No Longer Yours to Break

1 For ten years, I lived in Chase Prescott’s shadow. I was his shadow. When he left for London, our relationship shifted across the nine-hour time difference into something strange and commanding. He started making me call him Sir. He demanded things through glowing screens that made my chest tighten with a suffocating, unfamiliar heat. Good boy. Show Sir how pretty you look when you touch yourself. Do what you're told, Sean, and there’s five grand waiting in your account. I didn't entirely understand that world—the rituals of control, the sharp edge of submission. But whatever Chase asked of me, I did. I blushed until the tips of my ears burned, set my phone against the headboard, and obeyed every single command. Tonight was his welcome-back party at an exclusive downtown lounge. Traffic on FDR Drive was crawling, and by the time I made it through the velvet curtains and down the dimly lit corridor of private suites, I was desperately late. My palm was already sweating against the heavy brass door handle when Chase’s cold, smooth baritone cut through the frosted glass. "Oh, Sean?" Chase let out an amused, dry puff of air. "Come on. He’s been trailing behind me since we were seven years old. Once we started dating, he turned into this clingy, suffocating little thing. I couldn't breathe." A beat of silence followed, then the distinct sound of ice clinking against crystal. "Thank God I had Damian take over the account while I was in Europe," Chase added casually. "He never even noticed. Sean’s been orbiting me his entire life. Frankly, I got bored of playing with him a long time ago." I stood there, paralyzed, my hand welded to the handle. Inside the private booth, a chorus of drunken laughter erupted. "Holy shit, Chase. You’re diabolical." "Handing Sean over to Damian Cole? You’ve got some nerve. Sean is so docile, so easy to walk over. He doesn't stand a chance against someone like Damian." Chase flicked his lighter. I could hear the faint snap-click of his silver Cartier. "It’s fine," he murmured through a cloud of smoke. "You all know Damian doesn't care about men." Someone else scoffed, clearly disagreeing. "I wouldn't be so sure about that, man." "Have you looked at Sean lately? Anyone with a pulse would want a piece of that." "I swear, you drop one dirty joke around him and his whole neck turns crimson. The kid is ridiculously sensitive. Remember last spring when someone accidentally touched the dimple of his lower back? He curled up like a live wire shocked him. Most guys couldn't keep their hands to themselves if they tried." "If he were my boyfriend, I’d keep him in bed all day." "Back in prep school, those varsity seniors wouldn't stop cornering him until Chase stepped in and threatened their families. What if—and I’m just saying what if—Damian actually lost his self-control?" Through the glass, the room fell momentarily quiet. I could almost picture Chase’s brows drawing together into that sharp, irritated line he got whenever his territory was questioned. Another voice quickly broke the tension with a laugh. "What are you even talking about? As if anyone could pull Sean away. His entire universe revolves around Chase. Even if Damian stood in front of him completely naked, Sean wouldn't spare him a second glance." The edge in Chase’s tone softened slightly. Then one of his closer fraternity brothers asked, "Speaking of which, Chase... you had a revolving door of flings in Europe. Guys, girls, half the nightlife scene in Mayfair. What’s the play here? Isn't Sean still your boyfriend?" "He grew up in your house. He’s terrified of strangers, completely attached to you. You used to take him everywhere like an extension of your own arm. What changed?" Chase’s voice lowered, sounding almost contemplative, though devoid of any real warmth. "Sean is good. He’s gentle, obedient, totally devoted to me. If I tell him to walk into traffic, he’ll ask which lane. Sometimes I lose my temper and take it out on him over nothing, and he just bites down on his pillow and takes it. He doesn't even cry out loud." The ice shifted in his glass. "The problem is... it’s too easy. Since we were kids, I’ve been the only person in his life. His entire world is the size of a thimble, and he shoved all of it onto me. I never had to chase him. I never had to court him or buy him flowers or wonder where he was on a Friday night. He was just there. Permanent. Predictable." "At first, it was convenient. Then it became exhausting." "I raised him, in a way. I didn't want to break his heart while I was overseas—if he cried, it would just annoy me and make me feel guilty. But I’m a grown man. I’m not a monk. I’m not going to spend my twenties tied down to a domestic pet." "I needed to get it all out of my system. Once I’m done having my fun, I’ll settle down with him." Someone snorted. "No wonder you tore through half of London. You were starving." "Man, if Sean ever finds out, he’ll cry until he goes blind." Chase’s tone cooled