Send you tenderness

Megan slipped from her stepfather’s room at two in the morning, clutching her disheveled clothes to her chest, her eyes red-rimmed and raw.

Her mother stood just outside the door. Their gazes met. Megan drew a sharp breath, the word *Mom* catching in her throat, refusing to form.

She couldn’t understand it. To secure her place as Mrs. Jordan, how could her own mother have delivered her daughter—again and again—into that monster’s hands?

Grace instinctively reached for her, but Megan flinched away. “Megan, don’t blame me,” Grace pleaded, her voice tight. “Those rumors you started—about forcing a girl to get an abortion—they hurt his stocks. He was furious. That’s why…”

Hearing the excuse, Megan’s control shattered. “You’re my mother!” she cried, the words tearing loose. “How could you drug me again? How could you do this to me?”

“I’m calling the police. I’m going to the police!”

She turned and ran for the stairs.

But Grace’s hand shot out, fingers clamping like a vise around Megan’s wrist. Then, in a sudden, shocking movement, Grace dropped to her knees. “Megan, I’m begging you, you can’t!” she sobbed, her grip unyielding. “If you go to the police, we’re finished. And besides… he’d never let you get that far.”

Megan froze, the fight draining out of her.

Staring down at her mother’s contorted face, a memory surfaced—the year her parents divorced. The court had granted custody to her father. Until Abigail planted a box of condoms in Megan’s schoolbag. That one act altered the course of her life.

For the first few years, Grace had held Jordan’s favor. But as her youth faded, his attention shifted to her young daughter.

The first time Grace drugged her, Megan woke covered in bruises, a sharp, tearing pain low in her belly.

Her first instinct had been to tell Aaron. But Grace knelt beside her, threatening to take her own life if Megan said a word.

*He listens to his uncle*, Grace had hissed. *And he doesn’t love you anymore. He won’t help you.*

History proved her right.

Megan gathered evidence, only for Grace to find and shred it before she could act.

She tried to run. Jordan sent a van after her. She still remembered the hungry, leering gazes of the men inside. Battered and broken, she fled to the one place that had ever felt like safety.

Aaron’s house. She hoped for concern, for comfort. Instead, she met cold indifference.

And now, once again, she had run. She stood outside his door, clutching the necklace drive, that last fragile shred of hope in her heart as she dialed his number.

First call: no answer.

Second call: still nothing—no reply to her text either.

...

By the ninth call, he finally picked up. A sob of relief caught in Megan’s throat.

But from the other end came soft, panting breaths—two women—the sound of kisses, the slick, wet noise of skin on skin. Aaron’s voice cut through, irritated. “What is it now, Megan? Do you have any sense of timing at all?”

The sudden harshness startled her. She sniffed, a strange numbness settling over her. “It’s nothing. Sorry.”

She hung up in a panic. As she pulled the phone from her ear, she thought she heard his voice soften, a faint “Hello? Megan?” But her chest felt like a stone was crushing it. She couldn’t breathe; her legs gave way, and she slid down the doorframe to the floor.

The housekeeper found her in time, helped her inside, and made her a cup of ginger tea.

That sudden, unexpected kindness broke through Megan’s defenses. She crawled under the covers and wept until she gasped for air, finally crying herself into a fitful sleep.

She didn’t know how long she’d slept when a sudden chill between her legs jolted her awake.

She sat bolt upright. Aaron stood there, a silk handkerchief in his hand, meticulously wiping his fingers.

His expression was dark, a sneer twisting his lips. “Couldn’t wait for me?”

A cold dread shot through Megan—the memory of Jordan’s violation flooding back.

He tossed the handkerchief carelessly onto the floor, grabbed her calf, and knelt between her legs.

All sleepiness vanished. Megan instinctively covered her abdomen, her voice strained. “Not tonight. I’m not feeling well.”

Her violent recoil, the way she tried to shrink into the mattress, gave him pause. He let out a short, derisive laugh. “Why not? Is your body some precious commodity now? Do I need your permission?”

She kept struggling, trying to pry his hand from her leg, but his grip was iron.

“What’s wrong with you?” he snapped, his patience fraying. “Did someone else have you?”

Before she could answer, his voice turned icy. “What, my money isn’t enough anymore? Eager to find your next mark already? You forget we still have a month left on our little agreement. Stop this, Megan. No one else would want you.”

The words hit her like a physical blow. A bitter laugh escaped her. “You’d be disgusted if someone else touched me?”

A strange flicker passed through his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve always been disgusted by you. Or have you forgotten how you looked at me back then?”

Megan went still. The memories of her escape crashed over her again.

That night she’d fled from Jordan, stumbling out of that van and back to him. Aaron’s first words had been, “Megan, is climbing the social ladder all you care about? An old man past his prime couldn’t satisfy you? How greedy can you be?”

He’d said it, pushed her away, and left.

And now, this Aaron did the same. He let her go, turning to leave. At the door, he paused, his voice flat. “I only came back to tell you. Abigail is moving in tomorrow. She’s pregnant. You’ll take care of her.”