The air in the cramped Kings Cross flat hung heavy with the tang of cheap merlot and raw, sweaty anticipation. A single bulb flickered above, casting jagged shadows across the chipped linoleum floor. Dearbhla O’Connor, once the undisputed queen bee of her tiny Irish hamlet, found herself in a position she’d never imagined—on all fours, her knees digging into the threadbare rug, her breath hitching in a way that was equal parts humiliation and heat. Her faded abs, once the envy of every gym bunny in County Clare, trembled under the strain. Christ almighty, how had it come to this?
A year ago, she’d been the picture of perfection: the glossy WAG on the arm of a rugby star, her life a curated Instagram feed of brunches and beach holidays. Then she’d caught him shagging her best mate in their own bed, and she’d bolted—straight to Sydney, where the sun was supposed to heal all wounds. Instead, she’d landed in this dive, broke, broken, and now, apparently, bowing to the whims of Ami feckin’ Brennan.
“Head down, princess,” Ami’s voice purred from behind her, sharp as a switch and twice as biting. “You’re not posing for a selfie now. I want to see that spine curve.”
Dearbhla’s cheeks burned—both sets, if she was honest—as she adjusted her position, the rug chafing her palms. Ami Brennan, the mousy little nobody she’d once made cry in the schoolyard over a crooked ponytail, was now looming over her with the confidence of a dominatrix who’d just discovered her calling. The reversal was surreal, a fever dream Dearbhla couldn’t wake from. And yet, the heat pooling low in her belly wasn’t entirely from embarrassment.
“Jaysus, Ami, do you ever shut up?” Dearbhla snapped, her Irish lilt thick with defiance even as her body betrayed her, arching just a fraction more under Ami’s command. “I’m not one of your yoga minions, you know. I’ve half a mind to get up and—”
“Oh, you’ll stay right where you are, Dee,” Ami cut in, her tone dripping with smug amusement. She circled around to Dearbhla’s front, her Docs scuffing the floor, her ripped jeans and black tank top a stark contrast to the prim cardigans Dearbhla remembered from their schooldays. Ami crouched down, her dark eyes glinting with mischief as she tilted Dearbhla’s chin up with a single finger. “You’ve spent your whole life telling people what to do. Now it’s my turn. And darlin’, you’re gonna love every second of it.”
Dearbhla’s jaw clenched, but she couldn’t look away. Ami’s gaze was a challenge, a taunt, a bloody invitation. The girl had changed—gone was the awkward wallflower, replaced by a woman who knew exactly how to wield power. And Dearbhla, for all her bluster, felt the pull of it like a riptide.
“Love it?” she scoffed, though her voice wavered. “I’m only here ‘cause I’ve nowhere else to crash, and you know it. Don’t go thinkin’ this is some grand reunion. You’re still the same little weirdo who cried over a broken crayon.”
Ami’s smirk widened, and she leaned closer, her breath warm against Dearbhla’s ear. “And you’re still the same stuck-up bitch who thought the world owed her everything. But look at you now, Dee. On your knees for me. Bet your ex never got you this worked up.”
The jab hit harder than Dearbhla cared to admit. Her ex, with his wandering hands and emptier promises, hadn’t sparked half the fire Ami was stoking now. She hated that she noticed the way Ami’s lips quirked, the way her voice dipped low like she was savoring every word. Hated that her own body was responding, traitorously eager, despite the bruised ego screaming at her to get up and walk out.
“Keep talkin’, Brennan,” Dearbhla shot back, her green eyes narrowing even as her pulse raced. “You’re enjoyin’ this way too much. What, you been plannin’ this since we were kids? Waitin’ to get me under your thumb?”
Ami laughed, a low, throaty sound that sent a shiver down Dearbhla’s spine. “Oh, Dee, you’ve no idea. Back then, I’d have given anything for a scrap of your attention. Now? I’ve got all of it. And I’m gonna make you beg for more before I’m done.”
Dearbhla’s mouth went dry. Beg? The word hung between them, heavy and loaded, a dare she wasn’t sure she could refuse. She shifted slightly, her muscles aching, her mind a mess of indignation and something darker, hungrier. How had she let herself fall this far? From ruling her small-town kingdom to crashing on a mattress in a seedy Sydney flat, letting a girl she’d once dismissed toy with her like this?
“Dream on, you absolute nutter,” she managed, though her bravado felt flimsy. “I don’t beg. Not for you, not for anyone.”
“We’ll see about that,” Ami replied, standing up with a feline grace that made Dearbhla’s stomach twist. She crossed her arms, looking down at Dearbhla with an expression that was equal parts predator and provocateur. “You’ve been runnin’ from yourself since you got here, Dee. All that posh posturing, all that ‘I’m fine’ nonsense. But you’re not fine. You’re a mess. And I’m gonna enjoy puttin’ you back together—my way.”
The words stung, cutting too close to the raw nerve of Dearbhla’s midlife unraveling. She was a mess, wasn’t she? Thirty-five, single, skint, and so far from the life she’d built that she barely recognized herself. She’d fled to Sydney for a fresh start, but all she’d found was a string of bad decisions and now this—Ami Brennan, of all people, holding the reins.
For a moment, the fight drained out of her. She lowered her head, not out of submission but exhaustion, her auburn hair falling in a sweaty curtain around her face. “How the hell did I end up here?” she muttered, more to herself than to Ami. “Under your bloody thumb, in this shithole of a flat. I had it all, didn’t I? And now look at me.”
Ami’s smirk softened, just for a second, before she masked it with another quip. “Oh, come off it, Dee. You’re not done yet. You’ve just gotta stop fightin’ what you want. And trust me, I’ve got a pretty good idea what that is.”
Dearbhla glanced up, caught between a glare and something softer, more vulnerable. Ami’s confidence was infuriating, but it was also magnetic. For the first time in months, Dearbhla felt seen—not as the fallen queen, not as the cheated-on cliché, but as something raw and real. And as much as she hated to admit it, the heat of Ami’s gaze, the weight of her words, was starting to feel like something she didn’t want to run from.
“Keep dreamin’, Brennan,” she said finally, her voice quieter now, laced with a reluctant curiosity. “But don’t think I’m givin’ in that easy.”
Ami grinned, predatory and pleased. “Oh, I wouldn’t have it any other way, princess. Now, shoulders back. We’re just gettin’ started.”
And as Dearbhla complied, a small, dangerous part of her wondered just how far she’d let this go.
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