Submit To Her

Submit To Her

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WpMetadataReadMatureOngoing6m
WpMetadataNoticeLast published Sat, Aug 16, 2025
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Fiction
Romance
🖤 PROLOGUE "Little Girl, Big Teeth" Rosella Virelli - Age 16 The storm sounded like fists on glass. Rosella stood barefoot on cold marble, her nightgown clinging to her thighs, wet from the rain. Her lip was split, trembling, but her eyes were sharp as blades. The door slammed behind her. > "You'll never be anything without me," her father spat. "You're nothing, Rosella." She stared at the wooden door like it was a man she'd one day bury. The same night, her boyfriend sent her naked photo to his friends. The same night, her mother Over dose 'drugs in the bathtub with a rosary between her fingers. That was the night the last soft piece of her soul crumbled. She didn't cry. She smiled. > "They want something soft to break," she whispered to her reflection. "I'll become the thing that breaks them first." ---
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*Chapter One: The Sound of Empty Rooms* The rain had a rhythm that matched the echo in her chest-quiet, repetitive, and endlessly hollow. Elira sat by the window of her grandmother's wooden house, where the walls creaked like ghosts remembering things she tried so hard to forget. Her breath fogged up the glass as she watched the street below-quiet, gray, and soaked. She didn't mind the rain. It was the one thing that stayed. At twenty-two, Elira had never been kissed. Not truly. Not with the kind of kiss that silences thoughts and stirs old wounds into healing. She had known touches-cold, demanding ones from men who mistook her loneliness for permission. She had known eyes-watching, judging, leaving. But love? Real love? That had been the whisper in fairy tales and the ache between the pages of books she'd hide under her pillow. Her mother had left when she was ten. A note on the fridge, a half-packed suitcase, and a phone number that never answered. Her father drowned his grief in silence and whisky until his liver gave up when she was sixteen. After that, silence wasn't just emotional-it was literal. Elira grew up learning that people left. Always. Her greatest fear wasn't being alone-it was being almost loved. Almost chosen. Almost enough. Then she met him. She closed the book on her lap-*entwined in chaos*. Of course it was. She clung to the idea that love should hurt a little, that maybe if she bled enough, someone would see the red and realize she had a heart worth holding. That night, she wrote in her journal: *"If love exists, let it find me. Even if it breaks me."* And it would. So deeply, so completely, that even time would pause to grieve.

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