Confessions Of His Ruined Muse

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Eighteen years old. That was the year the sound of my unraveling was broadcast over the intercom to the entire campus of St. Judes Academy.

He told me I was his favorite, his muse. He coaxed my hand away from my mouth, his voice a velvet trap.

Don't be afraid, Nina. No one will know.

And so, every desperate, breathless sound I made was amplified into every classroom, every hallway, every office.

The next day, the bulletin boards were plastered with my love letters and photos of me on my knees before him, shirt unbuttoned, eyes wide with a devotion that looked pathetic in glossy 4x6.

I was expelled. He was suspended.

But he was Roman Kingsley. He just brushed the dust off his designer suit and slid back into his life of privilege. Before he left, he torched the earth behind him with two sentences:

"The sins of the father fall on the daughter. Your father plays the saintly teacher, but behind closed doors, he was harassing my sister."

"Bella is dead because of him! You deserve this. You deserve every bit of it."

I flew at him, screaming, a feral thing trying to claw the arrogance off his face. He backhanded me so hard I hit the linoleum floor.

My father saw it. My gentle, soft-spoken father, who had never raised a voice in his life, threw a punch.

Romans bodyguards swarmed him. They beat him into the pavement while shouting the vilest things about him, about his daughter.

My father lost his mind that day. He snapped.

My younger brother, Archie, tried to demand justice. He was struck by a car two weeks later. Hit and run.

Mom remarried. She couldn't look at us anymore.

I had no home.

To pay for Dads psychiatric care, I learned that shame was a currency. I went from honor roll student to adult film star.

Five years later, I was under the studio lights, arching my back, selling a fantasy.

I didn't notice when the directors chair was taken by someone else. Until I looked up.

It was him.

...

I tilted my head back, lips parted, letting out a fractured, breathy moan.

"Cut."

That was the thirteenth time today.

Roman Kingsley leaned back in the directors chair, his tone dripping with unvarnished disdain.

"Is that supposed to be desire, or are you having an asthma attack?"

He swirled a pen in his hand, not looking at me. "I want heat. I want surrender. I want a sound that makes a man hard, not confused. What the hell was that?"

My face burned. My throat felt stuffed with cotton.

Five years ago, I had buried my face in the crook of his neck, biting my lip to stay quiet. He hadn't liked that. Hed pried my hands away, whispering lies.

Nina, your voice is pure. Its intoxicating. Like a songbird.

Let me hear you. I want to hear you.

So I let him.

And the microphone on the desk caught it all. The static hiss, the wet sounds, the whimpers.

The whole school heard. The scholarship girl and the golden boy, desecrating the broadcast booth.

On the set, the crew looked down, pretending to be busy with cables and lights.

"Again," Roman commanded, his eyes turning to ice. "And put some effort into it. You look like a corpse."

The male actors hand moved up my ribcage again, his touch clinical and hesitant. I closed my eyes, trying to hide the humiliation.

"Cut."

Roman stood up this time. "Its unnatural! Youre touching her like shes made of balsa wood."

The actor was sweating, nodding furiously. I felt a pang of pity. He was young, likely his first time on a set like this.

I offered him a small, reassuring smile.

"Cut!"

Roman roared it. His eyes were blazing.

"Whores don't smile like that! If you can't act the part, get off my set."

I swallowed the acid rising in my throat. I brushed my hair back, deepened the curve of my lips, and cast a heavy-lidded, predatory glance at the crew.

"Like this, Mr. Kingsley? Is this better?"

I heard audible swallows around the room.

Romans face went rigid. He gave a cold, sharp laugh.

"Start over. Too much fabric. I cant see the lines. How is the audience supposed to buy it?"

I didn't hesitate. I stripped off the top.

Underneath was a sheer white lace bustier, cut dangerously low. The fabric was whisper-thin, leaving nothing to the imagination.

Someone in the back inhaled sharply.

Roman sat back down. When he saw me, hatred seemed to radiate off him like heat waves.

"Action."

The actors fingers were trembling. I watched his panic, then took the lead. I guided his hands to my waist, pressing my body flush against his.

"Cut!"

Roman kicked the chair next to him, sending it skattering.

"Nina Russo! Throwing yourself at men in front of a room full of people? Do you have no shame left?"

"Cheap."

He spat the word out, turned on his heel, and stormed out.

The actual director, a nervous man named Dave, hurried over after a few stunned seconds.

"Vivian, don't take it to heart," he said, using my stage name. "Look, this is a soft-core romance, plot-heavy... but the investors call the shots, and when Mr. Kingsley walks in..."

I nodded, pulling my robe tight around me. "Its fine, Dave. I get it."

I really did. Id done far worse for far less.

They wrapped for the day. Dave paid me the remaining five grand in cash to smooth things over.

I didn't dwell on it. Since the day my life imploded, I had learned the art of numbness.

I went downstairs, hailed a cab, and headed to my second gig.

In the backseat, I checked my balance. Five grand. That covered Dads facility for two weeks. It was enough to buy a bouquet of white hydrangeas for Archies grave.

