My CEO's Blackmail Tape - Chapter 17: Chapter 17

Sophia Hill was a nightclub queen, the kind of girl who turned every party into her own personal stage. I'd barely taken a sip of my drink before she yanked me onto the dance floor, pressing me against strangers with a shamelessness that left my face burning.
It took three tries to drag her out of there.
The walk home was quiet—at least on my end. Sophia jabbered away while I answered in grunts. She rolled her eyes, calling me a buzzkill, too stiff to let loose even for one night. I managed a half-hearted smile but kept my mouth shut.
The second we stepped inside, I bolted for the shower. The water hit me like a slap—freezing, because I hadn't bothered to adjust it. I didn't care.
I scrubbed until my skin burned pink, then ripped the showerhead from its mount, blasting myself at full pressure like I could power-wash the filth away.
A voice in my head hissed, "What's the point? You're already ruined."
With a snarl, I hurled the showerhead against the tiles. Pain flared in my nose, and a sob ripped from my throat.
The shame was suffocating. I didn't hate myself for sleeping with Nathan Roscente—I hated myself for liking it. For wanting more, even now.
I stayed under the spray until my tears ran dry and my fingers wrinkled. Only then did I reach for a towel.
A thud from the living room—Daniel was home.
He paused outside the bathroom. "Evelyn?"
"Just a minute," I called, taking my time.
When I finally stepped out, he was slumped on the couch, exhaustion carved into his face. I moved behind him, kneading his shoulders.
He caught my hand, his voice rough. "Did you go out?"
A beat of hesitation. "No."
Daniel sighed, turning to face me. "I'm sorry. Work's been eating me alive."
His eyes—deep, steady—felt like they could see straight through me.
Guilt prickled under my skin. I coughed, forcing a smile as I looked away.
Later, we lay side by side in bed.
"Evelyn," he murmured, "today at work, the women were saying... how a satisfied woman glows. I—I've failed you."
I'd heard this script before. I rolled onto my side, silent.
His arm curled around my waist, fingers slipping under my shirt to trace my breast. Warm breath brushed my neck.
Every muscle in my body locked tight.
He almost never touched me like this—too afraid to stoke a fire he couldn't put out. But tonight, maybe loosened by alcohol, his hands grew bold, sliding lower like a slow, creeping snake.
Once, I would've melted. Now, revulsion twisted in my gut.
He'd only leave me aching, desperate, while he lay there, useless.
Exhausted, I caught his wrist. "Let's just sleep."
He froze. Then he pulled away, stiff with humiliation.
I knew he lay awake for hours, but I couldn't bring myself to look. He must've felt so broken.
And I had nothing to say.
Then, out of nowhere:
"Last night... you were moaning in your sleep. You wanted it, didn't you?"