"Fuck, Iva, have I been talking to myself this whole damn time?"
Edna's sharp, frustrated yell yanked Ivana violently back from the haze of her thoughts.
"Sorry, bitch,"
Ivana lied smoothly, a wicked little chuckle slipping from her lips as Edna hissed on the other end.
She yanked open the dresser drawer, her fingers gliding over silk until she pulled out her favorite pink nightgown—the delicate, strappy one with ribbons tied temptingly at the hem and between her breasts, begging to be undone.
She toweled off her damp body and hair with slow efficiency, then hanged the wet towels on the towel rail in the bathroom.
Her fluffy slippers slapped loudly against the floor as she padded back into the bedroom, each step deliberately provocative.
Edna hissed and huffed louder through the phone, her annoyance thick—a mix of work stress and the irritating sound of her best friend's carefree movements only feeding the irritation.
Ivana dropped her phone onto the vanity with a soft thud.
She slipped into the soft pink nightgown, the silky fabric whispering over her bare skin like a lover's breath.
The thin straps settled on her shoulders, and she slowly tied the ribbons at the hem and the tempting bow centered between her breasts.
Her mind instantly drifted to darker, filthier memories—Kacy's teeth grazing the delicate ribbons, tugging them loose one by one with slow, deliberate pulls, while his mouth left a trail of bruising hickeys, sharp bites, and wet, claiming kisses along her collarbone and the swell of her chest.
The memory sent liquid heat pooling low in her belly, her nipples tightening against the thin silk as her face flushed hot with raw need.
"So, can I have your fucking attention now, lover girl?"
Edna scoffed, the sound dripping with exasperation.
"I'm pretty sure you just slipped into that slutty little nightgown of yours."
"Yeah, baby,"
Ivana replied sweetly, voice honeyed and innocent as if she hadn't been deliberately winding her friend up.
"You done with your scripts yet?"
"Yeah..."
Edna dragged the word out with a heavy, irritated sigh.
Ivana smiled to herself, the expression hidden on the voice call.
She sat on the stool opposite the vanity table, then bent at the waist, opened the side drawer, and pulled out her hair straightener.
She plugged it in, the soft click of the switch echoing in the quiet room, then began running the heated plates through her damp strands.
She kept the volume low enough that only Edna's voice filled her ears, no distracting noise, just the low, familiar cadence of her best friend's complaints as the tool glided smoothly, leaving her hair sleek and glossy.
"Have you eaten now, Mrs. Glutton?"
Ivana teased, her voice low and wicked as her free hand reached for the comb. She dragged it through the heated strands of hair she'd just stretched, the teeth scraping gently against her scalp.
"Yeah, yeah,"
Edna grumbled.
"And never in your motherfucking life starve me again just because you're running from your man. Don't think I've forgotten. Tell me what the hell happened between you and your husband."
Ivana let out a soft, defeated sigh, cursing inwardly.
Fuck. How many questions does this bitch want me to answer tonight?
"Let's start with this,"
Ivana purred, deliberately evading her.
"I love you, bitch. Say it back."
Edna hissed long and loud through the phone, the sound sharp enough to cut glass.
Ivana laughed, flithy and throaty, as she continued stretching and combing the glossy strands, the heat from the tool making her skin prickle.
She let her friend stew for a moment before finally composing herself.
"Fuck off, Iva,"
Edna snapped.
"Go tell your man you love him. Or better yet, scratch that. We both know how that shit really ends. With his face buried between your thighs, his tongue working that greedy little cunt until you're dripping down his chin. Or his thick cock slamming into you, grinding deep, stretching you open while he fucks you senseless. Or maybe his fingers shoved down your pretty thr—"
"Shut the fuck up, Eddy!"
Ivana screamed, mortified, her face burning crimson, the color spreading like spilled blood across her cheeks and down her neck. She stretched another strand of hair straight, as embarrassment flooded her veins.
"Your pretty throat,"
Edna finished sweetly, completely unbothered, her laughter low and filthy.
"I'll sew that fucking mouth of yours shut if I ever see your teasing ass in my house again,"
Ivana growled, voice tight with humiliation.
"And don't think I'm blind, Edna. You're crushing hard on Leon, my husband's friend.
The words landed like a blade.
Edna went dead silent.
The laughter died instantly.
All Ivana could hear was the faint rustle of sheets and her best friend shifting uncomfortably on the other end, avoiding the accusation like it burned.
Ivana smirked, victorious.
She switched off the hair straightener, placed it back in its drawer, and ran the comb through the final silky strands until they gleamed.
Satisfied, she picked up her phone, rose from the stool, and sauntered toward the bed.
She dropped onto the mattress, lying back with a satisfied sigh, the pink nightgown riding up her thighs.
She glanced toward the window overlooking the dark backyard—no shadows, no movement.
Only then did she take the phone off speaker, pressing it close to her lips as she whispered, voice husky and teasing:
"Since when did it start, Eddy? I could talk to him for you…"
A soft, reluctant scoff came through the line.
