Roommates With Benefits Until I Met His Real Girlfriend

After a struggle, I finally shoved him out of my room.

That night, I lay awake until dawn.

Everything in the bedroom suffocated me.

The photo of us on the nightstand, the half of the closet he occupied, even the lingering scent of his body wash in the air.

As soon as the sun rose, I got out of bed and dragged a dusty suitcase from the deepest corner of the storage closet.

I had to get out. Now.

Without a shred of sentimentality, I mechanically stuffed my clothes, design books, and cosmetics into the suitcase.

The matching couple's outfits and mugs I once treasured were now tossed into a trash bag without a second thought.

The noise I made woke Ethan up.

He leaned against my bedroom doorframe, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and taking in the mess on the floor with a wide yawn.

"What's all this fuss about so early in the morning?" His tone was less a question than a complaint about being disturbed.

I ignored him, zipping up the full suitcase and grabbing a cardboard box to start clearing the bookshelf.

My silence finally seemed to get through to him.

He walked over to me, the sleepiness vanishing from his face.

"You're moving out?" He scoffed. "Chloe, can you stop being so childish?"

I stopped what I was doing and looked at him coldly. "I can't live here anymore."

He crossed his arms, launching into a lecture. "Have you even done the math? A one-bedroom this size in Manhattan will run you at least five grand a month. Add utilities, and what's left of that little freelance income of yours? You won't even be able to afford your daily Starbucks."

He paused, then leaned in close, his warm breath on my face. "Living here with me saves you at least twenty-five hundred a month, without downgrading your lifestyle."

Seeing my blank expression, he must have thought he needed to apply more pressure. He added, his voice low and self-satisfied, "And, it's convenient for me, too."

I trembled with anger, my nails digging deep into my palms.

Ethan, completely oblivious to my fury, thought my silence was a sign of wavering.

He casually picked up a piece of Agent Provocateur lace lingerie I had just folded—something I had bought specially for an anniversary.

He rubbed the silky lace between his fingers, then leaned down and pressed his lips to my ear, his voice a low, suggestive whisper meant only for me:

"Besides, you can't deny we're good together in bed, can you?"

"Are you sure you want to give that up?"

He lightly nibbled my earlobe, and I turned my head away in revulsion.

"Honestly," he chuckled, his voice taking on a sleazy edge, "Isabella is nowhere near as wild as you are."

He then squeezed my ass. "Chloe, be reasonable. I provide you with a comfortable place in Manhattan, and you satisfy some of my needs. It's a win-win, the most practical transaction between two adults. Don't make it so complicated, okay?"