Virgin Dot Com Novel

[Jasmine's POV] Day three. Two more to go. I'd started counting in hours instead of days because days felt impossible, but hours-hours I could survive. Twenty-four hours times two equals forty-eight hours. I could endure anything for forty-eight hours. Even this. Even him. The thing is, my body had learned to dissociate. I'd perfected the art of standing perfectly still while Jackson's hands roamed wherever he wanted them to go, my consciousness floating somewhere near the ceiling, watching this happen to someone who looked like me but couldn't possibly be me.

Because I wouldn't have agreed to this. I wouldn't have traded my autonomy for corporate strategy, my dignity for their futures. Except I had. And that was the part I couldn't escape, couldn't dissociate from-the knowledge that I'd walked into this willingly. Each morning followed the same ritual. Arrive at seven thirty. Prepare coffee with mathematical precision-black, two sugars, temperature between 175 and 180 degrees. Dress in clothes that made my skin crawl-skirts that barely covered my ass, blouses unbuttoned low enough that I felt naked.

Armor that was actually exposure, protection that was actually vulnerability. Jackson would arrive at eight. Survey my work with that calculating gaze. Find me acceptable or not based on criteria that shifted daily, keeping me off-balance, ensuring I could never quite get it right. Then the touches would start. Casual. Possessive. Designed to remind me exactly what I'd traded and who owned the rights to my body for these five days. But something else was happening, something I hadn't anticipated. Jackson was actually fixing the company.

Contracts were being signed-major deals with distributors who'd been hesitant after the scandal. The legal team won a massive libel lawsuit against the tabloid that had run the most vicious coverage. Settlements were reached with artists who'd threatened to break their agreements. Even the media narrative was shifting, from salacious scandal to reporting on Cadence Records' impressive turnaround under "new management." The plan was working-Jackson was delivering on his promise. Which made everything so much worse.

Because I couldn't even hate him cleanly, couldn't reduce him to a simple villain when he was actually saving what the brothers had built. Every contract signed, every lawsuit won, every positive headline-they were proof that my degradation had purpose. That I wasn't suffering for nothing. I didn't know if that made it better or infinitely more fucked up. At lunch on Wednesday, Liam cornered me near the elevators. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, dark circles under his eyes, jaw tight with barely restrained fury. "Jasmine, please. Talk to me.

Tell me what's happening." "I'm fine," I lied, and the words tasted like ash. "Everything's fine." "Bullshit. You're not fine. You look like-" He reached for my arm, and I flinched. Couldn't help it. My body had been touched too much by hands I didn't want, and even Liam's familiar touch felt like potential violence. The hurt that flashed across his face made something crack in my chest. "Liam." Jackson's voice cut through the hallway, sharp and cold. "I believe I told you not to distract my secretary from her work." My secretary. Possessive pronoun like a brand, marking ownership.

Liam's hands curled into fists, and I watched him fight every instinct screaming at him to cross that distance and commit violence. But he couldn't-not without making everything worse. Not without undoing everything I was enduring to protect. So he walked away, shoulders rigid with impotent rage, and I returned to Jackson's office like a good girl. The only thing keeping me sane was the writing. Songs poured out of me at night-dark, angry, beautiful things that bled emotion I couldn't express anywhere else. Lyrics about cages made of gold and choices that weren't really choices.

About selling pieces of your soul and wondering if you'd recognize yourself when it was over. I filled notebooks with words I'd never let anyone see, melodies that captured the particular flavor of this degradation. It was the only way I could process what was happening without shattering completely. And Nora. God, Nora became my lifeline. We had lunch together every day in the café three blocks away, far enough from Cadence that I could pretend to be human for forty-five minutes. She didn't ask questions I couldn't answer, didn't push when I deflected.

Just sat with me in the wreckage and made terrible jokes until I could almost remember how to laugh. "You're going to get through this," she said on Thursday, squeezing my hand across the table. "Whatever this is. You're the strongest person I know." I wasn't strong, I was just stubborn. Too stubborn to break when someone expected me to. Thursday afternoon, I was in a meeting with the marketing team, taking notes while they discussed the new campaign strategy. Jackson was holding court at the head of the table, and I was performing my role perfectly-attentive secretary, present but invisible.

Then the nausea hit. Wave after wave, stronger than it had been all week. I tried to breathe through it, tried to wait it out, but my body had different ideas. I stood abruptly, mumbled something about needing the restroom, and barely made it down the hallway before I was retching into the toilet. Violent, painful heaving that left me shaking and weak, tasting bile and coffee and the particular flavor of despair. When I finally emerged, gripping the sink for support, Nora was waiting outside the stall. Concern carved into every line of her face.

"That's the third time this week," she said quietly. I tried to laugh it off. "Stress. Everything that's happening-" "Jas." She grabbed my arm gently, her eyes searching my face. "When was your last period?" The question hung in the air like a bomb waiting to detonate. I opened my mouth to answer and realized I couldn't remember. Weeks? A month? More? The timeline blurred together, lost in the chaos of scandal and Jackson and survival. I'd been so focused on enduring that I'd stopped paying attention to my body's signals. "I don't know," I whispered.

Nora's expression shifted into something fierce and protective. "I'm getting you pregnancy tests. Right now." "No. I can't-I have to get back to the meeting. Jackson will-" "Fuck Jackson," she said, voice low and dangerous. "You're leaving. We're going to the drugstore, getting tests, and you're going to pee on every single one. Because if you're pregnant-" She didn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to. If I was pregnant, everything changed. Every calculation, every sacrifice, every degradation I'd endured for their futures became exponentially more complicated.

Because I had no idea which one of them was the father. Virgin Dot Com