Chapter 3: The Girlfriend's Gaze**

Chapter 3: The Girlfriend's Gaze

After I finished recording the short, breathless clip for my fans, the ecstatic high began to recede, leaving the cold dregs of reality in its place. The pleasure-soaked haze evaporated, and I was left alone in a foul-smelling bathroom stall, marked up like a piece of meat in a butcher's shop. The adrenaline that had fueled my exhibitionism was replaced by a gnawing, practical anxiety.

How the hell was I going to get home?

I couldn't walk out of this bar and onto the street at sunrise looking like this. The thought of flagging a cab, of the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror catching the black ink on my skin, sent a jolt of real fear, not the thrilling kind, through me. The words—PUBLIC PROPERTY, SLUT, WHORE—felt like a brand in the harsh fluorescent light, a label I couldn't hide.

My eyes fell on my phone again, the screen still lit up with the notifications I’d ignored. 14 Missed Calls: Chloe. 27 Messages: Chloe. Each one was a small stab of guilt. Chloe. My beautiful, stable, loving Chloe. The one person who loved Eleanor and Bambi, who saw my transformation not as a mental breakdown but as an act of blossoming. What would she think of this?

A cold dread pooled in my stomach, chilling the lingering warmth of arousal. I had pushed the boundary. Dean had been a fantasy, a hypothetical I’d gushed to her about. “Imagine a man so dominant he just knows what you want and takes it.” But the reality of it—the blackout, the marker, the raw evidence of a night I couldn’t fully remember—felt like a betrayal. I had gone into the abyss without her. I braced myself for the anger, the hurt, the disgust. I deserved it.

There was no other choice. Swallowing my pride and my fear, I finally tapped her contact name. It rang once, twice, before she picked up, her voice tight and frayed with sleepless worry.

"Ellie? Oh, thank god. Where are you? Are you okay?"

Hearing my old name was a splash of cold water. Only Chloe still used it. "I'm okay, Chlo," I whispered, my voice hoarse. "I'm… I'm still at The Quill."

There was a pause on the other end, a silence loaded with a thousand unspoken questions. I could picture her perfectly: sitting up in our bed, our sanctuary of clean white sheets and soft grey blankets, her dark bob messy from sleep, her face etched with concern.

"Stay right there," she said, her tone shifting from panicked to fiercely protective. "Don't move. Don't talk to anyone. I'm coming to get you."

The line went dead. Relief warred with impending doom. My handler was coming, but so was my judge and jury.

I used the agonizing twenty-minute wait to make myself semi-presentable. I scrubbed the smeared lipstick from my cheek with a wet paper towel that smelled of mildew. I straightened my top and pulled my skirt down, ensuring the damning ink was covered. I put on my heels, wobbling slightly as I clicked the stall door open and shuffled out into the empty men's room. I looked like a disheveled party girl, not a piece of human graffiti. It would have to do.

I slipped out into the empty bar, the smell of stale beer and regret hanging heavy in the air. The first rays of dawn were filtering through the grime on the front windows. A few minutes later, Chloe’s sensible sedan pulled up to the curb.

I scurried inside, shutting the door and plunging us into a tense, humming silence. She didn't say a word, just put the car in drive and pulled away. I stared out the window, watching the city wake up, unable to meet her gaze. I could feel her eyes on me, scanning, assessing. Every second of silence stretched my nerves tighter. I was a child waiting for a scolding, a sinner awaiting damnation.

When we finally walked into our apartment, the contrast was jarring. The space was pristine, filled with light, smelling of the lavender diffuser on the bookshelf. It was a world of order and love, and I had just dragged the filth of my darkest desires right through the front door.

I dropped my purse on the floor and stood awkwardly in the entryway, a statue of guilt.

"Ellie, talk to me," Chloe said, her voice soft but firm. She stood in front of me, blocking my path, her kind eyes searching my face for answers. "What happened? After you went to the bar, you just… vanished."

Words failed me. How could I explain? How could I describe the feeling of being seen by Dean, the terrifying, exhilarating rightness of his control? How could I justify what I had allowed to happen, what I had craved? The confession was stuck in my throat, a lump of shame and ecstasy.

So I showed her.

My hands trembled as I took the hem of my pink top. I closed my eyes, bracing for the impact of her anger, for the sound of her heart breaking. I pulled the fabric up, over my breasts, revealing the canvas of my torso.

PUBLIC PROPERTY.

The silence that followed was absolute. It was heavier and more terrifying than the silence in the car. I could hear my own heart hammering against my ribs. I kept my eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the verdict. A gasp. A sob. An accusation.

Instead, I heard her take a sharp, shuddering breath.

Slowly, I dared to open my eyes. Chloe was staring at my stomach, her expression unreadable. Her face was pale, her lips slightly parted. She took a step closer, her gaze locked on the crude black letters.

Then, her hand came up, not to push me away, but to touch. Her fingers, delicate and warm, traced the aggressive script across my skin. It wasn't a gesture of comfort or of anger. It was one of pure, unadulterated fascination. I watched, stunned, as her pupils dilated, a dark fire kindling in the depths of her brown eyes.

"He did this," she breathed, her voice a low, husky thing I had only ever heard in the deepest throes of our lovemaking. She traced the word FREE above my womb tattoo, her touch sending a bolt of lightning straight to my core. "The marker… is it permanent?"

"I… I think so," I stammered, my mind reeling. This wasn't happening. This wasn't the reaction I had prepared for. There was no anger. No tears. Only this dark, intense, terrifying arousal radiating from her in waves.

She looked up from my body and finally met my eyes. The loving, worried girlfriend was gone. In her place was someone else, someone I recognized from our most private fantasies, but had never seen so clearly in the light of day.

"Good," she whispered, a predatory smile gracing her lips.

My confusion must have been written all over my face. My world was tilting on its axis.

"Bambi," she said, using my name with a newfound weight, her thumb stroking my skin. "You don't have to be afraid. I knew you were meeting him."

I stared at her, speechless. My brain refused to process the words.

"I knew," she repeated, her gaze unflinching, possessive. "We spoke yesterday afternoon, after you told me you were going to The Quill. He wanted to make sure I understood. He wanted my permission."

She leaned in, her lips close to my ear, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that sealed the fractured pieces of my sanity back together in a new, shocking configuration.

"I gave it to him. I told him to give you exactly what you deserved."