They put a mask on me before pushing the cart out.

The table was marble, cold enough to burn my skin.

As I was wheeled past the VIP section, the hairs on my arms stood up. I prayed he wouldn't recognize me.

But the moment the chef placed the first piece of sashimi on my collarbone, I heard that familiar, mocking laugh.

"God only knows where they found this one," Roman said to his date. "I wonder if the goods are still intact?"

The woman asked, voice syrupy sweet, "Does it matter?"

Romans gaze felt like a physical weight dragging over my skin.

"For Nyotaimori? It matters. It symbolizes purity. Who wants to eat off a dirty plate?"

My nails dug into my palms.

The event manager, a greasy man in a tuxedo, bowed low to Roman. "Mr. Kingsley has a discerning eye. But I assure you, while she isn't... pristine... she has a natural fragrance. You'll understand once you taste."

The double entendre hung heavy in the air.

The men around the table chuckled, eyes gleaming with appetite.

"Natural fragrance?" Roman mused. "Well then. Let's see."

He clenched his jaw, watching as the chef laid the food out on my body.

With every cold slice of fish, every dollop of roe, my muscles spasmed involuntarily. It was freezing. I wanted to shiver, but I didn't dare.

"Interesting centerpiece," someone muttered. "Professional model?"

"Who knows. Skin's good, though."

I grit my teeth. Ten thousand dollars. That was the fee. Dads care for the next month was secured.

Romans mood seemed to darken with every minute.

The manager sensed the tension. "Mr. Kingsley... do you know her?"

Roman scoffed. "Know her? Hard not to. She seduced her own teacher. High school scandal. Broadcast her moans over the PA system for the whole student body."

The air in the room shifted from hunger to sordid curiosity.

One of the investors leaned in. "So, youve... sampled the merchandise?"

Roman lifted his heavy lids. "Sampled?"

He laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "I wouldn't touch her with a ten-foot pole. Shes filthy."

The cold seeped into my bones. I suddenly remembered a winter, years ago. I had run away from home, and he found me in the park behind the school. He took off his cashmere coat and wrapped it around me.

Are you an idiot? Freezing out here like this?

He rubbed my hands to warm them. I thought he was the kindest person in the world.

I didn't know then. The kindness was a lie. The cold was the only real thing.

A hand pinched my waist hard. The manager whispered, "Stay still! You ruin this gig, you pay for it."

"Mr. Kingsley seems disgusted," a guest noted. "Maybe we should send her back?"

Romans date, a woman named Cecily, covered her mouth in mock surprise. "Oh my god. She does this often? That must be so... exhausting." She blinked, feigning sympathy. "Roman, honey, if Miss Russo likes doing this, let's not judge. Everyone has their own way of surviving."

Roman took a sip of his scotch. "True. She eats off this money. Id be cruel to stop her."

He set the glass down. "But why the mask? Since shes already laid bare, why hide the face?"

The manager froze, calculating.

I lay on the marble, stiff as a corpse.

No. I begged silently.

No.

But the managers hand was already reaching for the silk mask.

The room collectively inhaled as it came off.

"Wow," someone whistled. "A beauty."

"Those eyes..."

I opened them and looked straight at Roman.

He sat there, immaculate in his bespoke suit, radiating power and judgment. He looked nothing like the boy in the white shirt who used to help me with calculus.

Nina, you have a spark no one else has.

Don't worry. Ive got you.

Roman stood up and walked slowly toward the table. His eyes traced the line of my throat, down to the valley of my breasts.

"Nina Russo. Don't you feel any shame?"

I stared at the ceiling.

"Your family prides itself on being educators, don't they? Is this what your father taught you?"

"To strip naked and act as a dinner plate for men? Turns out the apple doesn't fall far from the rotten tree."

How dare he speak of my father?

My father had been catatonic for five years. The man who poured his soul into his students was gone, replaced by a shell.

I looked at him, hatred finally piercing through my numbness.

"Don't you talk about him. You aren't worthy to speak his name."

Roman smiled. It was terrifying.

"Not worthy?"

He turned to the crowd. "You gentlemen don't know her? Let me introduce you."

He pointed a finger at me like a weapon.

"Stage name Vivian. Real name Nina Russo. She does fifty scenes a year. Shes been in more beds on camera than youve had hot dinners."

The room exploded with whispers.

"Wait, Lust & Lies? That's her?"

"I knew she looked familiar!"

Roman raised a hand, silencing them.

"I hear she takes any job. High budget, low budget. So, heres a proposal. There are a lot of investors here. Make them happy. One business card, one movie deal. Ill fund it."

"Twenty grand a pop. Better than lying here like cold cuts. Do you accept?"

The room buzzed with excitement. "If Kingsley is funding, count me in!"

The wasabi near my neck was making my eyes water.

Twenty grand.

I lifted my hand, picked a slice of salmon off my chest, and put it in my mouth. I chewed slowly, forcing my eyes to go soft, inviting.

"Is that a promise?" I asked, voice steady. "If the gentlemen are willing to invest, who am I to say no to money?"

Romans jaw muscles bunched.

