Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 40: Ashes Ashes The Monster Is Home

June’s POV:

(Trigger Warning: This Chapter contains depictions of sexual abuse. Reader discretion is strongly advised.)

He would know if I didn’t shower.

He always knew.

And if he knew... the punishment would last longer.

So I showered. Even though it didn’t wash anything away.

Even though it never does.

I kept my movements robotic, practiced, like muscle memory.

Because praying he wouldn’t be home? That was useless.

He’s always there.

Waiting.

Ready to take whatever he wants.

A horror so routine time itself bows to it.

It comes like a tide. Inescapable.

So I stopped trying to escape.

Now, I just wish it doesn’t last long.

Earlier, Justin kept asking me what was wrong.

His eyes were so damn kind, it made something in me ache—

Made the truth rise like bile in my throat.

But I couldn’t tell him.

I couldn’t.

Because if I told him...

He wouldn’t touch me again.

He’d look at me like I was filth.

He’d know what I really am.

So I smiled that smile he hates—

The fake one.

The one I’ve worn so long it feels like skin.

I said goodbye too quickly. Hurried.

Because if I stayed a second longer...

If I lingered...

I would’ve told him everything.

And then?

He’d toss me aside.

And he’d look at me like I’m trash.

Just like I already do.

My heart pounded as I stood in front of the door, fingers cold against the doorknob. My entire body was stiff, my shoulders tight. I knew that the moment I stepped inside, my fake confidence, my queen-bee persona—everything—would vanish like smoke.

Out there, I was June Matthews, the untouchable, the girl people admired, envied, or hated. But in here... inside this house...

I was nothing.

A shadow.

A pawn.

A toy.

I turned the knob. Slowly.

It creaked like it hated me too.

The air inside was thick, stale, too still. No sound—no footsteps, no humming from the kitchen, no creak of the stairs.

But I knew.

Silence didn’t mean safety.

Silence meant he was waiting.

I stepped inside, careful not to let the door slam. The sound would carry. He hated that.

I placed my shoes just right. Bag on the hook.

Every move rehearsed, mechanical.

My throat was dry. I couldn’t even swallow.

Then I heard it.

The living room chair creaking. Once.

Twice.

Slow.

Deliberate.

I didn’t look.

I didn’t need to.

The TV was on—muted. Static fuzzed across the screen, casting an eerie flicker through the hall.

"Shower," came the voice.

Low. Measured. Not angry yet. That was worse.

I nodded without turning around.

My limbs obeyed without consent.

Up the stairs. Step by step. Carpet muffling every sound.

Bathroom light on. Shower on. Clothes off.

Scalding water hit my back, but it wasn’t hot enough. Not even close.

I scrubbed like I could erase him.

Like I could disappear.

But the door creaked open behind me.

I didn’t turn around.

Steam filled the room, thick like fog. My breath caught.

I felt his presence before he spoke.

And when he did... the voice was too calm.

"You were late."

Just three words.

But I knew what they meant.

What was coming.

No one would hear me.

No one ever does.

Because once I cross that threshold—

I don’t exist anymore.

He stood at the bathroom door, a silhouette behind the steam-fogged glass.

Watching. Waiting.

He never rushed. That would mean he wanted something. No—he expected it. Like clockwork. Like tribute.

I didn’t try to cover myself.

He hated that.

The one time I tried, he’d pulled the towel from my hands, slapped me so hard my ears rang, and hissed that he didn’t like "games."

So I didn’t hide. I just rinsed the soap from my skin, slowly, deliberately, like I was washing someone else’s body. Like I could detach and float above it all—watch it from a distance.

My eyes stayed fixed on the white tile.

He wouldn’t touch me here. Not in the bathroom. Not ever.

He liked the bed.

Missionary. Always.

Like he needed to see my face.

As if he wanted to watch me vanish inside myself.

I stepped out of the shower, dripping, wrapped the towel loosely around me—not to cover, just to dry. He stepped back to let me pass, like a gentleman. A sick, twisted mockery of one.

The hallway was silent. My skin was still wet. Cold.

Each step toward my room felt like walking to the gallows.

And still, I moved. Quiet. Obedient.

Because fighting didn’t work.

