I hated the word whore. It sounded so…filthy. I’d been called a hundred different names before—slut, skank, ho, bitch, just to name a few—but when someone called me a whore, it would set my blood on fire.
As I stared down at my fate, I realized that they’d all been right. I was a whore.
There was no coming back from this.
I closed my eyes and willed myself not to cry. I’d done this to myself. This was what I deserved.
I hadn’t always been this way. Once, a really long time ago, I’d been innocent. I’d worn my heart on my sleeve. I’d looked at every day like it was a gift instead of the plague that it really was.
Life was so damn hard. I hated it. I’d hated it for years. More than once, I’d wished that I hadn’t had to deal with it, that I hadn’t had to deal with him. But fate had laughed at me, repeatedly throwing him in my face just when I thought I’d healed.
How could I tell him this when he seemed to hate me more and more every time we saw each other? How could I tell him this after what she’d done? I was no better than her.
What was once innocent love and attraction had morphed into something…volatile and ugly. By now, it was almost unrecognizable.
Who am I kidding?
It had never been innocent. We’d seemed to be incapable of innocence, especially him.
I would never survive this. The moment I’d seen him, even though I hadn’t wanted to admit it, I’d known that I would never survive him.
Tears fell down my cheeks, but I brushed them away as I stood and walked out of the room. When I reached my bedroom, I picked up my cell phone and dialed the only person I knew I could trust, the only person who knew every secret of mine—my best friend.
“Hey, Amber. What’s up?”
“Chloe, I need you,” I whispered.