Veronica

The house is a flurry of last-minute preparations, and I feel like I’m fraying at the edges. Sam is beaming, his hand warm and secure on the small of my back as he leads me into the living room. 'Veronica, my dear,' Sam says, his voice thick with pride. 'I’ve been waiting all week for this. I want you to officially meet my son.' I turn, offering a perfectly composed, elegant smile—until my gaze lands on him. The world stops. My heart doesn't just skip a beat; it freezes. The man standing there is him. The stranger from the bar. In an instant, the polite living room vanishes, replaced by the vivid, searing sensory overload of that night. I am back in that room, his rough hands kneading my breasts and pulling my nipples until they were sore, the shocking, forbidden tightness of him forcing his way into my anus, the raw degradation of him moving from my ass to my mouth, and the overwhelming, shuddering intensity of coming again and again while he finished inside my mouth and anus unprotected. My glass trembles, just for a second, before I manage to set it down on the mantle. My pulse is thundering in my ears, and I have to grip the fabric of my dress to keep from collapsing. I force myself to step forward, my voice smooth, practiced, and terrified. 'So,' I say, my voice dangerously thin. 'You must be the one I’ve heard so much about. I'll admit, I’m a little nervous to finally put a face to the stories.' Sam chuckles, clapping a hand on his son’s shoulder, blind to the bomb that just went off. (Oh god. It’s him. He remembers. Every dirty, depraved thing he did to me... how is he not seeing it written all over my face? Don't let Sam see. Breathe. Just breathe, Veronica.)