She let the gown slip away. In any other moment this would have been pure erotic fantasy—a maid stripping for me. Instead it was horror. Bruises mottled her stomach, clear signs of punches. I placed a hand on her shoulder, turned her gently, and saw the whip marks across her back. Ugly, but none looked deep enough to scar permanently. Still, the sight twisted my gut.

"Minne… why did you let him?"

"I… M-Master… I had no choice," she choked, tears spilling.

I bit my lip as she sobbed, shoulders shaking. I pulled her into a hug. She stiffened, then clung to me, tears soaking my shirt. That bastard Guy.

"He hits when I am slow. He hits when I speak out of turn. He called me a piece of furniture once. He said if I did not make people happy he would make sure nobody wanted me." Her words tapered off into a ragged breath.

When the sobs slowed, she sniffed and wiped her face on the back of her hand, mortified by the mess of feelings. "I am sorry I made such a scene," she whispered. "I am useless."

"You are not useless," I said. "You are alive. That matters."

She looked up then, face raw. "You are not like him," she said slowly. "You are not like the others."

I ended the embrace and nodded—more to myself than her. "Go sleep, Minne. You need rest."

"Y-yes, Master." She wiped her face, still sniffling.

I picked up the nightgown and handed it over. She shuffled toward her room, dragging it in one hand. Guy… no. Taking the penthouse wasn't enough. I'd strip him of everything he valued.

"Cunt… fucking cunt…" I growled, fist clenched.

His reign was over.

But I wasn't finished with him.

That night, sleep didn't come at all. Five in the morning and I was still on the couch, staring out the window with a cold beer beside me and the ashtray full. The city below was just a smear of lights and fog. I dragged my hand down my face.

I got her pregnant.

The words kept looping in my head. I should've been happy. In some twisted way, I was. Happier than I'd ever been. But knowing I'd hurt her because I was greedy, because I wanted everything for myself, that feeling didn't stay sweet for long. It turned heavy.

I had something good with Jasmine and the others. For the first time in my life, I was content. I didn't want to ruin that. But then there was Delilah. And the mess I'd made.

"Fuck," I muttered, taking another drink.

A spark clicked behind me, followed by the sharp scent of mint and smoke.

"I knew," a voice said softly, "that she'd corrupt you."

I turned my head.

Karamine stood in the shadows, only a shape against the dim light, one hip resting against the wall, the gold flare of her cigarette lighting her face for an instant.

"Who, Dierella?" I asked, not even surprised anymore. These goddesses showed up whenever they pleased, like bad memories that could walk.

"Of course," she said, exhaling a pale trail of smoke. "That's how she tricks her subjects. She makes them believe they're on top of the world, sitting on a throne."

I looked back at the city. "Hmm."

"I'm disappointed in you, Evan."

"No shit."

The silence between us hummed. The clock ticked loud in the quiet room.

"How do I fix this?" I asked finally. "How do I make it right with Delilah?"

Karamine took another drag, the ember flaring. "Don't lie to yourself, Evan. Jasmine, Kim, Tessa, Nala, Minne, Delilah. You love them all in your own way, and you can't choose."

"I…" I started, but she cut me off.

"That isn't a sin," she said. "I'm the Goddess of Lust. I understand better than anyone. But you tried to deceive her instead of giving her the truth. You tried to keep everyone happy while keeping yourself untouchable."

I stared at my reflection in the glass, tired, messy, eyes ringed in gray. She wasn't wrong. I'd been trying to juggle the whole damn world and somehow expected none of it to fall apart.

My phone buzzed. The vibration made me jump. I picked it up off the table, expecting another useless notification. But it wasn't that.

Delilah.

My throat went dry. I answered immediately.

"Delilah?"

Her voice came through, soft but drained. "Come to my home."

Then the line went dead.

I stared at the screen, heartbeat picking up. She called me at this hour? For what? Another argument? Maybe she just wanted to scream at me, get everything out of her system. I could handle that. I deserved that.

But there was something in her voice, exhaustion, maybe sadness, that twisted in my gut. It didn't sound right.

