Chapter 6
1557words
It was a message from Alex: "Tonight after my band's performance, there's a party. I need a female companion, dressed a bit sexy."
The fork in my hand dropped into the paper box.
Alex never took me to any of his social activities. For the past eight months, our relationship had been strictly limited to his loft and occasional late-night dates. I'd seen photos of his friends and heard him talk about the band, but I'd never been allowed to step into his real social circle.
And now, he wanted to take me to a party. As his date.
My heart started beating wildly, blood rushed to my head, making me feel dizzy. Did this mean our relationship was upgrading? Did it mean I was finally changing from just one name on his "rotation list" to someone special?
I immediately replied: "Sure, what time?"
"Ten-thirty, I'll pick you up."
Pick me up. He's coming to pick me up. Alex never comes to my apartment; we always meet at his place. These details all transformed into signals of relationship progression in my eyes.
I tossed the remaining rice noodles and rushed into the bedroom to rummage through my closet. Dress sexy. I needed to look perfect, needed to make his friends see how lucky he was to have me.
Eventually I chose a black silk spaghetti strap dress, tight but not excessive, sexy yet tasteful. I spent two hours on makeup, ensuring every detail was flawless. When I saw myself in the mirror, I saw a woman who could stand beside any man without being overshadowed.
At ten twenty-five, Alex rang the doorbell.
When I opened the door, his eyes lingered on me for a few seconds, then he nodded. "Good. Let's go."
That was it. No compliments, no kiss, not even a smile. But I told myself this was just Alex's style—reserved, not good at expressing himself. What mattered was that he chose me.
In the taxi, he kept looking at his phone, occasionally replying to messages. I tried to make conversation with him, but his answers were all very brief. I started to get nervous, but I interpreted this as his taking tonight seriously—after all, this was the first time he was introducing me to his friends.
The party was held in a renovated warehouse in Brooklyn, filled with fashionably dressed young people, with the smell of tobacco and alcohol permeating the air. Alex's band had just finished their performance, and everyone was celebrating their successful signing with a small record label.
"This is Chloe," Alex put his hand on my waist, introducing me to a group of people, "my girl."
My girl.
Those two words hit my nervous system like an electric current. In that moment, I felt like I was floating. Everything around me became bright and beautiful—the music more melodious, the lights warmer, even the air seemed sweeter.
I was his girl. His.
The next few hours felt like a beautiful dream. I chatted with his friends about art, music, and life in New York. I showed my most charming side—intelligent, funny, confident. Whenever someone complimented me, I could sense something flash in Alex's eyes, perhaps pride?
"You're lucky, man," his drummer Jake said to Alex, "she's amazing."
"I know," Alex answered with a kind of relaxed certainty in his voice.
In that moment, I felt like I completely belonged here, belonged in this circle, belonged with him. I imagined future parties, imagined life as Alex's girlfriend, imagined us appearing together at various occasions.
After midnight, the crowd began to disperse. Alex said he would take me home, but when we got to the street, he changed his mind.
"Come to my place," he said, "it's closer."
In the taxi, I leaned on his shoulder, feeling the perfection of this night. We'd finally crossed that invisible boundary. I was no longer just an option in his bed, I was his girlfriend.
Returning to his loft in Williamsburg, I naturally walked toward his kitchen.
"Would you like something to drink?" I asked, caring for him like a real girlfriend. "You've been singing for so long tonight, your throat must be dry."
"Chloe."
His voice was flat, but had a power that made me stop immediately. I turned around to see him standing in the middle of the living room, hands in his pockets, his expression completely returned to its usual indifference.
"What?"
"Sit down."
I obediently sat on the sofa, a sense of foreboding beginning to rise within me. The air that had been warm as spring suddenly turned cold.
Alex sat down across from me, maintaining an appropriate distance, just like when we first met.
"Tonight was good," he said, "you performed perfectly."
Performance? This word made me uncomfortable. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, you played that role very well. My friends all liked you."
Role. Playing. These words pierced my heart like knives. "Alex, I don't understand..."
"Chloe," he sighed, as if explaining something to a child who doesn't understand, "you didn't actually think tonight meant any change, did you?"
My mouth opened, but no sound came out. The room began to spin.
"I just needed a female companion," he continued, his voice calmly cruel, "you know, a woman who looks good, is smart, and can talk well. You completed the task perfectly."
Task.
"But you said... you said I was your girl..."
"That was for them," Alex shrugged, "you wouldn't expect me to say 'this is Chloe, a woman I occasionally sleep with,' would you?"
Each word hit my chest like a bullet. I felt the blood flowing down to my toes, making my hands and feet turn ice cold.
"Alex..."
"You're great, Chloe," he stood up and walked towards me, "you're really great. And convenient too. Don't make things complicated."
Convenient.
He sat down beside me, his hand caressing my face. Even in this situation, even as my heart was breaking into thousands of pieces, my body still responded to his touch.
"Come on," he whispered, starting to kiss my neck, "we've both been good tonight, haven't we?"
I should have pushed him away. I should have stood up, told him to go to hell, and slammed the door on my way out. But I didn't.
Because even after he had just destroyed all my illusions, I still wanted him. Even though he treated me as a convenient tool, I still couldn't refuse his touch.
We had sex on the couch, as intense and full of desire as always. But this time was different. This time I knew what I was—a convenient body, a tool to be taken out and used when needed.
As he trembled and reached climax inside me, I looked through the window at the city lights outside, feeling my soul slowly drifting away from my body.
Afterward, Alex quickly fell asleep, one hand resting carelessly on my waist. I lay in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, feeling the lingering pleasure in my body and the enormous emptiness in my soul.
I thought about tonight's party, about those beautiful moments—the ecstasy when I was introduced as "my girl," the pride when chatting with his friends, the happiness when I thought I had finally "won."
Now these memories had turned sour, transformed into a carefully orchestrated performance, and I was the only actor who didn't know the script.
At five in the morning, I quietly got up, collecting my clothes scattered on the floor. Alex was still sleeping, a satisfied expression on his face. I looked at him, wanting to remember this moment—not because it was beautiful, but because it was painful.
I needed to remember this feeling, remember this complete humiliation and despair, so that I wouldn't make the same mistake again.
I quietly opened the door and slipped out like a thief. The hallway was quiet, with only the faint tapping of my high heels on the floor.
While waiting for a taxi downstairs, I saw my reflection in the glass door—messy hair, smudged makeup, and my black dress that was flawless last night now wrinkled. I looked exactly how I felt: thoroughly used and then discarded.
The taxi arrived, the driver was a middle-aged man who glanced at me in the rearview mirror but said nothing. Perhaps he often carried passengers like me—women in party dresses leaving some man's apartment in the early hours, carrying shame and regret.
"Brooklyn Heights," I gave the address, my voice hoarse.
The car started moving, and I leaned back against the seat, watching the streets of Williamsburg slide past the window. The sun was about to rise, and a new day was beginning.
My phone vibrated once.
It was Alex: "Sorry for what I said last night. Coming tonight?"
I stared at the message, my fingers trembling.
The driver glanced at me through the rearview mirror: "Miss, we've arrived at your home."
I didn't move. I stared at that message, looking at that question mark.
"Coming tonight?"
I should delete his number. I should block him. I should get out of the car, go home, sleep, and forget all of this.
But my fingers were already typing: "What time?"
