Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
This is my true escape, my secret world where I can be anyone I want. The persona I’ve crafted here is confident, mysterious, and alluring—everything I wish I could be in real life.
The notification icon is lit up, and I tap it eagerly. Comments and messages flood in, each one a little burst of validation. You were amazing last night! Can’t wait for your next stream! You’re the highlight of my evening!
I bask in the praise, feeling my mood lift with each message. Here, in this digital realm, I’m adored. Desired. Important. It’s potent, and for a moment, I forget about my real-world troubles—the lackluster content, spending another holiday without my parents, living in their house which is far above my means, and the lingering disappointment of Jack’s silence, wondering if I read more into our hot chocolate date—not date—than he did.
But as I scroll through the comments, one freezes me off guard.
“I loved how you finally showed more of your face. I wish you had shown even more.”
Wait! What?
I pull up my replay to see for myself. Panic sets in. My heart races as I frantically scan through the video, praying it’s a misunderstanding. But there it is—a moment where the camera slipped, and the lighting is just right, revealing more of my features than I ever intended. It’s only a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity as I watch my carefully crafted anonymity crumble.
I slam my laptop shut, breathing heavily. This can’t be happening. My mind whirls with potential consequences. What if someone recognizes me? What if this gets back to Moth to the Flame, to the brand I represent? I signed a morality clause! No way does masturbating with a dildo on a live stream classify as moral. Fuck me. Fuck me and not in the fun dildo fuck me kind of way.
The life I’ve built could come crashing down around me.
What will Moth to the Flame do if they know that rather than promoting their jewelry next to gingerbread and mistletoe, I’m instead using their delicate chains and pendants as sensual props in my late-night streams? The thought makes me nauseous. I’ve worked so hard to keep these two worlds separate, and now they’re threatening to collide in the most catastrophic way possible.
I know better than this. I’ve always been so careful. But Jack . . . he got me so . . . fuck . . .
With trembling fingers, I reopen the laptop and start damage control. I delete the video, hoping it hasn’t been screen-recorded or shared elsewhere. But the internet is forever, and I know deep down that I can’t undo what’s been done.
My stomach grumbles and I’m not sure if it’s from fear or hunger, but since I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and I’ve been cooped up inside all day working, I decide to venture out for some food . . . and a stiff cocktail. Maybe a change of scenery will help clear my head and give me some perspective on this mess.
I grab my coat and keys, hurrying out the door before I can change my mind. The crisp evening air hits my face, and I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves. I take a look around and I’m struck by how quiet the neighborhood is.
Almost too quiet.
And I get this eerie feeling that eyes are on me.
I shake off the paranoia, chalking it up to my frayed nerves. Still, I glance over my shoulder as I walk down the sidewalk. The streetlights cast long shadows, and every rustle of leaves makes me jump.
The local pub is a few blocks away, and I set off at a brisk pace, my mind still racing.
As I walk down the street, I try to take in the holiday decorations adorning the storefronts and lamp posts. Twinkling lights and garlands of evergreen should lift my spirits, but they only serve as a stark reminder of how alone I feel.
Alone and lost.
As I push open the heavy wooden door of The Rusty Nail, the familiar scent of beer and fried food greet me. It’s busy for a weeknight, the low hum of conversation punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter. I make my way to the bar, squeezing into an empty spot.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asks, wiping down the counter.
“Whiskey, neat,” I reply, surprising myself. I’m usually more of a fruity cocktail kind of girl, but I can’t exactly order a pina colada and sound cool, and tonight calls for something stronger.
The bartender nods and pours me a generous measure. I take a sip, wincing at the burn. As the warmth spreads through my chest and kills every single germ I may or may not have had in my body, I scan the room, half-hoping to see a familiar face and half-dreading it.