Screaming didn’t work.

It only made him worse.

The door creaked open.

My bed was freshly made. He always did that.

Like the bed deserved respect, even if I didn’t.

I sat on the edge, facing the window.

The sky was pinking at the edges. Almost dusk.

I wanted to cry, but tears were useless now.

I only hoped it would be fast tonight.

Maybe... maybe afterward, I could slip outside. Breathe air that wasn’t his. Feel something that was mine.

Just for a second.

But the floorboard behind me creaked.

The door closed.

And I knew—

I was gone again.

He stood in the doorway of the bathroom, leaning against the frame like he owned it—like he owned everything.

I didn’t flinch.

Flinching made it worse.

My towel clung to my damp skin, but I didn’t try to cover myself. That would only piss him off. And when he was pissed, he made sure I remembered it for days.

He liked the bed. The neatness of it. The way the sheets stayed tucked under me like restraints. The missionary position—his favorite. Not because of passion, or desire. No. Because he could see everything. Every tear. Every twitch. Every single time I tried not to scream.

"Remove the towel," he said flatly. "Lie down."

Those simple commands always came quiet. Always controlled. That was his thing—power in stillness. I obeyed, like always. Not because I wanted to. But because it was safer.

"Open your legs."

I did. Like a doll wound up to perform.

My mind drifted.

The voices were back. Whispering again. Suggesting things. Dark things.

You should have taken the knife from the kitchen.

You should have hidden it under the pillow.

You should have waited... waited for him to climb on top of you. Then—

Their ideas were always the same: change the ending. End him.

And as sick as it was, the thought made me smile.

But I couldn’t do it.

I wasn’t brave. I wasn’t a killer. I was already broken enough with voices in my head—I didn’t need blood on my hands, too.

He moved closer, his belt clinking as he unbuckled it. My smile faded.

I closed my eyes.

And imagined it was Justin.

If I had to disappear into my head to survive this, then I would.

Because that was the only place left where I could feel even a flicker of warmth. Even if it was a lie.

The bed dips.

That’s all it takes for my body to lock up.

I know what comes next.

I try to count backward.

99... 98... 97...

His hands find my thighs. Rough. Entitled. He pries them open further like he has every right.

96... 95...

It’s not working.

Numbers can’t save me.

Think of Justin.

Think of the first time. His car. The way he held my face. His fingers in my hair like I was something precious, not property.

But then—

A gasp tears from me as he enters. Slow. Deliberate.

I bite my tongue.

It’s Justin. It’s Justin. It’s Justin...

I squeeze my eyes tighter, willing the illusion to hold.

His weight crushes down on me, suffocating.

It’s Justin. It’s Justin...

The thrusts begin. His groans echo above me—louder than usual, like he wants the walls to know.

The wetness on my cheek surprises me.

I wasn’t supposed to cry.

It’s Justin...

But it’s not.

And I should’ve hidden the knife.

"Open your eyes."

I don’t want to. If I keep them shut, maybe this moment won’t fully exist. Maybe I can pretend I’m somewhere else. Someone else.

But I know better.

He stills above me, the weight of his body a cage I’ve memorized for years. His breath is close—too close. That voice slips into my ear like poison.

"Why must you always be so stubborn, after all these years?"

No. Not that tone. Not again.

I force my eyes open just as he leans down to my breast , my nipple—and pain blooms sharp and sudden. I gasp, a cry slipping from my lips before I can swallow it back.

"Good," he says, as if praise should wash the violation clean. "Now you better obey."

He moves again, and my mind shatters.

I try to disappear into the ceiling, into the crack in the corner I’ve stared at a hundred times. I think about the knife I didn’t hide. The one I should’ve.

I count backwards.

Ninety-nine. Ninety-eight. Ninety-seven.

It doesn’t help.

I picture Justin’s car. His hand in my hair. His voice in my ear.

It’s him. It’s him. Let it be him.

But the weight is wrong. The smell is wrong. The hands—God, the hands.

Tears slip down my cheek, uninvited. Silent.

I’m still waiting to be saved.

Or maybe—maybe it’s time to stop waiting.

The voices in my head stir.

They whisper of freedom. Of fire. Of ending this.

For good.