instantly, slipping into the commanding timbre that Brookline society boys used when giving orders to the staff. "There’s no reason for him to ever know. What happened overseas stays there. Every single one of you keeps your mouth shut." 2 I don't know what kind of unyielding, desperate grip on my dignity kept me from tearing that door open and screaming in Chase’s face. My mother was the live-in housekeeper for the Prescott estate. When my father died of congestive heart failure when I was seven, my mother had to work seventy hours a week just to keep us afloat. She couldn't afford childcare, so she brought me along to the manor, tucking me into the utility pantry with picture books. She drilled it into my head every morning: Master Chase is the Prescott heir. He’s an only child, raised on silk and silver spoons, and his temper is vicious. You cater to him, Sean. You make him like you. If he complains, we lose our room and our bread. I was terrified of being cast out onto the streets, so I nodded until my neck ached. What surprised my mother was that Chase took to me instantly. The moment he saw me standing in the sunlit foyer in my frayed sneakers, he demanded that I sleep in his bedroom on the adjoining twin cot. The very next morning, he dragged his mother down the grand staircase and told her I was going to St. Jude’s Prep with him. Mrs. Prescott was so thrilled her temperamental, reclusive son had found a playmate that she paid the forty-thousand-dollar annual tuition without blinking. My mother cried tears of gratitude and told me to treat Chase like royalty. And I did. I carried his tennis bags, brought him water before he asked for it, memorized every food allergy and preference he had, and became his perpetual shadow. Chase was notoriously prickly with other kids, but around me, his edges softened. From the time we were seven, we were inseparable. His possessiveness was quiet, heavy, and suffocating. By high school, if I laughed too loudly with a lab partner or spent ten minutes talking to someone in the hallway after class, he would brood all evening. The moment we walked through the heavy doors of the estate, he would haul me upstairs into his room, lock the deadbolt, and throw me over his knee without a word. He struck hard enough to leave welts. I would bury my face in his duvet, biting into the down filling, shaking and swallowing my sobs because crying made him strike harder. When he was done, he would scoop me up into his arms, using the edge of his thumb to gently wipe away my tears. Sean, look at me. You don't need anyone else in this world. You only need me. I hated the pain, hated the humiliation, but I was so young and so conditioned that I would nod through my tears. Okay. Just you. Slowly, methodically, my world shrank until there was no one left in it except Chase Prescott. I developed a severe, paralyzing social anxiety. I didn't know how to look people in the eye, didn't know how to navigate casual friendships, and was terrified of saying the wrong thing. When we got to college, Chase’s social circle expanded like an explosion. I dragged myself to parties I hated, clinging to his sleeve like a frightened child because the noise and the sea of bodies made my chest constrict. At one of those crowded loft parties, I saw two guys kissing against the brick wall near the balcony. I stopped dead, staring in pure bewilderment. Chase leaned down, smelling of bourbon and mint, a lazy smirk on his lips. "What’s wrong? Never seen two men together before?" He tilted my chin up. "Want to try it with me?" Before I could form a sentence, his mouth was on mine. He kissed me thoroughly, tasting like expensive liquor and authority, leaving me dizzy and breathless on the balcony. By the time he pulled back, I had nodded yes to whatever he wanted. Once we were officially together, my clinging grew worse. I refreshed my phone constantly, waiting for his texts. Wherever he went, I wanted to be there, not because I wanted to control him, but because the rest of the world felt cold and terrifying without him anchored beside me. Once, he went to a dive bar with a group of friends and told me I wasn't allowed inside because the crowd was too rough. He told me to go home. I didn't. I stood outside on the damp street corner until three in the morning, shivering under my coat, waiting so we could share an Uber back to the apartment. When he finally stumbled out and saw me standing under the flickering neon sign, his face drained of color. He frantically tugged his scarf up, but not before I caught a glimpse of dark, purple bruises along the side of his neck. People in his circle started making jokes about how Chase had a lapdog on a leash. And Chase began to grow visibly resentful. One night, after coming back from a weekend trip, he sat on the edge of the bed and looked at me with an expression that made my stomach drop. "Sean... don't you think you’re being a little too dependent on me?" He caught himself, softening his tone with