I fled into the cold New York rain, devastated by betrayal. Later, Jax introduced Chloe as his "fiancée" while his bandmates mocked my "adorable crush"-he did nothing. As an art installation fell, he saved Chloe, abandoning me to severe injury. In the hospital, he came for "damage control," then shockingly shoved me into a fountain, leaving me to bleed, calling me a "jealous psycho." How could the man I loved, who once saved me, become this cruel and publicly humiliate me? Why was my devotion seen as an annoyance to be brutally extinguished with lies and assault? Was I just a problem, my loyalty met with hatred? I would not be his victim. Injured and betrayed, I made an unshakeable vow: I was done. I blocked his number and everyone connected to him, severing ties. This was not an escape; this was my rebirth. Florence awaited, a new life on my terms, unburdened by broken promises.

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