Two months ago I left Patrick Pelletier. Tonight he’s standing at my register, buying condoms for other girl. He doesn’t even pretend to be subtle about it. He pulls a box off the shelf, holds it up between two fingers, and turns to the girl hanging off his arm. “There’s like ten kinds, baby. Which one feels best? You pick.” The girl blushes hard. Stares at the boxes. Doesn’t say a word. Patrick laughs, low and mean. “Right. My bad. We never used these when it was you and me. You wouldn’t know.” I keep wiping down the counter. I don’t look up. He leans on the register. I can feel his eyes on me, that lazy, amused look I used to die for. “What about you, sweetheart? Got a recommendation?” I freeze for a second. Just one. Then I reach behind me, pick a box, and slide it across the counter. “This one. Thinnest we carry. Goes on smooth, feels like nothing. Girls love it.” Patrick’s smile thins out. “You sound experienced.” “I get by.” He picks up the box, turns it over in his hand, eyes locked on mine. “You and your new boyfriend go through a lot of these, then?” The brunette on his arm laughs — sharp, ugly. She looks me up and down like I’m something stuck to her shoe. “Look at her clothes, babe. Whole outfit’s, what, twenty bucks? Her and her broke boyfriend can’t afford the good brand. They’re probably using the cheap stuff that breaks halfway through.” Patrick’s watching my face. Waiting for me to crack. I don’t. I just smile, polite as a hostess. “Don’t worry, sir. I’ve tried every brand on this shelf. They all hold up.” His hand goes still on the box. His jaw locks. “Cute,” he says. Quiet. Cold. “I’ll take this one. If it’s not as good as you say — I’ll be back.” He drops a black card on the counter. I ring it up. He doesn’t break eye contact once. The bell over the door rings. They’re gone. I exhale. Turns out, the condoms really were good. Because for the next seven nights in a row, Patrick walks into my store at exactly 11 p.m. and buys another box. Same brand. Same brunette on his arm. Every. Single. Night. By night four, my manager Rita can’t keep it in anymore. “Sweetheart, I have been in this business twenty years. I have never seen a man go through a box of these every single night. That is some Olympic-level stamina.” I keep scanning barcodes. “And the car, Cara. Did you see the car? Phantom. Blacked out. Plates aren’t even real. That’s mob money, honey. Old mob money. The kind you don’t ask questions about.” “Mm-hmm.” “Lucky girl, that one. Designer head to toe. Earrings probably cost more than my house.” She squints at the security monitor. “Y’know, she looks familiar. I swear I’ve seen her somewhere.” She turns to me, eyes narrowing. “Cara. Honey. Tell me she’s not someone you know.” I keep my eyes on the register. “She’s nobody.” Rita doesn’t buy it. She bumps my hip with hers. “C’mon. Spill. Were they together before? Was she your friend? Roommate? Sister? Give me something.” “There’s nothing to give.” I close the drawer. Take a breath. “Rita. Can I take a couple days off this week? I’ve got a doctor’s appointment.” She blinks. “Sure, baby. Of course. The dad going with you?” I shake my head. “Going alone.” She sighs, long and tired. “Every appointment, you go alone. Whoever this man is, honey — he’s a piece of trash.” I press my lips together. I don’t argue. Because she’s right. And because the man she’s calling trash just walked out of my store with his new girl, a fresh box of condoms, and absolutely no idea what I’m carrying under this cheap uniform. His baby. Eight weeks along.
It’s a stupid story. The kind that sounds made up. The brunette on Patrick’s arm? Her name’s Chiara Conti. She was my roommate in college. And four years ago, she stole my face. Not literally. She just took every photo off my social media — the candid ones, the blurry ones, the ones where my hair fell over my eyes just right — and used them to bait a rich boy online. A very rich boy. She bragged about him every night in our dorm. Said he was loaded. Said he was obsessed. “He sent me money again. Like, ten grand. I haven’t even spent the last one. So embarrassing.” She’d stretch out on her bed, scrolling. Eyes flicking up to make sure I was listening. “Don’t be jealous, Cara. I know you’re on financial aid. But some of us just get lucky, you know?” After that, everything she owned got upgraded. Designer bags. Red bottoms. Dinners that cost what I made in two weeks. Her mystery boyfriend had bad insomnia, she said. Real clingy. Needed her on the phone every night till dawn. So every night she’d lock herself in the bathroom, voice gone soft and breathy, giggling for hours. I slept four hours a night, if I was lucky. I was on three jobs. My parents had split when I was nine. Both remarried. Both forgot to remember me. I paid my own tuition. I bought my own instant noodles. One morning I tried to sneak out for my 5 a.m. shift, careful not to wake anyone. Chiara sat up in bed and threw a pillow at my back. “You’re so dramatic, Cara. Some of us are trying to sleep. If you’re that broke, just drop out and find a sugar daddy. God knows it’d be less annoying than this.” I didn’t answer. I had a bus to catch. The job that morning was at a coffee shop two miles from campus. A man came in. Ordered the most expensive thing on the menu. Sat in the corner and watched me. He was — okay, I’ll just say it. He was beautiful. Black coat, amber eyes, jawline like a weapon. Half the girls in the shop were filming him on their phones. When I brought him his coffee, he slid a hundred-dollar tip across the table and grinned, slow and lazy. “Long shift, baby?” I blinked. “Why are you up this early pulling shifts? I send you plenty of money. You need more? Just say the word.” I stared at him. “I’m sorry — what?” His smile flickered. He pulled out his phone, opened his camera roll, and turned the screen toward me. It was full of pictures of me. Hundreds of them. “You’ve got that little mole right under your ear, baby. That’s you. Don’t act like you don’t know me. You call me daddy every night.” I almost dropped the tray. “That’s my face. But sir — I have never seen you before in my life.” His smile died. We sat down. We pieced it together. Within twenty minutes we’d figured out exactly what Chiara had done. He looked like he was going to put his fist through the wall. Then he looked at me, really looked, and the anger melted into something else. Something sharper. Hungrier. He held out his hand. “Patrick Pelletier. And whoever the hell you actually are — I want to know you.” I should’ve walked away. I knew the last name. Everyone in this city knew the last name. The Pelletiers don’t run a company. They run the city. Patrick was the old Don’s only son, and the only son meant heir. Heir meant blood. Blood meant rules — alliance marriages, no outsiders, no civilians. But he leaned across the table and lowered his voice, and his eyes were doing that thing. “Stick with me, sweetheart. Life gets a hell of a lot easier.” God help me — I let it. I was so tired. I was so tired of being tired. I said yes.
Watch👉 https://cps-front.novelix.live/app-api/ext/new/20260707ySvem5360W 🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “Novelix” app 🔍 search for “ni001904”, and watch the full series ✨! #Novelix
Leave a Reply