He Doesn’t Love You

He pulls off his jacket with an apathy that irritates me. He senses my gaze, looking up as he removes his tie. “Well go on then,” he says monotonously. “Get undressed and lie down.”

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“Don’t you want to kiss me?”

“You’re wearing lipstick.”

“That didn’t bother you last time.”

“I couldn’t get it off the collar. Had to throw the whole damned shirt away.”

“Did your wife say anything?”

“No, I got Yusanov to dispose of it for me.”

“The bodyguard? Why?”

He looks tired. Maybe he’s tired. That’s why he isn’t so interested tonight. Besides, he still wants me. I lie down, watching the shadows bounce off the ceiling. He leans over and grabs my neck. He is mechanical, sadistic. I fight the urge to push him away.

“Say something romantic, Oliver,” I whisper, hoping for anything to make me feel less like a trapped animal. He ignores me, grabbing at my thighs with a force that frightens me. “Stop it. You’re making me feel like a prostitute.”

He pulls away, running his hand through his hair. “This was a mistake. You should go.” I stare at him, horrified.

“No, darling, please let me stay. You can do what you want, I don’t mind-” He sighs in annoyance.

“Don’t call me darling. I don’t love you. This wasn’t like that.”


He paces, grabbing his cufflinks. “This was a mistake. I apologise. Don’t call me again. I think we need a clean break.”

“Oliver, don’t-” I try to pull his arm back to the bed, anything to stop him leaving. “I’m sorry, I’m just stressed, stop this. Please.”

He shrugs me off in disgust, throwing me my red dress. I sit up, numb. “I don’t understand. You- you said I fascinated you.”

He doesn’t bother to turn around, cold with dismissal. “You are just an insecure, talentless little girl who was easy to get into bed. Don’t delude yourself.” He opens his wallet. “I’ll pay for a cab back. And take that lipstick off. You look like a hooker.”

“You’re ditching me?” My mouth and throat burn with hot tears. He rolls his eyes.

“We were never together. It was two nights. And I’m married. Oh stop sobbing, Em. You can’t have thought I really loved you. You’re a child.”

“A child? Oh, the press will love that.” I respond bitterly. “Fucking the little intern, that’s normal practice for professional m-”

“Get out, Em.”

I pull on my dress, not bothering to put on my tights. “I’ll tell.” I stare at him, all my attraction burning to rage. “I know the editor of The Express. Someone has to stop you using vulnerable girls as workplace sex toys-”

“-Or maybe vulnerable girls should stop throwing themselves as powerful men.”

“I mean it Oliver. You are a predatory sadist.” He stares in silence, then bursts out laughing.

“How much do you want, my little ethical whistleblower? £1000? £10,000?”

“I think the public knowledge of your little habit of beating teenagers black and blue in bed is worth a bit more than that.”

“I’ll give you £500.” He has a glint in his eye, one I don’t like. “Standard price for a session with a girl like you. I’d advise you to take it.”

“That’s sweetie money.”

“I would advise you to take it. Take it, be quiet and live a nice peaceful life.”


He sighs. “Fine. At least let me call you a cab. I don’t like the thought of you alone on the streets at this time of night.” He pulls out his phone and calls a taxi.

I fix my hair and take off my lipstick. He closes the door behind me, a little too firmly. I get into the taxi and realise my mistake.

In the car mirror, I see the black bead eyes of Boris Yusanov.

Written by

24 year old with an awful lot to say about everything. Opinions entirely my own. Usually. madelaine@madelainehanson.co.uk

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