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She Never Expected to Get Caught Ch. 02

Emma used to walk into the grocery store with her chin high, yoga pants hugging her thighs, hair in a perfect ponytail, sunglasses perched like a crown. People looked. People whispered. She pretended not to hear. But she did.

Eventually, she went about reinventing herself. Hot yoga at 6am. New hair. A streak of purple that made her look younger for about a week. She posted filtered selfies on Instagram, hashtags about "freedom" and "living her best life" while her hand shook on the wine glass.

Nights were worst. When she couldn't sleep, she'd scroll through dating apps, matching with men who told her she was beautiful, hot, "so MILF." It made her feel seen. For a moment, she felt powerful. Desired. The problem was it never lasted. The next morning, she'd wake up in a stranger's bed or in her own with a stranger next to her, cum-filled or caked on her back, sheets twisted, the air stale with sweat and disappointment.

The men didn't care about her, not really. They cared about her body, the easy conversation, the no-strings sex. She told herself she was in control. That she was choosing this. That this was liberation.She Never Expected to Get Caught Ch. 02 фото

But each morning, it felt less like freedom and more like being unmoored. She'd shower the scent of them off her skin, but it never fully washed away.

Meeting Kyle

It was a Tuesday afternoon when she met Kyle.

She was at a café, laptop open, trying to work on her resume, pretending she was about to "start fresh." The truth was she was living off alimony and sporadic freelance gigs that paid in exposure.

Kyle recognized her immediately.

"Emma, right? Michael's ex?"

She looked up, startled. Kyle was tall, broad-shouldered, expensive watch glinting, hair perfectly styled. She remembered him vaguely from Michael's office parties -- the kind of guy who made inappropriate jokes and laughed too loudly. Back then, she'd found him obnoxious. Now, he felt like attention.

"Oh. Hey, Kyle. Yeah."

They talked. He bought her coffee. He leaned in too close, smelled like cologne and something bitter underneath. He complimented her hair, her laugh, her smile.

It wasn't subtle. But she was lonely, and he was available.

When he asked her out that weekend, she said yes.

The First Night

They went to a rooftop bar. Kyle ordered top-shelf tequila, talked about "deals" and "market plays" as if she cared. She laughed when he expected her to, nodded when he bragged about his new Porsche, let him touch her hand across the table.

She knew what was coming, and she let it happen.

They went back to his condo, minimalist and cold, with a view of the city that felt like someone else's life.

Kyle pressed her against the glass, kissed her hard, his hands rough on her hips. She let him pull off her clothes, let him call her "baby," let herself moan because that's what he wanted.

He pressed her down and unzipped his pants. He pulled out his cock, six inches - average, nothing special. She dutifully took it in her mouth, closing her lips and working the tip with her tongue as she moves her head back and forth. Kyle grabbed her head and roughly forced himself down her throat making her almost gag. She let him face fuck her before her pulled out and bent her over. Entering her roughly - no thought for her other than as an object for his own pleasure.

It was fast, mechanical, but whereas the roughness that used to make her feel alive, now it just made her feel like an object. When it was over, she lay there while he scrolled on his phone, already distant, already bored.

She dressed quietly. He didn't offer to drive her home.

The Pattern

She told herself it was just sex. Nothing more. She didn't want more.

But she kept answering his texts. The ones at midnight: "You up?" or "Come over." Sometimes he'd take her out, usually when he wanted her on his arm for a work event, showing her off like a trophy. Other times, he wouldn't even kiss her when she walked in, just pulling her upstairs, using her body like it was a disposable toy, a reward for himself.

Emma pretended she didn't care. She wore lingerie she bought with the last of her boutique store credit, let him film them sometimes when he asked, let him degrade her with words she used to think were vile.

And for a few minutes, she almost felt wanted.

But afterward, when she'd stand in his bathroom, looking at herself in the mirror, mascara smudged, hair wild, bruises on her hips, she felt like she was dissolving. Like there was nothing left but the echo of her own breathing.

Running Into Michael and Jenna

It was a Saturday morning at the farmer's market.

She hadn't planned on going, but the loneliness in her apartment was suffocating, so she threw on sunglasses and went, pretending she needed vegetables she wouldn't cook.

She saw them before they saw her. Michael and Jenna, walking hand in hand, Jenna holding Sadie's hand, Michael carrying their son on his shoulders, all laughing about something small and unremarkable.