"Fuck off,"
Edna muttered.
"It's just a crush. Nothing more. Forget it. And if I want Leon, Iva… I'll take him myself. I don't need you playing matchmaker."
That was exactly why Ivana loved her. Edna didn't flinch. She didn't hide. When she wanted something or someone, she hunted it down like a predator, no apologies, no mercy.
"That's my girl,"
Ivana purred, her voice warm with dark approval.
"That's what I fucking love about you, babes. You're my ride-or-die. And if Leon ever hurts you, I'll put him six feet under without blinking."
They both laughed, soft, wicked, and perfectly in sync, even miles apart, the sound thick with shared sin and unbreakable loyalty.
"So enough about me…"
Edna's voice turned low and wicked, thick with filthy delight.
"What the fuck did Kacy make you do today for ignoring him? Don't you dare lie and say he did nothing. That's not the Kacy I know. After what I saw in the library that day….God, fuck. The man I know would've done so much worse. Just remembering it still gets me wet and aching like a desperate little slut."
She giggled, dark and knowing, already picturing Ivana's face burning blood-red.
"Oh God, can you just shut the fuck up and go get railed by Leon already?"
Ivana snorted, her cheeks flooding with fresh heat, the crimson spreading down her throat like spilled wine.
"That sassy little mouth of yours is gonna get you in trouble one day, Iva,"
Edna shot back, her own laughter softening into something huskier as her face flushed the same violent shade.
Crimson best friends. That's what they should've been called.
They exploded into wild, unrestrained laughter, the kind that always seemed to claw its way out of them no matter how filthy the conversation got.
"Fine…"
Ivana surrendered, voice dropping.
"He made me jerk him off… you know i mean sucked his cock and you know I've never engaged in kinks like that but I kinda of like it,"
She confessed in a rush, cheeks blazing pink as the memory slammed into her. The thick, heavy weight of him on her tongue, the way his cock had felt like it was carved for her throat, stretching her lips wide while she worshipped every throbbing inch.
"Fuck… holy shit… goddamn, girl!"
Edna swore viciously through the phone, voice cracking with raw arousal.
"I'm fucking wet just hearing that. My innocent little bestie finally wrapped those pretty lips around her husband's cock? Welcome to the club, baby. Congratulations, you're officially a certified cock-sucker now."
Ivana's face burned hotter, a deep rose that made her look utterly undone.
If Kacy were here right now, seeing her like this—flushed, needy and her thighs pressing together, he would have dragged her down and left her entire body marked with his mouth, sucking bruises into her skin, biting, licking, claiming every inch until she was shaking and overwhelmed.
"Like I said, Eddy, go get fucked,"
Ivana teased back, laughing low and throaty.
"I'll give you Leon's number for free. And what the hell association am I being welcomed into?"
"The cock-suckers association,"
Edna answered casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"The fuck? I'm not a cock-sucker!"
Ivana protested, blush deepening to something obscene.
"You sucked your husband's cock, didn't you? That makes you a cock-sucker, babe."
"But that doesn't—"
"What the fuck do you think 'cock-sucker' means, you innocent little dummy?"
Edna snorted, clearly smirking through the phone.
"Um… a group of sluts who suck dick for money?"
"Jesus Christ, Iva, you're adorable when you're this clueless. Anyone who drops to their knees and swallows cock is a cock-sucker. Simple as that."
"Oh… now I get it,"
Ivana murmured, voice soft with sudden understanding.
"Not your fault. That pretty head of yours is only filled with fashion and fabric anyway,"
Edna taunts as Ivana wanted to throw a counter punch at her phone then realizing Edna wasn't present then she sighed hissing.
"Fuck you."
"Same to you, bitch."
They burst into another round of filthy, awkward laughter before finally settling.
Silence stretched between them, heavy and charged.
"So… did you actually love sucking his cock?"
Edna asked, voice laced with teasing curiosity and a hint of genuine wonder.
"I thought you swore back in uni you'd never touch that kind of kink."
Ivana let out a shaky breath.
"I don't know, Edna… There's something about his voice, the way he commands me… it fucking unravels me. I do things with him I swore I'd never do. He makes me feel real. Raw. Like I belong on my knees for him. I'm sassy and rude with everyone else, but with him? Because, No no no no. His punishments are brutal, mind-breaking, soul-ripping, dripping with lust and pain and pleasure so intense I lose myself completely. I've never felt anything like it with anyone else."
She paused, noticing how quiet Edna had gone, listening with rapt attention.
Silent tears slipped down Ivana's cheeks, hot and slow.
"He was willing to wait eight fucking months for me to be ready to touch him,"
She whispered, voice cracking.
"He never forced me. Never demanded. He just pleasured me over and over while he stayed hard and aching and desperate. He hid it all behind that calm stare, the way he wanted my hands, my mouth, my throat, suffering in silence so I could explore him on my own terms. He watched me for those entire eight months, learning every little sign, waiting until I was ready for what he did to me today. And maybe ignoring him today finally snapped something in him… I love him, Edna. I fucking love him. And I'm terrified I'm going to leave him one day. Not today… but someday. I'm so fucking scared."
