CHAPTER 3: A Body That Doesn't Feel Like Mine

The sheets were stained.

Milo lay motionless, eyes open, the ceiling above him blurred from unshed tears. The sun poured in through the massive window, warm and golden—but all he felt was cold.

His body ached.

Inside. Out.

Everything.

He could feel every place Win had touched him. Every place he hadn’t touched—only taken.

There were no sweet words after. No tenderness.

Win hadn’t even looked at him once it was over.

He’d zipped up his pants, adjusted his cufflinks, and walked out as if Milo were nothing more than a used napkin.

Milo hadn’t moved since.

Now, every muscle screamed in protest as he tried to sit up. The sheets dragged across raw skin, sticky with sweat, blood, and shame. A sharp gasp escaped his lips—he bit down on it quickly. No one could hear that. Especially not Win.

The mirror across the room caught his reflection.

He looked like a ghost.

His lips were swollen, bitten. His neck was painted with purples and reds, some shaped like teeth. His wrists were bruised from where Win had pinned them above his head. And lower—

He shut his eyes. He couldn’t look.

“This is your punishment,” Win had whispered against his ear last night, voice soaked in venom. “For what you did to her.”

Her.

Mimi.

The name clanged in Milo’s chest like a bell tolling for the dead.

He hadn’t even gotten to say he didn’t do it.

Not once.

A knock on the door. Sharp. Three times.

“Milo.” Win’s voice. Calm. Cold. “Get cleaned up. You’ll be sitting next to me when the press arrives.”

Milo opened his mouth, then closed it again. What could he say? That he could barely walk? That he bled when he tried?

He stood.

His knees buckled instantly, and he fell back onto the bed with a cry.

Footsteps. Closer.

The door opened without permission.

Win stepped inside, dressed in ivory, as pristine and powerful as a man above the world. His eyes scanned Milo’s naked form—unbothered by the bruises. If anything, he looked satisfied.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Milo’s throat tightened. “I can’t—”

“You can,” Win cut him off. “You’re good at pretending, aren’t you?”

Milo’s fingers clenched the sheets. “Why are you doing this?”

Win walked over slowly, leaning down until their faces were inches apart.

“Because every time you breathe, she stays dead.”

Then he turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

Milo didn’t cry.

He just sat there, naked in a stranger’s body, wondering when he stopped belonging to himself.

To be continued...

Author:-

You love to hate me, it's a twisted game,