Page 4 of Twisted Control

Another comment stops me cold.

Grace looks like she’d be a total starfish.

I stare at the words until they blur. Of all the cruel, invasive things people have said, this one sinks its hooks in.

My stomach does a slow, mortifying flip.

What the hell do these strangers know about me? Just because I don’t plaster half-naked selfies everywhere and I have manners, I’m suddenly a dead fish in bed?

I’m not.

…Am I?

A tiny, treacherous voice whispers in the back of my head that maybe they’re right.

It’s been two years since I’ve had sex. Two whole years. Ever since my evil brother, Finn, decided to tell Dad that I’m “waiting for marriage.” I just went along with it. I started playing the pure, untouched daughter.

But I’m not.

I’ve had sex. Loads of it. Okay, maybe not loads, but plenty. Perfectly fine, perfectly average, slightly boring sex. And honestly—why is it on me to make it exciting?

The replies are already piling on like vultures.

Bet she just lies there scrolling the whole time.

She’s hot but you just know she’s dull as hell in bed. Total starfish energy.

I lock my phone so fast I almost drop it, then shove it to the bottom of my bag. My cheeks are burning. The worst part isn’t even the anger anymore—it’s the little voice that keeps whispering that maybe they’re right.

They don’t know me. They have no idea what I’m like when the lights are off and someone actually turns me on.

But now I’m wondering if I even remember.

I straighten on the barstool, spine lengthening, chin lifting. A reckless, fizzy feeling bubbles up under the humiliation—half fury, half something dangerously close to determination.

I need to prove it. Not to the internet. To myself. I’m not a starfish. I’m not boring in bed. And the only way to silence that whispering doubt is to get out there and do it.

I scan the bar like I’m suddenly on a mission.

The options are tragic.

There’s the guy in the beige blazer who’s been talking loudly about cryptocurrency. Two men in matching polos are already sloppy drunk and laughing way too loud. Absolutely not. There’s the quiet guy in the corner who looks like he’d apologize mid-thrust. And—God help me—a man in a fedora.

This is what I have to work with?

Frustration flares in my chest. The universe really can’t throw me one decent⁠—

Before I can finish the thought, the door swings open and the whole bar seems to shift.

A man steps inside like he owns the place. Mid-thirties. Tall, powerfully built, broad shoulders filling the doorway. His navy suit is tailored perfectly—way too expensive for a bar like this—but somehow it only makes him look more commanding. The fabric pulls across his chest as he moves, hinting at the strength underneath. His tie is loosened, top button undone, dark hair slightly messy like he’s been running his hands through it after a long day. Sharp jaw, shadowed with stubble, and eyes that scan the room with calm, unsettling confidence.

My stomach does a giddy little flip.

He’s perfect.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I slap a fistful of cash on the bar. The stool scrapes loudly against the floor as I stand.

He slows the second he spots me heading toward him. His head tilts, just slightly, like he’s already entertained by whatever is about to happen.