"Alright," I muttered, setting the beer on the floor. When I looked back toward the wall, Karamine was already gone. Only the faint scent of mint and smoke lingered in the air.

I grabbed my jacket and stood by the door, running a hand through my hair. "Truth," I whispered to myself. "Tell her the truth, Evan."

❤︎‬‪‪❤︎‬‪‪❤︎

I knocked on her door. The sound felt too loud for how early it was. My hand stayed there for a second, pressed against the cold wood like maybe she wouldn't open it if I didn't move.

A few seconds passed. Then the sound of bare feet on tile came closer.

The lock clicked. The door opened.

Delilah stood there in a gray robe, her hair tied up, messy strands falling over her cheek. Her face looked pale, tired, like she hadn't slept at all. For a moment, she didn't say anything. She just stared at me, eyes slightly red but dry, like she'd cried herself empty earlier and had nothing left to give.

"Hey," I said softly.

"Come in," she said, her tone flat.

The apartment was dim. The blinds were half open, letting in a dull, gray morning light that cut across the wooden floor. The place smelled faintly like coffee and the sweet scent of baby lotion, something that hit me right in the chest.

I stepped inside quietly, closing the door behind me. A small blanket was folded neatly on the couch. A mug sat beside it, still steaming. Everything else looked untouched.

"Coffee?" she asked as she walked toward the kitchen.

"Sure," I said, voice low.

She didn't look at me while she poured. The soft clink of ceramic filled the silence. I stood there awkwardly, watching her from the edge of the couch. My stomach was tight, my hands restless.

She came back a minute later, handed me a cup, and sat down across from me.

"You look like hell," she said.

"I feel worse."

She gave a half laugh, the kind people make when they're too tired to really mean it. Then she looked down at her cup and stared into it like there was something there only she could see. The silence between us grew heavier by the second.

Finally, she spoke. "You know why I called you, right?"

I nodded slowly. "Because you're mad at me."

She looked up, her eyes locking on mine. "Mad isn't the word for it. I'm tired, Evan. I'm tired of this. Of you, of me, of whatever this mess is supposed to be."

I stayed quiet, waiting. I'd learned that sometimes silence was safer than trying to explain myself.

She set her mug down and rubbed her temple. "You made me believe I wasn't just another mistake for you. That I was different. You said all the right things, made me feel seen for once. And then, what? You went right back to collecting people."

"Collecting people?" I repeated, but my voice sounded weak even to me.

She nodded. "That's what it looks like, Evan. You think you're building a family, but it's not that. You're just… stacking people like trophies. Jasmine, Nala, Kim, whoever else. They're all little pieces of something you can't admit you're missing. You're not trying to love anyone. You're trying to fill a hole."

Her words hit harder than I wanted to admit. I looked down at my coffee, tracing the rim of the mug with my thumb. "It wasn't supposed to be like that."

"Then what was it supposed to be?" she asked. "Because from where I'm standing, you're drowning in attention and calling it happiness.1

I swallowed, throat tight. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"But you did." She leaned back, crossing her arms. "You… did."

Her words sank deep, one by one, until they hit something I didn't want to think about.

The clock on the wall ticked quietly, each sound stretching longer than the last.

"I'm not asking for a miracle," she said. "I'm not even asking for perfect. But you need to make a choice. Me and the baby, or them."

I looked up, blinking. "What?"

She didn't flinch. "You heard me. I can't share you, Evan. If you want to be with them, fine. But don't keep me hanging on. Don't keep pretending that you can balance it all."

The air felt heavier. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out at first.

"Delilah—"

"No," she said sharply, cutting me off. "Don't twist it into some speech about understanding or connection. You made a child with me. That means something. It's not just another one of your little adventures. You can't keep living like this doesn't matter."

I rubbed my face, trying to think, but my thoughts were scattered. "It's not that simple," I said finally.

She shook her head. "It is that simple."

She leaned forward, her eyes hard now, voice low but steady. "You can't have both. You can't keep all of us orbiting around you while you figure yourself out. This isn't a game. You're going to be a father. You either step up or you walk away."

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