More silent tears fell, tracing wet paths down her flushed skin. No sobs. Just quiet, aching drops.
Edna stayed silent on the other end. There were no words that could fix this, no comfort that wouldn't feel cheap.
Ivana wiped the silent tears from her flushed cheeks with the back of her hand, her voice soft and heavy as she murmured.
"Good night, Eddy."
"Night, Iva,"
Edna replied, the same quiet weight in her tone.
The call disconnected with a sharp click, leaving nothing but the hollow echo of silence in the dark bedroom.
But Ivana's mind refused to stay in the present. It slipped away, drifting back through the weeks of deliberate distance she had carved between herself and her husband, back to that charged afternoon when she had stepped into the lion's den of her family home.
She exhaled sharply as she climbed out of the Uber, her breath quick and unsteady.
The sleek black car pulled away, leaving her standing before the towering golden gate that gleamed like molten wealth under the late sun.
Her blood-red Louboutin heels struck the pavement with crisp, commanding clicks as she strode forward, every step a declaration of war wrapped in silk and sin.
The outfit clung to her like a second skin designed for temptation and destruction: a blood-red long-sleeve top that barely skimmed the gentle swell of her pregnant belly, its back slashed open and laced with thin red straps in a bold X that whispered bondage and invitation.
Below it, oversized grey boyfriend jeans hugged her hips, accented by delicate love-shaped cutouts at the waist and a thin chain draped low like a promise of restraint.
Her Louis Vuitton bag, worth more than most people's homes, matched the bold crimson of her lips, glossed to a wet, shiny pout scattered with tiny pink hearts and stars that framed her striking emerald eyes.
Gold butterfly earrings dangled with delicate sunflower accents, while a matching necklace rested heavy between her breasts, the mixed pink-red-black butterfly pendant nestled teasingly in her cleavage.
A slim leg chain with pink hearts and butterflies circled one ankle, and stacks of bracelets chimed softly at her wrists.
She looked every inch the modern seductive witch marching into battle, lethal curves, pregnant glow, and unapologetic power rolled into one ravishing package.
Her full, round ass swayed with hypnotic seduction beneath the denim, each step making the fabric pull taut over the lush globes.
Her medium-sized breasts strained against the tight pink bralette, the soft flesh flushed rose-red and pushed up into obscene, mouth-watering cleavage that begged to be freed, bitten, and claimed.
She was perfection dressed as ruin, a pregnant goddess of lust and quiet vengeance.
Damn, her outfit fit like a modern seductive witch heading into battle. Well, obviously, she was going to war anyway, anything involving her father's house was war, a sweet, silent, cruel kind of war at that.
Strutting toward the gate, she rang the bell three times. The automated mechanism hummed, and the golden gates parted with mechanical obedience. Her emerald eyes flicked coldly over the sprawling estate beyond.
The house loomed like a monument to cold power and modern excess, a sleek, contemporary mansion of glass, steel, and pale stone that screamed old money fused with ruthless new ambition.
Towering floor-to-ceiling windows reflected the sky like dark mirrors, hiding whatever sins unfolded inside.
Sharp architectural lines cut through the structure, creating dramatic overhangs and cantilevered sections that made the building appear to float above the perfectly manicured grounds.
A sweeping, geometric driveway of polished concrete and dark pavers curved toward the entrance, wide enough to display an arrogant collection of the latest supercars: a gleaming black Lamborghini Huracán, a silver Rolls-Royce Phantom with its iconic grille, a matte-black Ferrari SF90, and a deep emerald Bentley Bentayga that matched her eyes.
Manicured hedges and minimalist sculptures lined the path, while subtle outdoor lighting already flickered to life, casting long, predatory shadows across the wealth on display.
Ivana's heels remained rooted at the threshold for a long moment. She stared at the house with bored, icy detachment, the same house where she had once lived.
The sight dragged up memories like jagged blades: nights filled with tears, days carved by control, affection twisted into weapons. Pain and misery lingered in every sleek line and polished surface.
She closed her emerald eyes slowly, drew in a few short, controlled breaths that did nothing to calm the storm inside her, then opened them again. With deliberate, almost serene grace, she strutted forward into the estate.
Her Louboutins rang out against the stone, sharp, sweet, ruinous sounds that echoed her fractured emotions perfectly.
She had not come here for pleasantries or fake smiles or to pretend her family wasn't broken.
They were. Completely. Irredeemably. This family was rotten at its core.
As their only child, she had once believed the position would bring love, adoration, and spoiled affection. Instead, every drop of attention had been poisoned into pain, control, and silent cruelty.
Her father ruled with an iron will disguised as care; his love was a set of chains forged in expectation and disappointment.
If cruelty could wear a human face, it would wear his cold, calculating, and utterly unforgiving.
And tonight, she walked back into that darkness wearing her war paint and pregnant curves like armor, ready for whatever fresh hell this visit would unleash.