His Pathetic, Worthless Affection

My family’s business went bankrupt. To pay my younger brother’s medical bills, my creditors pushed me to the edge.

That was when I met Rhys Prescott again, the first love I had abandoned, now a titan of Wall Street.

He stared down at me from his ivory tower. "Genevieve, be my mistress, and I'll clear your debts."

Without hesitation, I signed the degrading contract.

After we were reunited, I was no longer the proud artist I once was.

He brought his fiancée to humiliate me, and I served them with quiet submission.

Even when he deliberately doted on another woman right in front of me, I would only offer a vacant smile and turn away.

I had become the pliant toy he’d always wanted.

But when I finally paid my debts and prepared to walk away, he clutched my wrist, his eyes wild. "Who gave you permission to leave?"

"Genevieve," he rasped, "you stopped loving me a long time ago, didn't you?"

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1

The cold winter wind whipped snowflakes through the narrow alleys of Brooklyn.

I huddled in a corner slick with grime, shivering uncontrollably.

Scalding coffee had been thrown on the back of my hand, leaving it red and swollen. A piercing pain still throbbed beneath the skin.

This was the debt collectors’ idea of a “greeting.”

"The precious daughter of the Sterling family... If you can't scrape the money together by tonight, next time this coffee will be going in your face."

They departed, leaving a torrent of profanities and my torn coat in their wake.

A harsh beam of headlights sliced through the darkness, pinning me in its glare.

I instinctively raised a grimy hand to shield my eyes.

A black Rolls-Royce Phantom glided to a stop, the window half-lowered.

It was the same model I used to ride in before my family went bankrupt.

The car door opened, and a gleaming Oxford shoe stepped into a murky puddle.

My gaze traveled up his perfectly tailored trousers to a priceless, custom-made suit.

An outfit worth at least six figures.

The man held a black umbrella, looking down at me with eyes colder than the December wind.

I froze.

Rhys Prescott.

The boy from the Bronx my family had once scorned, the one they’d thrown off our estate.

Now, he was a revered financial titan on Wall Street.

And I was a down-and-out artist drowning in debt.

The debt collectors, so menacing moments ago, plastered on fawning smiles when they saw Rhys.

"Mr. Prescott! What brings you out in a blizzard like this...?"

Rhys ignored them, his gaze locked on me.

He strode toward me and lifted his foot, pressing his shoe onto the back of my scalded hand.

I didn't flinch. I let him grind it into my flesh.

It was so cold that the pressure from his shoe brought a twisted sort of warmth.

He slowly increased the pressure, twisting his heel.

The friction on the raw burn sent a sharp, scalp-numbing pain through me.

"Genevieve, does it hurt?"

His voice was a low rumble, laced with a bone-chilling cold.

"How does this compare to that snowy day your family tossed me out like trash?"

I clenched my jaw, refusing to make a sound.

It hurt. Of course, it hurt.

But I had lost the right to cry out.

The debt collectors watched, understanding now. To this financial titan, I was nothing more than a toy for him to break.

Rhys removed his foot, wiping the sole of his shoe on a clean patch of snow with a look of disgust.

"Genevieve Sterling, beg me."

I lifted my head. Slush dripped from my matted hair into my eyes, stinging.

"Mr. Prescott, could you lend me fifty thousand dollars? My brother is in the hospital..."

"Lend?"

He let out a cold, sharp laugh.

"The Sterling name is worthless. What could you possibly use to pay me back? That body of yours? Who knows how many men have touched it."

I said nothing, my nails digging into my palms.

He bent down, his fingers pinching my chin, forcing my gaze up to meet his.

"Be my mistress, and I'll clear your debts."

I didn't hesitate for long.

Faced with Noah’s crushing medical bills, my dignity was a luxury I couldn't afford.

"Okay."

I heard my own voice, a hoarse whisper torn from my throat.

My quick agreement seemed to displease him. A flicker of violence flashed in his eyes.

"Get in the car."

The car was warm, filled with the crisp scent of cedarwood.

A pink handbag sat on the passenger seat—unmistakably Chloe Radcliffe’s style.

Soaked to the bone, I perched on the edge of the leather seat, afraid to get the expensive material wet.

When Rhys got in, his brow furrowed deeper at the sight of me.

"Who are you trying to fool with this damsel-in-distress act?"

He grabbed my waist and ruthlessly pulled me onto his lap.

The muddy water from my clothes instantly stained his expensive trousers.

I scrambled to get up. "Rhys, I'm dirty…"

"So you know you're dirty?"

His tone was mocking as his merciless fingers traced the angry, red burn on my hand.

"This is all you're worth now."

The car sped through the city, arriving at a penthouse apartment in Manhattan.

This was where Rhys lived.

As we entered, he gestured curtly toward the bathroom.

"Go wash up. Don't get my floors dirty."

There were no clean clothes for me.

I emerged wrapped in a bath towel. Rhys was on the sofa, a cigar smoldering between his fingers.

He casually tossed a silk gown at me.

It wasn't new.

"Put it on."

I unfolded the gown. The faint scent of another woman's perfume clung to the fabric.

Jo Malone. Chloe's signature scent.

I turned my back to him, let the towel drop, and slipped the dress on.

When I turned around, Rhys was on a video call.

On the screen, Chloe Radcliffe was smiling sweetly. "Rhys, are you in bed yet? I miss you."

The man whose expression had been thunderous moments before now spoke with impossible gentleness.

"Not yet. Just dealt with some trash I picked up. You should get some sleep. I'll pick you up tomorrow."

I stood ten feet away, listening to him whisper sweet nothings to another woman.

After he hung up, the softness vanished from his face.

He looked at me, his eyes a volatile mix of lust and disgust.

He shot to his feet, crossed the room in a few long strides, and shoved me down onto the sofa.

I squeezed my eyes shut, my body tensing like a drawn bow.

The assault I braced for never came.

A sneer echoed in my ear.

"You reek of cheapness. It's nauseating."

He let go of me and took out a wet wipe, meticulously cleaning his hands.

"Get out. Sleep on the couch in the study. I don't want to see you."

Clutching the silk of the gown, I all but crawled into the study.

The room was large, but I didn't dare venture beyond the space I was allotted.

I curled up on the cold leather sofa, my fingers tracing the faint indentation on my left ring finger where a daisy-chain bracelet once sat. A promise from a poor boy named Rhys in Central Park. "Gen," he'd said, "one day I'll replace this with a real one."

Now, the daisies had long since rotted away.

Just like me.