They looked like a family.

She froze. For a second, she wanted to run up, to join them, to pretend she still fit in that picture.

Then Michael saw her. His eyes met hers, and there was no hatred there. Just pity. A sad, tired pity that made her want to scream.

Jenna gave her a polite nod. That was worse than hate, too.

Emma turned and walked away before they could say anything. She went home and opened a bottle of wine before noon.

When Kyle texted that night, "Come over. Bring that thing I like," she went.

The Moment Everything Cracked

It was the fourth month of her non-relationship with Kyle.

They were at a bar with some of his colleagues. She wasn't introduced as his girlfriend, or even as "Emma." Just a presence. Someone he could touch when he felt like it.

She excused herself to the bathroom and caught her reflection in the mirror.

She looked tired. Older. Her eyes were hollow, skin pale, lips chapped. She remembered how she used to look before -- not perfect, but whole. She remembered how Michael used to look at her with softness, even in the hard times.

Now, she was an accessory. A temporary pleasure for a man who didn't even like her, let alone love her.

When she returned to the table, Kyle was flirting with the bartender, his hand on the girl's wrist, eyes gleaming. Emma stood there, invisible, until he noticed her.

"Oh, hey," he said, smirking. "You ready?"

In the Uber, he tried to pull her into his lap, kissed her neck, his breath hot and sour with whiskey.

She felt nothing.

They went back to his place. He pulled her clothes off, pushed her onto the bed, started taking what he wanted.

Halfway through, she pushed him off.

"What the fuck?" he snapped.

"I can't," she said, voice shaking. "I can't do this anymore."

He laughed. "You're kidding, right? You're already here."

She shook her head, pulling the sheet around herself. "I'm done."

"Don't be dramatic," he said, reaching for her.

"Don't fucking touch me," she snapped.

He froze, then rolled his eyes, flopping onto his back. "Whatever. Leave, then."

She dressed quickly, grabbing her shoes, her purse, ignoring the shaking in her hands.

She left without looking back.

The Slow Crawl Back

Emma didn't fix her life overnight. There was no magical redemption, no dramatic transformation.

But she stopped answering Kyle's texts. Blocked his number. Deleted the photos he took, the videos he'd sent her at 2am. She stopped drinking during the day. Started drinking less at night.

She called her kids more, actually listening when they talked about school, about their friends, about the small details she used to ignore.

She started therapy. Hated it at first, the silence, the questions, the way it forced her to look at herself. But she kept going.

The therapist didn't coddle her. Told her, bluntly, "You're chasing validation in people who will never give it to you."

Emma cried during that session, not because she was sad, but because she finally understood how lost she was.

Crossing Paths Again

It was spring when she saw Michael again.

They met in a parking lot during kid pickup. The kids were running around, laughing, Jenna standing nearby, talking to another parent.

Emma walked up to Michael, nerves twisting in her stomach.

"Hey," she said.

He looked at her, tired but kind. "Hey."

There was a pause.

"I'm... I'm trying to do better," she said softly.

He nodded. "Good."

"I know I messed up," she added. "Not just with you. With... everything."

Michael nodded again, glancing toward Jenna, who was watching with careful eyes.

"I hope you find your way, Emma," he said.

And he meant it. That hurt more than if he had hated her.

She watched as he walked back to Jenna, putting an arm around her shoulders, leaning down to kiss her temple. The kids joined them, laughter echoing, a small, imperfect symphony of family.

Emma stood alone, keys in her hand, blinking against the sun.

After

Emma didn't get a happy ending. Not like Michael and Jenna.

She got a small apartment, a cat she named Cleo, and a job at a local boutique. She went to therapy, kept going to yoga, learned how to cook for herself instead of drinking dinner out of a bottle.

She dated sometimes, cautiously, but didn't let herself fall into the same patterns. She learned to say no. Learned that being alone was better than being used.

Her relationship with the kids was careful, mending in small steps. They forgave slowly, in ways only children can, with hesitant hugs and quiet conversations.

Sometimes, late at night, Emma would sit on her balcony, looking at the lights of the city, and think about the woman she used to be. The choices she made. The things she lost.

And she would cry. Not out of regret, but out of grief for the parts of herself she gave away to people who never deserved them.

She wasn't healed. She wasn't whole. But she was alive.

And for now, that was enough.

The End

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