Cheating Season

The gossip account that broke the news had posted a photo.

A dimly lit parking lot, rain streaking down.

Joel stood by the open car door, one hand braced against the frame, his expression cold, gaze sharp.

Inside the car, the person was completely hidden—except for a glimpse of soft blue fabric from a skirt and the logo on a pair of high heels.

The comment section exploded.

[If I remember right, Joel Arnoult is only 19? He's already dating?]

[19 is legal. What's the big deal? It's not affecting his matches.]

[Am I the only one curious about who his girlfriend is? That brand—those heels cost tens of thousands, and that pair is a limited edition.]

[He didn't get scooped up by some rich woman, did he?]

The club called almost immediately.

"Boss, reporters are already asking. Should we handle PR?"

I pressed a finger to the cut on my cheek, my voice steady. "Deny everything about Joel's relationship."

But before a press conference could even be arranged—

Someone caught him on camera at a café near the club.

The photo showed Joel in front of a strawberry cake, his expression dark.

Even through the screen, his irritation was obvious.

A bold fan approached. "Mr. Arnoult, are you in a bad mood?"

His eyes flicked over. "Yeah. Had a fight with my girlfriend."

The video shot to the top of the trending list.

His call came just as I reached the gates of the Lloyd family mansion.

"Leila." His voice was tight. "So you really planned to sleep with me and run?"

***

The last traces of daylight bled into the night.

I stood in the deepening hues of the sunset, my voice calm.

"Yes," I said. "Got what I wanted. Turns out you weren't that special. Boring."

Silence.

Then Joel spoke, voice trembling ever so slightly. "I told you—don't play me, Leila."

A quiet laugh escaped me. "Joel, I warned you. I'm no better than Scott."

Silence again.

Then the line went dead.

I shoved the doors open.

A ceramic plate came flying—smashing right into my forehead.

"Leila Lloyd!" My father's voice was ice. "I sent you to the Fletchers to secure Scott and keep our deal intact. One job. And you failed?"

His face was stone. "Study. Now."

Inside, the leather whip waited.

The scars on my back came from the last time I refused to marry Scott.

Back then, his fiancée was my father's real daughter—Miriam. But after some stupid fight, she ran off and married someone else out of spite.

Scott lost it. Threatened to sever all ties with the Lloyds.

So my father dragged me back—the illegitimate daughter who'd spent more than twenty years in the slums.

Forty lashes.

By the end, I was on the floor, back split open, flesh raw, bones nearly showing.

Somewhere through the pain, I heard my own voice:

"Fine... I'll go. I'll make him marry me."

Tonight felt just like four years ago.