Virgin Dot Com Novel

[Jasmine's POV] I fall asleep in Liam's arms, finally safe after the bath, after crying until there's nothing left. His heartbeat under my ear is steady, grounding, the only thing keeping me tethered to something real when everything else feels like it's dissolving. Then his voice pulls me back from the edge of sleep. "Jasmine. I need you to know something." I lift my head, still foggy with exhaustion, and find his eyes in the darkness. Waiting. Serious in a way that makes my chest tight.

"Tomorrow doesn't change anything." His hand cups my face, and the gentleness undoes me more than force ever could. "Whatever happens, whoever touches you-you're still mine. Still ours. Nothing he does can take that away unless you let it." The words crack something open in my chest. Because he's wrong. Tomorrow will change everything. Jackson's hands on my body will contaminate what I have with them, will mark me as something used and diminished. But Liam believes what he's saying, needs to believe it, and I can't take that hope away from him.

"Liam-" He kisses me before I can argue, before I can tell him all the ways tomorrow will ruin me. And I feel the desperation in it, the fear underneath his usual optimism. He's trying to convince us both that love is stronger than violation, that we can survive what's coming. I kiss him back with hunger I didn't know I still had. Need rises in me like a tide-not just physical want but something deeper, more desperate. I need to feel desired for myself rather than used as currency.

Need to remember what it's like when someone touches me because they want to, not because I've agreed to endure it. His hands are gentle as he undresses me again, but there's reverence in his touch that makes tears prick behind my eyes. He kisses every inch of newly exposed skin, mapping my body like he's trying to memorize it before someone else claims it. And fuck, that's what this is, isn't it? He's trying to leave his mark before Jackson's hands erase it. When I'm finally naked beneath him, he pauses. Just looks at me with something so raw in his expression that I have to look away.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs, and the conviction in his voice makes me want to believe him even though I feel anything but. "And you're mine. No matter what happens tomorrow, remember that you're mine." He moves down my body, pressing kisses to my stomach, my hip bones, the soft skin of my inner thighs. I'm trembling-not from cold but from the collision of need and fear, desire and dread of what's coming. When his mouth finally reaches my core, I gasp and arch involuntarily. The thing is, this feels different than the other times. Slower. More intentional.

Like he's trying to give me something to hold onto when I'm drowning tomorrow. Like he's branding himself into my nervous system so deeply that even when Jackson's hands are on me, some part of me will remember this. Will remember being worshipped instead of used. He takes his time, using his tongue and fingers with devastating precision. Knows exactly how to build me up, bring me to the edge, hold me there until I'm shaking with need. And I let him, surrender to it completely, because tomorrow I won't get to choose who touches me or how. Tomorrow my body becomes transaction.

But tonight-tonight I can still give freely. When I finally come apart, it's with his name on my lips and tears streaming down my face. Not sad tears. Not happy tears. Something in between-grief and gratitude tangled together so completely I can't separate them. He crawls back up my body, wipes away the tears with gentle fingers. "I've got you. I've always got you." I cling to him, trying to absorb his certainty through skin contact. Trying to believe that tomorrow won't destroy what we've built. Eventually my breathing steadies, and I ask the question that's been sitting in my chest all day.

"Tell me about your father. About who he was before... this." His hand stills in my hair. I feel him tense, feel the internal debate about whether to answer. Then he sighs. "He wasn't always cruel. When my mother was alive, he was different. Not perfect, but present. Loving, in his way." "What happened?" "She died. Aneurysm. Sudden." His voice goes flat, distant. "One morning she was fine, by afternoon she was gone. He never recovered. Started drinking, gambling, fucking anything that moved. Destroyed himself and expected us to pick up the pieces. I was fourteen. Asher was thirteen.

Finn was also fourteen. And suddenly I was the adult." My arms tighten around him, imagining him at fourteen trying to hold a family together while grief tore his father apart. "That's too much for a child to carry." "I didn't have a choice. If I didn't step up, we would have lost everything. So I grew up fast. Learned to be responsible for everyone else's problems." He kisses my forehead. "That's why it's hard for me to let you fight your own battles. Every instinct I have says to fix it for you." "But you're letting me," I point out. "That's growth." "Or stupidity," he mutters.

"Tomorrow will tell." We fall asleep tangled together, and I try to memorize this feeling-his warmth, his steadiness, the safety of being held without expectation or agenda. Try to store it up like provisions for the desert I'll be crossing tomorrow. I wake to an empty bed and a note on the pillow: Had to handle some business. Call if you need me. I love you.-L The words blur as I read them. I love you. Like it's simple. Like love is enough to protect against what's coming. I'm making coffee when someone knocks. Not Liam's knock-this is sharper, more official.

I open the door to find a courier with massive packages, so many he has to make three trips from his truck. Designer boxes. Luxury bags. My hands shake as I open them one by one, revealing exactly what I expected and dreaded. A black silk dress with a neckline that plunges to my navel. Louboutin heels-red-soled and expensive. Cartier jewelry that probably costs more than my entire year's salary. La Perla lingerie in black lace, designed to be removed rather than worn. And an invitation on heavy cardstock: Jackson's villa. Tonight at 8 PM. Not noon.

He changed the time, gave me all day to anticipate and dread. To prepare for the performance he expects. To think about what these clothes mean, what he plans to do while I'm wearing them. I hold up the dress, and my reflection in the mirror looks like a stranger. This is my costume for tonight's role. Seductress. Willing participant. Good girl who does what she's told. Ten hours. I have exactly ten hours to prepare for the performance of my life. I should eat. Should shower. Should do something productive with these hours before I have to become whoever he expects me to be.

Instead, I sit on the floor surrounded by expensive things that feel like chains, and I try to remember what Liam's hands felt like last night. Try to hold onto that feeling of being cherished instead of purchased. Try to convince myself that tomorrow-no, tonight-won't destroy me completely. My phone buzzes. Text from Liam: I'm here if you need me. Just say the word and I'll come get you. I stare at the message. All I have to do is ask and he'll come running. Will save me from this choice I've made. But saving me means losing everything they've built.

Means Jackson wins and the company crumbles and three men I love lose their father's legacy because I couldn't endure one night. I text back: I'm fine. See you after. The lie tastes bitter. But some lies are necessary. Some sacrifices have to be made alone. I look at the clock. Nine hours and forty-seven minutes. I can survive anything for nine hours and forty-seven minutes. Even this. Even him. Virgin Dot Com