that practiced charm, but the underlying disgust lingered. "I mean, look around. You’re in college. There are thousands of people on campus. Don't you get tired of following me everywhere? Don't you want your own friends?" I shook my head immediately. "No. I’m happy just being with you." He offered a smile, but it was hollow, worn down to the bone by a quiet, profound exhaustion. "Right. Whatever you say." After that, his absences grew longer. Study groups, Greek life events, venture capital pitch competitions—there was always an excuse. When I asked if he was free for the weekend, he said he was going camping upstate with some guys from his fraternity. "Can I come?" I asked quietly. He paused for several long seconds before looking away. "It’s just guys from the house, Sean. You don't know them. You’d be miserable. Next time." I waited through a dozen "next times" until the news hit me like a physical blow: Chase had enrolled in an exchange program in London for the year. I was the last person to find out. We were supposed to be in love. We shared a bed. I spent an entire week crying in the dark, convinced I had ruined everything by being too needy. I sent him essays apologizing for my existence, begging him to tell me what I’d done wrong so I could fix it. Then, about three weeks after he landed in the UK, his behavior suddenly took a sharp turn. His texts became warm, attentive, almost obsessive. He started checking in on me constantly, asking what I was wearing, what I was thinking about. Eventually, the messages turned explicitly sensual. Baby, I just got out of the shower. Just a towel around my waist. Want to see my abs? Do you like how hard I look right here? Tell me to pull the towel down lower, baby. Tell me you want it. I was completely helpless against it. My mouth went dry, my pulse hammering in my throat as I typed back: I want to see. Please. Pull it down. Lower. Then the photos would come through—high-definition, dripping with raw, carnal tension. Chiseled lines of muscle, a dark trail of hair leading down to thick, breathtaking size that pressed against the edge of the frame. I was mesmerized. I had never known Chase’s body looked like that. In person, he had always kept the lights low or turned away when he changed. The texts stripped away every shred of my timidity. I started calling him baby, typing out shameless, filthy confessions I never would have dared speak aloud. Occasionally, the screen would light up with an odd question: Baby, do you know Damian Cole? I would frown at the screen, confused. The name sounds familiar, but I don't really know him. Why are you asking about him, babe? The typing bubble would appear and vanish for minutes before he simply replied: Nothing. Just wondering. Then came the night my asthma flared. I had moved into a small, third-floor studio apartment after graduation. It was raining, the air heavy and damp, and my inhaler was empty on the counter. The attack hit me so fast my knees gave out. As the darkness crept in at the edges of my vision, I managed to send a scrambled, misspelled text to Chase’s phone. The next thing I registered was being lifted. Strong, steady arms cradled me against a broad chest. A deep, panicked voice was speaking right into my ear, but the words blurred into static. When I opened my eyes hours later in the emergency clinic, a man was sitting in the plastic chair beside my bed. He was breathtaking. He had the kind of sharp, devastating bone structure that belonged on a runway, with cold gray eyes and an aristocratic jawline that made Chase look almost ordinary by comparison. Seeing me stir, the tight tension in his face visibly relaxed. "How are you feeling? Can you breathe?" I stared at him, dazed. "...Who are you?" He hesitated, his gaze holding mine with an intensity that made my skin prickle. "Damian. Damian Cole." When I asked how he had known to find me, he explained that Chase had panicked from London and called him, begging him to check on me because they were close friends. I believed every word. I thanked him profusely. From that day forward, Damian showed up at my apartment under the guise of Chase’s instructions. He brought groceries, fixed my radiator, and cooked meals that belonged in five-star restaurants. Every time I tried to tell him he didn't need to babysit me, he would slide a plate of braised short ribs or honey-glazed wings in front of me to shut me up. "You really don't have to keep doing this," I told him once, using every ounce of willpower I had. "I can take care of myself." Damian only smiled, wiping down my stove with practiced ease. "Chase is terrified you’ll pass out again. He made me promise to watch over you." "Did he really say that?" I asked, a faint flush rising on my cheeks. "Ask him yourself if you don't believe me." I did. And Chase’s account had replied immediately: Yes, baby, I asked him. You live alone and your lungs are weak. I can't sleep at night unless I know someone is there to keep an eye on you. Let him