Chapter 4

Catherine stirred in the wee hours, her body heavy with exhaustion, sprawled beside Darnell’s muscular frame on his penthouse bed. The sheets were tangled, soaked with sweat and cum, her pussy sore and pulsing from the night’s relentless fucking. She turned her head, his dark skin glistening in the faint city light, his chest rising slow and steady. Guilt flickered—Edward, home, oblivious—but it drowned under the ache between her thighs, the memory of Darnell’s cock owning her. She leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, his breath warm against her. He didn’t wake, and she slipped out of bed, her navy cocktail dress a crumpled heap on the floor. She pulled it on, the fabric torn at the shoulder, holding it together with her hands as she grabbed her heels and clutch, her hair a wild mess, her makeup smeared into dark streaks. She stumbled to the elevator, called a cab, and slid into the backseat, the driver’s glance lingering as she clutched the dress closed, her thighs sticky with Darnell’s cum.

The cab ride home blurred past, D.C.’s pre-dawn streets quiet, her mind numb. She crept into the townhouse, the silence thick, and slid into bed beside Edward. He snored, a nasal drone, his paunchy frame oblivious as she collapsed, exhaustion claiming her. Her pussy dripped Darnell’s cum onto the crisp white sheets, a wet stain spreading as she passed out, her body spent, her dreams a haze of his hands, his cock, his voice calling her his slut.

Hours later, Edward’s sharp nudge jolted her awake, her head pounding, her mouth dry. “Catherine, get up,” he barked, his voice tight with something she couldn’t place. She blinked, groggy, her sore pussy protesting as she sat up, the sheets clinging to her thighs. He dragged her to the living room, his bathrobe flapping, and pointed at the TV, already on, the volume loud. A news anchor’s voice cut through her fog: “Breaking story—video footage of Catherine Hale, wife of Senator Edward Hale, leaving a penthouse in disarray this morning.” The screen flashed to grainy footage—her, disheveled and glowing, hair a tangled nest, makeup smeared, holding her torn dress together as she climbed into a cab. Her stomach dropped, ice flooding her veins. The reporter continued, “She’s been identified, and there’s been no comment yet from her or the senator.”

Catherine’s mind raced, panic clawing at her chest as Edward turned, his face red, eyes narrow. “What the hell is this?” he demanded. She scrambled, her voice shaky, trading on his trusting nature. “It’s a misunderstanding, Edward—I was helping a friend, she was drunk, I got her home and stayed to clean up. Someone must’ve filmed me leaving.” The lie spilled out, flimsy but desperate, and he frowned, uncertain, his anger wavering. She pressed on, touching his arm, “You know how the media twists things—please, trust me.” He grunted, still suspicious, but didn’t push, his naiveté her lifeline.

The TV shifted, the reporter now outside Darnell’s penthouse, knocking on the door. Darnell appeared—shirtless, gym shorts low on his hips, his black muscled body shining with sweat, a towel slung over his shoulder. Catherine’s breath caught, her pussy twitching despite the chaos. The white male reporter, short and jittery, flinched under Darnell’s glare. “What the fuck you want?” Darnell snapped, his voice a low growl. The reporter stammered, “Uh, Catherine Hale was seen leaving here—any comment?” Darnell chuckled, unconcerned, leaning against the frame, his bulk intimidating. “Ebony Ascent date, man. That’s it.” He shut the door, leaving the reporter blinking, flustered.

Back in the studio, the anchor—a gorgeous woman in her late 30s, blonde and poised—blushed, her cheeks pink. “I, uh, don’t know what Ebony Ascent is,” the reporter said, and the anchor fumbled, “I’ve ... heard of it. From a friend. She said the, um, sex was great.” She stumbled over the words, eyes darting, insisting, “Just something I heard, not—uh, let’s go to commercial.” The screen cut to an ad, and Catherine’s pulse hammered, the app’s name now public, her secret teetering on the edge.

Edward turned to her, brow furrowed. “What’s going on, Catherine? What’s this Ebony Ascent?” She forced a laugh, shaky but light, “Some dating app, probably—people exaggerate. It’s nothing, Edward, I swear.” She squeezed his hand, her lies piling up, and he sighed, rubbing his temples, buying it for now. Her phone buzzed in her clutch across the room, and she excused herself—”Need water”—grabbing it. Darnell’s text glowed: “Hotel, 8 tonight. More of that white pussy, now you’re famous.” Her heart skipped, nerves spiking—caught on camera, and he wants more?—but her pussy clenched, traitorous and eager. She typed back, fingers trembling, “I’ll be there,” her voice steady as she reassured Edward, “It’ll blow over,” while her mind raced to Darnell, the risk, the need pulling her back in.

The flatscreen TV glowed with the image of Senator Edward Hale at a press conference, his gray suit wrinkled, his balding head catching the camera flashes. The news ticker scrolled: “Senator Hale Addresses Wife’s Scandal.” He stood at the podium, voice steady but edged with strain. “My wife, Catherine, was helping a friend in distress,” he said. “She’d been drinking, and Catherine got her home safely, staying the night to ensure her well-being. I’m certain that reporter knocked on the wrong door when he spoke to that young man. I trust my wife’s faithfulness to our marriage completely.” The crowd murmured, some skeptical, but his earnest delivery carried the weight of a man too trusting to doubt, his paunchy frame a stark silhouette against the microphones.