Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 16: The Countdown to Hell

{This Chapter Contents Some Trauma Be Warned)

June's POV

I locked the door.

I know it'll piss him off when he comes to my room. But I can't help myself. It's not like it will stop him—not like it ever has. He has a key. He's always had a key.

Still, locking it makes me feel like I have some control, even if it's just an illusion.

I glance at the clock.

Fifteen minutes.

That's all I have before he comes.

I clench my fists, my breath coming in short, shallow bursts. He always gives me exactly twenty minutes after I step inside the house—twenty minutes to do what, I don't know. Maybe he thinks I sit here, waiting for him, knowing what's coming.

And he's right.

I do.

Not because I want to. But because preparing myself is the only thing that keeps me from completely shattering.

My stomach twists violently, and I grip the edges of my bed. The silence in the room feels suffocating, pressing against me like a heavy weight.

Fourteen minutes.

My hands are cold. My pulse is erratic.

I stare at the door, knowing it'll open whether I want it to or not.

Thirteen minutes.

The voices in my head whisper all the possibilities of tonight. Will he be drunker than usual? Angrier? Rougher?

Twelve minutes.

I should change into something less... noticeable. The last time I wore this top, he made a comment about how "attention-seeking" I was. I don't want to give him a reason. Not that he needs one.

Eleven minutes.

I stand up, but my legs feel weak. My limbs are heavy, like I'm sinking in quicksand. My throat feels tight. Breathe, June. Just breathe.

Ten minutes.

The second hand on the clock feels too loud. Every tick is a reminder that time is running out.

Nine minutes.

I should text someone. But who? My so-called best friend betrayed me. My other "friends" only liked me because of my status. And Justin—

Justin.

His name sends a strange shiver down my spine.

He was different today. The way he punched Bart. The way he kissed me. The way he looked at me. Like he was claiming me, like he dared anyone to touch me.

It wasn't fake.

Not to him.

For the first time in years, I had felt... safe.

Eight minutes.

My fingers itch to grab my phone. To text him. To ask him to come get me. But that would be insane. That would mean letting him in, letting him see this side of my life.

And no one—not a single soul—could ever know.

Seven minutes.

I sit back down on my bed, curling my arms around myself. Maybe if I make myself small enough, invisible enough, he won't see me. Won't notice me.

Six minutes.

I swallow hard, my mouth dry.

Five.

The floorboards creak downstairs.

Four.

Footsteps. Slow. Steady.

Three.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Two.

The doorknob rattles.

One.

The key turns.

"You locked the door..."

That was the first thing he said as he stepped into my room, closing it behind him.

It wasn't a question.

It wasn't even an accusation.

It was a statement—one that told me exactly what was coming.

Happy thoughts. Think of something else.

Most of the time, when he came, I would force my brain to believe it was my boyfriend, Bart. Pretend it was him. Convince myself. But now, with Bart proving himself to be just another cruel, selfish bastard, I had nothing left.

Nothing except the monster.

His wicked smile stretches across his face, and I hate it. I hate it.

I want to scream. I want to shout. But I can't.

No one would believe me.

If my own mother refuses to see the truth, then who else would?

And he knows it.

He always makes sure to remind me—every single time he comes into my room.

I press myself against the headboard, gripping the sheets so tightly my nails dig into my palm. He takes slow, deliberate steps toward me, as if savoring the fear that tightens my throat. My heart slams against my ribs, my body already preparing for the inevitable.

"Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts."

But there are none left.

There used to be Bart—his arms, his scent, his voice. But now, even that lie is gone. The only thing left is him. The monster in designer suits. The man everyone admires. The father who was supposed to protect me.

He stops at the foot of my bed, tilting his head like he always does, watching me. He loves this part—the anticipation. The moment when I am still pretending there's a way out of this.

"You shouldn't have locked the door," he says again, voice calm, almost amused.

I say nothing.

I don't beg anymore. I don't cry.

It never helps.

Instead, I stare at the clock on my wall. My twenty minutes are up.

His smile widens.

And I shut down.

I let my mind drift far away, to a place where he doesn't exist. To a place where I am not here.

To a place where someone—anyone—will save me.

{Trigger Alert}

Today, he made it last longer—because I refused to cry.

He hates when I don't break. Loves it when I do.

If anyone were to see him like this, they'd think he was making love to me. Slow, sweet, almost tender. But I know better. That's why I go to Red Bull Club. To find someone who will fuck me hard, rough—so different from him that I can scrub his filthy touch from my skin, even if just for a little while.

This chapter is updat𝙚d by freeweɓnovel.cøm.

Sometimes, it works.

Sometimes, it doesn't.

But lately, with Bad Wolf, it's different. He doesn't just make me forget—he erases it. When I'm with him, the nightmares don't crawl into bed with me. The phantom weight of him fades. Maybe I'll ask the club to set me up with him again.

The body on top of me thrusts one last time before stilling, a low groan spilling from his lips. That voice.

I fucking hate that voice.

But it always signals the same thing: it's over. At least for now.

I don't look up. I never look up. Last time I did, I saw his smile—that satisfied, smug grin that still haunts me when I close my eyes.

I already know what's next.

Every Thursday afternoon. Every Tuesday night.

That's his schedule. The times he comes to my room. The times I brace myself for hell.

I tried running once. It was useless. He found me before I even made it out of the city. His connections, his influence—it makes escape impossible. The world sees a man who fights for women's rights, a philanthropist who donates millions to orphanages and funds girl-child sponsorship programs.

No one would ever believe that the man who champions abused girls...is abusing his own daughter.