My Naughty Lover ✔️

Chapter 1

~ Be true to yourself

(Scarlette's POV)

"I’m going to kill you!"

The blow lands before I can shield myself. My head whips to the side, my cheek burning. Tears spill, but I don’t scream. I’ve learned not to.

“Please… don’t.” My voice is barely audible. Not because I’m weak, but because pleading has never worked — and still, I try. That’s the worst part. I know exactly what he’s going to do. Again. And again.

“Stay still if you don’t want me to hurt you,” he growls, his breath sour as his hands move down my leg like I belong to him.

And I freeze — not because I’m afraid. But because I’ve forgotten what it feels like not to be.

🌸

The rain begins gently, like a whisper against my windowpane. A few taps, then a sudden downpour. The sky darkens as if the world outside is mourning something it can’t explain. I rest my chin on my knees and watch from my window, following the way strangers rush beneath umbrellas, laughing and pulling each other close. There’s something beautiful about how people still chase shelter together. I’ve never had that.

The breeze slips into my room when I crack the window. It's cold, but it wakes something in me. It reminds me that I’m still here — still breathing, still writing, still hoping.

I press my pen to paper. The words flow.
Writing is the only place I feel real.

“Scarlette, come here,” my mother’s voice calls out from downstairs — sharp, commanding, not the kind of voice that invites you. It’s a summons.

I sigh and set the pen down. She hates waiting. And I’ve learned the hard way — don’t keep her waiting.

I make my way down the staircase quietly, like always. I’ve mastered the art of shrinking myself in this house. If I’m too loud, I’m dramatic. If I’m too quiet, I’m ungrateful. If I’m just myself, I’m inconvenient.

She stands in the kitchen, holding a small cake with flickering candles. “Happy birthday, honey,” she says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

That word — honey — lands strangely. Like it doesn't belong in her mouth. Like she rehearsed it in front of the mirror and still doesn’t know how to make it sound sincere.

I stare at her for a moment. “Thanks…” I whisper. I don’t know what else to say. For a heartbeat, I want to believe it’s real — that maybe she remembered not just the date, but me.

Then Steve walks in and grunts, “Happy birthday,” without looking up from his phone.

And just like that, the illusion fades.

“Make a wish,” she says, nodding toward the cake.

I hesitate. Her eyes flicker with something — frustration? Impatience? It's hard to tell. It always is.

So I blow out the candles and make the same wish I’ve made since I was old enough to understand disappointment: Please… let something change.