"Of course. If they invest, you give them a live preview. Right here."

I brushed my hair back, arching my back to emphasize my curves. "Then thank you, Mr. Kingsley, for the opportunity."

The manager looked like hed won the lottery. "Ladies, perhaps youd like to retire to the terrace? Gentlemen, stay..."

Roman turned to Cecily. "Cecily, youre my fiance. I don't want you seeing this filth. Go wait in the car."

"But Roman"

"Go."

I lowered my eyes. Fiance. Cecily.

Before I could process it, a business card was jammed into my cleavage. The gold-edged cardstock scratched my skin.

The hands didn't leave.

Another hand reached out, sliding a card into the band of my thong.

My bodice ripped under the pressure of the cards being forced in. Someone smeared fruit preserve from the platter across my collarbone.

My face went pale, but the smile stayed plastered on.

Roman gripped his glass until his knuckles turned white. He watched them touch me. He watched them shove cards against my skin, leave sticky fingerprints, leave marks.

When there was nowhere left to put a card, and I was covered in red marks and food debris, the manager finally called it a night.

The room cleared out slowly.

I lay on the table, barely breathing. The sharp edges of the cards had cut me in sensitive places.

I sat up, limbs trembling violently.

I picked the cards off my body one by one.

Thirty-five cards.

Some had smears of blood on them.

Roman stood in the shadows, his eyes red-rimmed.

I held up the stack of cards and shook them at him.

"Mr. Kingsley. Thirty-five cards. I expect half the payment upfront. Thats three hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

He smashed his glass on the floor.

Shards flew, nicking my ankles. He stormed over and grabbed my chin.

"Are you insane? Is money that important? Or do you just enjoy this? Answer me!"

His voice shook. His hand shook.

I looked at him, a hollow laugh bubbling up. "Mr. Kingsley, are you worried about me?"

He shoved me back onto the table. He leaned over, his breath smelling of scotch and rage.

"Nina. I regret ever going easy on you."

"If I had known youd turn into this... this thing... I wish Id never met you."

I looked down and started picking up the cards Id dropped. I stacked them neatly and gave him a polite, practiced smile.

"Mr. Kingsley, the wire transfer... that's still happening, right?"

He stared at me. Then, pure, unadulterated fury took over.

"You really are a money-grubbing whore. Is there anyone cheaper than you?"

He pulled a black Amex from his jacket pocket and threw it at me. It hit my cheek, the plastic edge stinging like a slap.

"Rot in hell."

He turned and walked out.

I picked up the black card. I pulled my clothes on over my sticky skin, walked to the manager, and collected my base fee.

I went to the nearest ATM. I transferred every cent of the $360,000 limit to the care facilitys account.

Transaction Complete.

The adrenaline crashed. I walked out of the bank and stood on the street corner, unsure where to go.

I just walked. Aimless.

Until someone shoved me hard. I stumbled, hitting my hip against a stone planter.

"Why don't you just die!"

I touched my forehead; blood trickled into my eye. But I saw the face.

Mom.

She was holding a baby. Her new husband stood next to her.

She wasn't done. She lunged, tearing at my shirt.

"Slut! Whose bed did you crawl out of this time? Who are you trying to ruin now?"

Her nails raked down my neck, exposing the hickeys and bruises from the party.

"Honey, stop!" Her husband tried to hold her back.

I kept my head down. "I'm sorry. I just... I just came to deposit money."

"Don't you talk to me!" She shrieked. "You curse! Look at you! Look at those marks!"

She pointed at my neck. "My Archie... my baby boy was only fifteen... hes dead because of you!"

She collapsed onto the sidewalk, wailing.

Her husband gave me a desperate look, signaling me to leave.

I bowed deeply to her.

"I'm sorry."

I turned and ran. I ran until my lungs burned, until I collapsed in a dark corner of a public park.

I buried my face in my knees.

Archie. My baby brother. He ran out that day to find Roman, to demand an apology.

He never came home.

Mom was right. I was a curse.

I found a 24-hour urgent care. The doctor stitched my forehead without asking questions.

"Any deeper and youd need a plastic surgeon," he muttered.

I paid him and left.

The next day, I went to the facility to see Dad.

He was sitting on a bench in the garden, lecturing to an empty row of chairs. He held a tattered notebook.

I sat on a stone stool nearby. He glanced at me, didn't recognize me, and continued his lesson.

"Bella Kingsley was my favorite student," he told the air. "She was just... too fragile."

"There was a student teacher that year. Paul Gentry. He had his eyes on her."

"I warned her. I intervened. I stopped her from seeing him."

Dads voice cracked. Tears streamed down his weathered face.

"But... later..."

He choked on a sob. "Later, she was cornered by those delinquents... I didn't protect her..."

I sat there, my heart twisting. Dad had done the right thing. He had always been the protector.

I handed him a tissue. "Don't be sad, sir. It wasn't your fault."

He took it. "Thank you, miss."

I reached for another tissue, but behind me, I heard a thud.

I turned.

Roman was on his knees in the grass.

"What did you say?"