Virgin Dot Com Novel

[Jasmine's POV] "Sit," Jackson said, and I obeyed because obedience was all I had left. The chair across from his desk felt like an electric chair, and I was already strapped in, waiting for the current to fry every remaining shred of dignity I'd been clinging to. I sat. Crossed my legs automatically, muscle memory from years of corporate training about how professional women sit in meetings. "Spread them," he said casually, like he was asking me to pass the salt. The command landed in my stomach like a stone. For a second-one perfect, crystalline second-I considered refusing.

Considered standing up and walking out and letting everything burn because at least I'd still have myself, still have the ability to look in mirrors without wanting to vomit. But I didn't. Because I'd made a deal. Because one more day. Because the pregnancy tests sitting in my purse said I had more to protect than just my pride. I uncrossed my legs. Let them fall open. Felt the air conditioning hit skin that shouldn't be exposed, felt his eyes on me like hands I couldn't escape. He watched me, silent and assessing, feeding on my humiliation like it nourished something fundamental in him.

And maybe it did. Maybe this was what powerful men did when they ran out of worlds to conquer-they found new territories in other people's degradation. "Tomorrow is a company holiday," he said finally, voice conversational like we were discussing quarterly projections instead of my continued violation. "Celebrating our success. The turnaround we've accomplished together." Together. Like I was a willing participant in this corporate resurrection instead of the sacrifice that made it possible. "You'll come to my apartment at noon." Not a question. Never a question with him.

"We'll celebrate together." The implication was so clear it didn't need articulation. Tomorrow, he would take what he'd been working toward all week. Tomorrow, the touches that had been possessive but still somewhat restrained would become something I couldn't dissociate from, couldn't compartmentalize into the category of "things that happen to someone who looks like me but isn't really me." He stood, and I tracked his movement with peripheral vision, keeping my gaze fixed on the wall behind his desk because looking at him directly felt like surrender.

He circled behind my chair, and every muscle in my body tensed in preparation for whatever came next. His hand threaded through my hair-not gentle, not violent, somewhere in between-and he inhaled deeply, nose pressed to the crown of my head like I was a wine he was evaluating. "You smell like my sons," he murmured, and the words made bile rise in my throat. "Tomorrow, you'll smell like me." Claim and threat wrapped together. Territorial marking disguised as prophecy. His hand moved to my neck, fingers stroking the vulnerable skin there. Pulse point. Jugular.

All the places that would make it easy to kill me if he wanted to. I didn't think he wanted to. Death would be mercy, and Jackson didn't traffic in mercy. Then his hand gripped my chin, forcing my head back, making me look up at him from this position of complete submission. His thumb traced my lower lip with deliberate pressure, then pressed between them, forcing my mouth open. "Tomorrow," he whispered, lips brushing my ear, breath hot and invasive. "I'm going to collect what you've owed me all week.

And you're going to give it willingly, aren't you?" His thumb pressed deeper into my mouth, and I tasted salt and power and the particular flavor of my own capitulation. "Say yes, Jasmine." I opened my mouth wider around his thumb, and the word that came out tasted like ash, like every compromise I'd ever made coming back to haunt me simultaneously: "Yes." Then he kissed me. Not the perfunctory kiss of someone testing waters.

Deep, wet, claiming-his tongue forcing its way past my lips, exploring my mouth like he owned it, like he'd purchased the rights to this particular violation along with everything else. His other hand fisted in my hair, holding me in place while he took what he wanted. My mind shut off. Had to. Because if I stayed present in my body during this, if I felt the full weight of what was happening, I would shatter into pieces too small to ever reassemble. So I went somewhere else. Floated near the ceiling.

Watched this happen to someone who looked like me but couldn't possibly be me because I wouldn't have agreed to this, wouldn't have traded myself this completely. Except I had. That was the part I couldn't escape no matter how far I dissociated. I had agreed. Had said yes. Had opened my mouth and let him in because I thought I could endure anything for one more day. When he finally released me, I was shaking. Full-body tremors I couldn't control, my nervous system staging a rebellion my conscious mind couldn't afford.

"Go home," he ordered, straightening his tie like nothing had happened, like he hadn't just violated me in ways I didn't have words for yet. "I'll send you what to wear tomorrow. Don't disappoint me." I stood on legs that didn't feel entirely attached to my body and walked out of his office. Through the main workspace where people were packing up for the evening, completely oblivious to the fact that I'd just been hollowed out and filled with shame in the office fifty feet away. To the elevator. To my car in the parking garage. I made it three blocks before the crying started.

Great, heaving sobs that made driving dangerous but I couldn't stop, couldn't pull over, could only keep moving because stopping meant thinking and thinking meant confronting what I'd let happen. My makeup was ruined by the time I pulled into my apartment complex. Mascara streaking down my cheeks in ways that told a story I couldn't explain. Lipstick smudged from his mouth on mine, evidence of violation I couldn't wash away fast enough. I stumbled up the stairs to my apartment, fumbling with keys that didn't want to cooperate, and finally got the door open.

Liam was sitting on my couch, waiting. He stood the moment I entered, and I watched realization crash across his face as he took in my appearance. The streaked makeup. The red eyes. The smudged lipstick that screamed exactly what had happened even though I hadn't said a word. "What did he do?" His voice was dangerously quiet, the kind of quiet that preceded violence, that promised someone was going to bleed for this. I couldn't answer. Couldn't tell him about the kiss, the command to spread my legs, what was expected tomorrow.

Couldn't explain that I'd agreed to this, that I'd said yes, that I was complicit in my own degradation because I thought I was saving something worth saving. Liam crossed to me in two strides, hands gripping my shoulders with barely restrained force. "Tell me what he did, Jasmine. Right now." And I realized I had a choice. I could lie, could protect him from the knowledge of what his father was taking from me. Could endure one more day alone and then tell them everything after it was over. Or I could break. Could let him see the full scope of the wreckage.

Could ask for help even though asking felt like admitting defeat. I opened my mouth, and whatever came out next would determine everything. Virgin Dot Com