Hurt Me Like You Mean It [BL]-Chapter 53: The scandal (2)

The sharp chime of the doorbell made Lance flinch. He rushed to open it, half-expecting a neighbor, half-dreading another confrontation.

Ansel was standing there, hands in his pockets, his expression annoyed, eyes narrowed.

"I thought my phone would explode with the amount of calls I was getting from you.." Ansel asked flatly, voice carrying more irritation than concern.

Lance’s throat tightened. "...Didn’t you see the news?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady

.

Ansel shrugged, almost lazily, like it didn’t matter. "I saw it. Your whoreness is finally out for the public to see.." he said. "Did you also sleep with Valentino too? Shameless enough to sleep with a married man who has a daughter your age."

Lance stood frozen for a moment, tears prickling his eyes. His chest ached, and anger mingled with sadness so intensely he could barely catch his breath.

"You... you’re the only person who fucks me..." he whispered, voice breaking, "and yet... you make me feel like the biggest piece of shit. How... how could you say I slept with a creepy man like Valentino? Even when I was desperate for money, I didn’t... I didn’t do that!"

Ansel blinked, taken aback, but he didn’t say anything.

"Everything I do... everything," Lance continued, voice rising, "you always undermine it. You don’t believe me, you treat me less than you’d treat a dog. Do you even realize what that feels like?"

His hands shook as he spoke, tears spilling freely now. "My life... it’s... it’s on the verge of falling apart! People calling me names... and I didn’t do anything!"

He let out a bitter laugh, choking on the words. "Sex with you... it’s great, yes. But it’s not enough for you to treat me like... like I’m human!"

Lance wiped at his eyes, his voice barely steady. "I never asked for gentle kisses or warm touches... I spread my legs whenever you wanted me to, I never complained... because the odds... the odds weren’t in my favor."

"I’m only 24!" he sobbed. "I just started my life! I’m just trying to survive! I... I don’t understand why you would treat me this way!"

Ansel was still silent, his jaw tight, his usual fire muted. He couldn’t argue—Lance’s words cut too deep, and every accusation was painfully accurate.

Lance clutched at the fabric of Ansel’s jacket, holding on despite the storm of grief and anger coursing through him. "Please... I’m trying, I’m really trying... don’t make me feel like I’m nothing to you!"

Ansel’s breath hitched slightly. For the first time in a long while, he was speechless.

He could feel the truth in Lance’s words, the weight of how badly he’d made him feel.

Finally, he exhaled slowly, voice low but firm. "Pack your things. You’ll be staying with me for a while."

Lance blinked, stunned. Relief and heartbreak collided in a wave of emotion as he muttered, voice trembling, "I... okay..."

Internally, he felt like his mind was unraveling. The grief, the fear, the shame—everything twisted together.

His thoughts were a storm: Am I going crazy? How did it all come to this?

Lance shoved the last of his clothes into a duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder. He glanced at Ansel, eyes still red from crying, and muttered, "I... I think I got everything I need."

Ansel’s eyes flicked toward him. "You sure?"

"Yeah," Lance said softly, turning toward the door.

Ansel began moving to follow, but Lance’s next words stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Can... can we hold hands?"

Ansel froze mid-step. "What?"

"I said... can we hold hands?" Lance repeated, voice small, almost pleading. "I’m scared..."

Ansel pinched the bridge of his nose. "You’re a grown man..."

"And you’re older than me.." Lance murmured. "All I’m asking is for you to hold my hand. Please..."

Ansel exhaled sharply, then reached out, intertwining their fingers. "There. Are you satisfied?"

Lance’s lips curved into a tiny, grateful smile. "Thank you. Even though you treat me like I’m worthless, holding your hand... having you by my side... it makes me feel safe."

For the first time, Ansel felt his heart race.

He looked down at Lance—red-rimmed eyes, flushed nose, trembling lips—and felt something he couldn’t quite put into words.

He managed to shrug, forcing his voice back to its usual calm. "Let’s go."

Lance nodded, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. He locked the door behind them, duffel bag in tow, and they stepped into the elevator.

The lobby was chaotic when they got out of the elevator. Reporters clamored for a glimpse, cameras flashing, microphones thrust forward. But Ansel’s bodyguard was a wall of muscle and authority.

"Anyone who releases footage or tries to interfere will bring down themselves and their entire firm. Use your brains, if you have any," he said, voice low but icy.

Lance exhaled slowly once they were inside the car. He removed his mask, taking in a deep, shaky breath.

The air felt heavy, he could breathe but at the same time, he felt so suffocated.

And he didn’t want to let go of Ansel’s hand. It grounded him, kept him tethered when everything else in his life was spiraling out of control.

Ansel glanced at him briefly, noting the grip Lance had on his hand.

For once, the world outside..the scandal, the gossip, the prying eyes..didn’t matter.

And Lance let himself lean a little closer, drawing strength from the one person who, despite everything, made him feel safe.

The car ride to Ansel’s neighborhood passed in near silence. Lance stared out the window as the city shifted, modest buildings giving way to glass towers and gated estates, one expensive structure bleeding into the next.

The world felt unreal, like he was watching someone else’s life slide by.

Somewhere along the way, the tension finally caught up to him.

His grip on Ansel’s hand tightened, then steadied, and he fell asleep without realizing it.

Ansel noticed almost immediately.

He exhaled slowly, eyes fixed ahead. He should have checked more thoroughly.

He had been careless not to confirm whether Valentino had backup footage stored elsewhere.

That alone irritated him—but what unsettled him more was the speed of the professor’s death.