Chapter 4: Caught & Claimed
The door hit the wall with a crack, the sound swallowed by the groan of ancient hinges and the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin.
Brooke’s world telescoped. The flickering fluorescent tube buzzed overhead, casting a sickly strobe over rolls of gauze and a toppled box of bobby pins. Oliver’s grip on her hips tightened, his fingers digging into the soft flesh above her ass, not missing a stroke. He was buried to the hilt inside her, a deep, claiming possession that had, seconds ago, made her vision blur. Now, it froze her blood.
Dominic stood in the doorway, a silhouette framed by the brighter hall lights. His gym bag slipped from his fingers, hitting the linoleum with a dull thud.
Time didn’t stop. It accelerated, horribly.
Oliver leaned over her back, his breath hot on her ear. “Company,” he murmured, the word a low vibration against her skin. He didn’t pull out. He rocked forward, a slow, deliberate grind that made her gasp. A final, arrogant assertion of ownership.
“Get the fuck off her.” Dominic’s voice was a guttural scrape. He took a step into the closet, his shoulders filling the cramped space. The air, already thick with sweat and sex, turned electric with violence.
Oliver finally withdrew, the sudden emptiness a shocking cold. He straightened up, languid, unconcerned, as he tucked himself back into his pants. Brooke fumbled for her leggings, her hands trembling so badly she couldn’t find the waistband. She was exposed, raw, caught between them.
“You,” Dominic breathed, his eyes locked on Oliver. “You celebrity fucking parasite.”
Oliver zipped his fly. A slow, smug smile touched his lips. “She didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she begged for it. Right, Brooke? Couldn’t get enough after that first taste in the showers.”
The casual cruelty of his words was a physical blow. Brooke’s stomach lurched. She saw Dominic’s face fracture. All the suspicion, the late-night interrogations, the angry, possessive fuck in her bed—it crystalized into this ugly, undeniable truth.
Dominic’s gaze swung to her. The betrayal in his eyes was a living thing. “The showers?” The question wasn’t for her. It was for himself. A piece of a puzzle clicking into a horrifying picture.
“Dom—” she choked out.
“How long?” he interrupted, his voice terrifyingly quiet now.
She couldn’t speak. The words were dust.
“Was it before or after you let me fuck you trying to wash his smell off?” he pressed, advancing a step. The stack of audition tapes labeled "Liam’s Boy" wobbled as his leg brushed the shelf.
“It’s not—” she started, a pathetic, automatic denial.
“Don’t!” he roared, the sound bouncing off the concrete walls. He slammed his fist into a metal shelving unit. A jar of silver glitter exploded, coating the shoulder of his jacket in a cheap, sparkling sheen. “Don’t you fucking lie to me again. Not here. Not now.”
Oliver watched, an observer at a play. He picked up his water bottle, took a sip. “Seems like you two have things to discuss.”
“You stay right there,” Dominic snarled, turning his fury back on him. “You think because your daddy’s famous you can just take what’s mine?”
“Nothing here is yours,” Oliver said, his charm gone, replaced by a glacial disdain. “Especially not her. She’s a wet, willing hole. That’s all. You can have her back now. She’s served her purpose.”
The vulgarity, the reduction, was so calculated it stole the air from the room. Brooke felt herself splinter. A wet, willing hole. The words echoed in the space where her pride had been.
Dominic looked at her, really looked at her, hunched and half-dressed amidst the clutter. She saw the love die. It snuffed out like a candle, leaving only cold, bitter ash. The childhood friend, the proud boyfriend, vanished. What remained was a stranger, hollowed out by disgust.
“You’re a whore,” he stated, matter-of-fact. The word wasn’t shouted. It was delivered with the finality of a verdict.
It was the truth she’d been tasting for weeks. Now it was branded onto her.
“We’re done, Dominic!” The scream tore from her throat, high and ragged. It was a preemptive strike, a last, pathetic attempt to claim some shred of agency. To be the one who ended it.
He laughed. A short, ugly sound. “You think you’re breaking up with me?” He shook his head, glitter drifting into the air like toxic snow. “You’re just admitting it.” He bent, picked up his gym bag. His movements were stiff, robotic. “Enjoy your upgrade, Brooke. Hope his fame is worth the fucking emptiness.”
He didn’t look at Oliver again. He just turned and walked out, leaving the door gaping open. The sounds of the studio—distant piano scales, the thump of routines—flooded in, a grotesquely normal soundtrack to the end of her world.
Silence descended, broken only by the relentless fluorescent buzz.
Brooke finally managed to pull her leggings up. The fabric chafed against her sensitive skin. She felt used in every conceivable way.
Oliver capped his water bottle. “That was dramatic,” he said, as if commenting on the weather.
She turned on him, a fury born of humiliation erupting. “Why did you say that? ‘Served her purpose’? What the fuck does that mean?”
He looked at her, his famous eyes flat and uninterested. “It means I got what I wanted. A distraction. You were convenient. And,” he added, a ghost of his earlier smirk returning, “exceptionally flexible.”
He brushed past her, his shoulder knocking a stray leotard from a hook. He paused at the doorway, a silhouette once more. “For what it’s worth, you shouldn’t have begged for it so easily. It takes the sport out of the hunt.”
Then he was gone, leaving her alone in the closet that stank of sweat, sex, and glitter.
She slid down the wall, her back scraping against the rough concrete. Her legs gave out. The cracked mirror across from her reflected a shattered girl, sitting in a puddle of sequins and shame. From the hallway, she could hear the upbeat opening bars of a group number, the collective stomp of synchronized feet. Life, the show, the dance—it all marched forward without a single missed beat.
She wrapped her arms around her knees and didn’t cry. The emptiness Dominic had prophesied wasn’t coming. It was already here. It filled the closet. It filled her. A perfect, silent void.