help. I swallowed the lie whole. I tried to keep a polite, distant boundary between Damian and me. Until last night. A nor'easter had slammed into the city, flooding the streets and rattling the old windowpanes. The roads were hazardous, and I couldn't in good conscience let Damian drive back to his loft in Tribeca, so I insisted he take the pull-out couch in my living room. Around two in the morning, I padded into the hallway to get a glass of water. Damian’s door was cracked an inch. I reached out to pull it shut to give him privacy. And then the breath died in my throat. Damian was sitting on the edge of the bed in the dim glow of the streetlamp outside. In his right hand, gripped tightly against his bare thigh, was a pair of plain white cotton briefs. My briefs. The pair I had spent two weeks searching for in the laundry basket. His head was thrown back, his eyes shut tight, his sharp throat bobbing violently as ragged, suffocating groans tore from his chest. His fist pumped in a frantic, desperate rhythm, wrapping my fabric around his thick cock as if it were my hands holding him, my touch giving him what he was too terrified to ask for in the light of day. I stood frozen in the dark, my heart slamming against my ribs like a trapped bird. That was the exact moment I realized Damian Cole wasn't just doing a favor for a friend. He was drowning in an obsession with me. Yet he was Chase’s friend. I didn't want to make things ugly or cause a scene, so I backed away on silent feet and pretended I had seen nothing. My plan for tonight had been simple: take Chase aside at his welcome party, tell him quietly about what Damian had done with my underwear, and ask him to tell Damian to stop coming over. Instead, I had stood outside that lounge door and heard the truth. Chase hadn't grown protective of me. He hadn't changed into a caring, attentive partner. He had thrown his login credentials to his best friend like scraps from a dinner table because dealing with me was too tedious. They had been playing me together from the very beginning. 3 I wiped the cold tracks of tears from my face, turned around, and walked out of the club into the freezing drizzle. By the time I unlocked the door to my apartment, my fingers were numb. Inside, the lights were warm. Damian was standing over the sink in the small laundry alcove, his sleeves pushed past his forearms, scrubbing my underwear by hand with lavender soap. The image of him last night—head thrown back, choking on his own breath with my cotton crushed in his fist—flashed through my mind with sickening clarity. A sharp buzz went off in my skull. I crossed the room in three strides and snatched the fabric right out of the soapy water. "I told you the washing machine is right there," I said, my voice sharper than I intended. Damian didn't flinch. He turned off the tap, shaking the foam from his large hands, his expression as patient and gentle as an older brother’s. "The spin cycle ruins delicate cotton. Hand-washing is better." "I have two hands. I can do it myself." "Sean," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, soothing cadence that always made my spine tingle. "Be good. I clean them better." The words I have a boyfriend, this is inappropriate rose to the tip of my tongue, but they died before they could cross my lips. A boyfriend? Did I actually have one? Chase had handed me over to Damian months ago like an old toy he didn't feel like putting away. A bitter, stinging ache rose behind my eyes. Chase had spent a decade locking me in a cage of his own making, punishing me every time I smiled at another human being, until I was reduced to a frightened, awkward recluse who couldn't function without his permission. He broke my legs, then called me pathetic for limping. Even after Chase told Damian to take care of me, I had maintained every boundary. When Damian was in the apartment, I barely spoke. I timed my showers so I wouldn't cross his path in a towel. I kept an exact three-foot perimeter between us at all times. And for what? So Chase could brag to a room full of prep-school snobs that I was too easy? That I had no value because I didn't put up a fight? If Chase wanted to play games, why was I sitting on the sidelines keeping score for him? Damian was wealthier than Chase, better-looking than Chase, and treated me like porcelain. If someone was going to play with me, why shouldn't it be him? I dropped the wet fabric back into the enamel basin. "Fine," I said, meeting his gray eyes squarely. "Wash them." Damian blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. "Since you like doing it so much," I continued, offering a faint, deliberate smile, "you can handle all of my laundry from now on." His pupils dilated slightly. "Are you serious?" "Of course. If you want to do my chores, I should be thanking you." I took a step back toward the hallway. "I’m going up to change. Wash whatever I leave in the basket, okay?" I caught the hard, sudden swallow in his throat. A small, dangerous