A Decadent Getaway |18+| • |Erotica| • |SMUT|

PROLOGUE

"Fuck, fuck, fuck... Ugh!!" I groan loudly, shoving my beloved, right now not-so-beloved, laptop away.

With both of my hands, I grab my head in frustration, ready to pull out a few of my hair strands.

"Damn it all to hell and back!" I growl, standing up abruptly from the couch, my ass now numb from sitting on it for 5-6 hours straight, only to come up with nothing.

Not a single word. Nada.

My useless brain decides to shut down every damn time I'm in front of my laptop trying to write something. Anything. But nothing conjures up in my once creative grey-matter no matter how much I tried.

I start pacing back and forth, bringing some feeling back to my numb ass but my dumb head is still throbbing due to the stress and not being able to write.

You see my life, my career, depends on it. I'm an author for God's sake. Don't take me wrong. I absolutely love writing. It's my passion. But with all the pestering and hounding from your editor for new pages and suffering from almost 2 years writer's block does something to every sane writer.

Writer's block is such a pain in the ass and right now, literally.

Pacing, I come in front of the wall mirror and halt to take in my dishevelled state.

Blood-shot brown eyes, unruly brown hair that hasn't been washed in days and neither combed through. Messy, unkempt, wrinkled clothes that I have been wearing for... I don't know, the last three days, maybe? Atleast, I managed to look like a homeless hobo. I scowl at my bedraggled state.

If anyone is to look at you right now, they'll barely recognise you as The famous author, S.N.Rows, who wrote four award winning romance novels. No one would even give you a second glance.

I lift my left arm to take a sniff of my armpit and cringe at the natural Eau de parfum that I was emanating. How many days has it been since you took a bath? Ugh...

My eyes move back to my face, locking with the pair of dead, brown eyes in the mirror. The unfortunate events from the past two years that were responsible for my current state flash before my eyes as I continue to look at the tired and frustrated woman staring right back at me from the mirror.

An exasperated sigh escapes my lips and I rub my hands over my face, as if it would help me wipe off some of the exhaustion off my face.

Looking back into the mirror, my eyes zero in onto my flat stomach. I gingerly place my hands over my abdomen, a lone tear escapes my left eye and lands onto my cheek.

If only I wasn't a failure as a woman, I would've had proud stretch marks running over my belly, a proof of the beautiful life growing inside of me. Today, I would've been a mother to a two year old daughter or a son. My fiancé would still be in my life and wouldn't have left me.

I don't know what went wrong, there wasn't end to how many obstetricians and gynaecologists I had consulted, only for all of them to tell me everything was fine. There wasn't any severe complication. That it was just the stress of too much work and meeting deadlines. But no matter what they said, when I lost my 2½ month old baby to a miscarriage I felt like I was a failure. Both as a woman and a mother.

My fiancé and I tried to be there for each other but the loss was too much to bear that he decided to break up with me when I needed him the most. I was the one who was carrying a child and I was the one who went through all the shit. It was my body who had to go through it all and that bitch had the audacity to say that he couldn't handle it.

Asshole.

A few months later, when I was still trying my hardest to cope with my loss, I found out that his new girlfriend was pregnant with his child, which only added to my misery. I fell deeper into depression and started to blame my weak and useless uterus, for everything.