smile touched his lips. "Consider it done." 4 For dinner, Damian prepared a table full of my favorite dishes: roasted sea bass, garlic greens, and sweet-soy glazed wings. I kept my head down, eating quietly. Damian pulled a cloth napkin from the holder and gently dabbed at a stray smudge of sauce near the corner of my mouth. The gesture was unhurried, utterly natural, his knuckles grazing my cheekbone just a second longer than necessary. "Sean," he said softly. "Would it be alright if I stayed here permanently?" I looked up from my plate. He kept his expression carefully neutral. "You’ve had two attacks this month. The cold weather is coming in, and the radiator in the building is unreliable. I don't like the idea of you being alone." Under normal circumstances, I would have panicked and rejected the idea instantly. Tonight, I chewed my food, swallowed, and set my fork down. "The attacks have been pretty bad lately," I said smoothly. "I’ve been anxious about it too. If you’re here, I’ll feel a lot safer." A flash of raw triumph flared in Damian’s eyes before he masked it with a polite nod. "Then I’ll bring the rest of my things over tomorrow." Later that evening, while Damian was in the shower, I walked over to the nightstand where he had left his phone. I typed in the passcode—my birthday, a hunch that proved sickeningly correct—and opened his messages with Chase. Chase: Where the hell are you? Damian: At Sean’s place. Chase: What are you doing over there this late? Damian: His asthma flared up again this week. I’m not leaving him alone in an old walk-up during a freeze. Chase: Yeah, well, make sure that’s all you’re doing. I asked you to keep an eye on him, Damian. Don't overstep. Damian: I thought you said you were sick of him clinging to you. Damian: What, did you get your fill in London and now you want to come back to your old territory? Aren't you afraid he’ll figure out what you’ve been doing? Chase: What happens between Sean and me is none of your business. Chase: Besides, that kid can't survive without me. Even if he found out, two sweet words and he’d come crawling back wagging his tail. He couldn't shake me if he tried. I stared at that final sentence until the black letters blurred into jagged lines. My chest burned. The familiar, humiliating sting of tears threatened to spill over, but I clenched my teeth and forced them back down. He isn't worth a single drop, I told myself. Not anymore. The pipes clanked as the shower turned off. I locked the screen, placed the phone back on the nightstand at the exact angle I found it, and slipped into my bedroom. I opened the bottom drawer of my dresser. Tucked beneath my winter sweaters was a velvet pouch. Inside were two small, silver-plated clamps connected by a delicate chain, each tipped with tiny silver bells. Damian had mailed them to me three weeks ago under Chase’s name, texting me that my chest was so fair and pink that these would look exquisite on me. I had been terrified of them at the time. I stood in front of the full-length mirror, stripped off my shirt, and looked at my reflection. My skin was pale, my ribcage delicate. Taking a slow, trembling breath, I squeezed the tension spring of the first clamp and fastened it directly over my nipple. A sharp, electric bolt of pain shot through my chest, forcing a ragged gasp from my throat. My toes curled against the hardwood floor. I caught my breath, then fastened the other side. With every inhalation, the tiny bells chimed softly—ting, ting—in the quiet of the bedroom. I pulled out my phone, framed the shot from my collarbones down to the taut curve of my stomach, and sent the image directly to the account Chase had abandoned. Babe. I’m in my room. Look what I put on for you. The reply came back within five seconds: You said you were too scared of the pain. Why tonight? Good boy... Tug on the little bells for Sir, Sean. Let me see how pretty you look when it hurts. Heat rushed up my neck. My heart thudded against my ribs like a hammer. I reached up with two shaking fingers, gripped the silver chain on the left, and gave it a sharp, testing tug. The bell let out a clear, high ring. A jolt of pure fire flared through my nerves. I doubled over slightly, biting down hard on my lower lip to swallow the whimper, tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. The screen stayed dark for ten agonizing seconds before the text popped up: Good boy. Now pull the other one for me. We kept at it until two in the morning, messages pinging back and forth in a feverish, degrading blur of commands and obedience. By the time I unfastened the metal and walked out of the en-suite bathroom in a loose, thin t-shirt, my chest was swollen and intensely pink. Damian was standing in the hallway, holding a glass of ice water. The moment his eyes dropped to the two distinct, inflamed circles pressing against the thin fabric of my shirt, the blood rushed into his face so fast that the tips of his ears turned a violent, dark crimson.