Chapter 21 - Valentine’s Dread

Becky’s eyelids fluttered open to pale dawn light filtering through thin dorm curtains. Her heart thudded against her ribs—Valentine’s Day. A sour knot of dread twisted in her stomach. It was too early for Trip’s weekly cancellation text, she could only imagine what horrors Jake had in store for her tonight.

She forced herself out of bed, pulling on crisp jeans and a soft-cotton tee. In the dining hall, the bitter drip of coffee did little to wash away her anxiety. In lecture, her pen hovered over blank margins; every slide blurred as her mind replayed imagined scenarios. By noon, her stomach clenched so fiercely that she skipped lunch.

Back at her dorm in the early afternoon, she spotted the front desk slip among her mail. Heart racing, she handed it over; the attendant—a freshman she barely knew—glanced down at the slip, her cheeks paling. She disappeared behind the counter and returned with a small cardboard box. No postage marks, only Becky’s name scrawled in ink that looked rushed. Becky’s throat tightened; she was about to ask questions when the girl shook her head and bit her lip.

On her bed, Becky tore at the tape. The cardboard split with a sharp snap. Inside lay a midnight-black sheath dress, its fabric whisper-thin, and a pair of dainty stiletto heels. On top, a note in Trip’s precise handwriting: Wear this tonight. See you at 7—Trip. Her pulse jolted.

A tremor of relief washed over her: maybe Jake and Kim’s weekly torments would cease. Hope—long forgotten—blossomed in her chest. She pressed the dress against her cheek; it smelled faintly of lavender. Tonight, she’d step out of the shadows of harassment.

All afternoon she pampered herself. The shower’s hot spray loosened every muscle. She lathered shampoo until her skin tingled, then traced a light line of eyeliner, and brushed her lashes to flutter-fan. For the first time in months, she studied her reflection and smiled.

At six-thirty, she laid out the black dress and heels on her bed. Trip had always provided every detail—so would he expect nothing more tonight? She bit her lip. Fuck it. She reached into her lingerie drawer, pulling out glossy thigh-high stockings; their elastic tops snapped against her skin in a satisfying whisper. A soft velvet pouch lay beneath them. She closed her fingers around it, slid aside the top, and let the jeweled buttplug tumble into her palm. The metal was ice-cold. She hesitated, then kissed the gem, letting her saliva coat its shaft. With a quiet moan, she eased it against her rim and pressed inward until the jeweled tip nestled flush. A shiver ran through her.

She tossed her bra and panties aside and stepped into the dress. The fabric slipped over her curves, clinging just tight enough to feel dangerously alluring. She slid into the heels, balancing on slender poles. Her heart fluttered as she admired herself in the mirror—no hems hiding the subtle curve at the tops of her stockings.

A sharp rap at the door made her startle. She cursed under her breath, expecting someone from her hall needing something. Instead, she found Trip framed in the doorway, slate-black tuxedo impeccable, a single red rose cupped in hand. His dark eyes held a flicker of awkwardness she’d never seen before.

“Good evening, Becky,” he said voice even. The rose smelled like velvet petals and hidden promise.

She stared, mouth slightly agape, then managed, “Thank you.” Her voice was a whisper of silk.

He cleared his throat. “Ready to go? Or do you need a minute?”

She set the rose on a stand that hugged the wall just inside her door. “I’m ... ready.” Her pulse hammered as she grabbed her little black clutch—keys, ID, phone, and wallet tucked inside.

He offered his arm. Becky’s breath hitched, but she slid her hand into his crook. Outside, the air was cool enough to make her skin prickle. Trip led her across the campus quad to his sleek black sports car. He popped the trunk, retrieved the valet ticket, and opened her door with a gentleman’s flourish. She eased in, gown riding up dangerously as the buttplug shifted inside her. Engine purr. The car glided forward.

Becky felt a jolt of surprise when Trip suddenly veered the car onto the interstate and slammed his foot on the accelerator, the sports car roaring to life and surging forward with a powerful thrust.

“Where are we going?” Becky finally asked, her voice barely steady as they sped towards the glittering skyline of the big city.

“Dinner,” Trip replied, flashing that charismatic smile of his that could have been charming if she didn’t know it concealed a manipulative streak.

With no real answer forthcoming, Becky let his vague response hang in the air, her eyes drifting to the window. She watched the sprawling cityscape grow larger, the skyscrapers rising like giants in the distance, their lights twinkling like stars.

In just about ten minutes, the car glided smoothly into the entrance of an upscale restaurant. As Trip brought the vehicle to a halt and shifted it into park, two sharply dressed attendants rushed forward and opened the car doors simultaneously. A man in a crisp tuxedo extended his hand towards Becky, offering to assist her as she unbuckled her seatbelt. The unexpected elegance of the service caught her off guard, but she accepted his hand, carefully smoothing her dress and clutching her purse tightly against her waist to avoid revealing that she wasn’t wearing any panties to anyone who might glance her way.

She stood up, her heels clicking against the pavement as she stepped away from the sleek black car. Trip, with a casual flick of his wrist, tossed his shiny keys to the valet, who caught them deftly before handing back a crisp ticket. Trip then extended his arm, his smile warm and inviting, and Becky slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, feeling a flutter of excitement as they walked toward the grand entrance of the restaurant.

As they crossed the threshold, the soft glow of candlelight and the hum of gentle conversation enveloped them. Suddenly, a sharply dressed man in a tailored tuxedo approached, his demeanor polished and professional. “Ah, Mister Azim, Miss Freeman, if you’ll follow me, please,” he said with a slight bow. Becky blinked in surprise, her brow furrowing as she processed how he seemed to recognize her. The man gestured for them to follow, leading them toward a sleek elevator tucked away in a corner.

Inside the elevator, the walls gleamed with brushed stainless steel, and soft music played in the background. “We have our top terrace spots reserved for you this evening,” the man stated, his voice smooth and confident. “I’m sure you’ll love the view.”

As the elevator ascended, Becky felt a mix of anticipation and awe. With each passing floor, the gentle hum of machinery filled the air, and she could feel the height of the building stretching higher. When the doors finally slid open, she stepped out onto the rooftop, her breath catching in her throat. They had arrived at the top floor of the skyscraper. The hallway opened up to the night sky, revealing a stunning panorama of twinkling city lights, the vast expanse of stars overhead, and the cool breeze brushing against her skin, making her feel alive and exhilarated.

The man guiding them wore a crisp uniform, and as they approached a pair of imposing double doors, he tapped a security badge against a scanner. A green light flickered, and with a smooth motion, he pushed the doors open, revealing a sweeping nighttime panorama of the city. The skyline shimmered with lights reflecting off the river, and the streets below buzzed with the evening’s energy. In the room’s center stood a table, its two chairs positioned strategically on adjacent sides, inviting both occupants to enjoy the breathtaking view.

Becky followed the man as he led her to one of the chairs, gently pulling it out for her. She murmured, “Thank you,” her voice almost lost in the room’s expansive quiet, as she settled into the seat. In front of her sat a flute of effervescent liquid, bubbles rising gracefully to the surface. She glanced up, ready to object, when the man reassured her with a polite smile, “It’s sparkling cider, Miss Freeman.”

A soft blush crept up Becky’s cheeks, and she nodded appreciatively. “Thank you,” she repeated, her voice more assured this time.

Trip slid into his chair with a casual grace. They had barely settled in when a team of waiters emerged, moving with practiced precision. Each placed a plate in front of them, presenting a delicate arrangement: a small cup steaming with aromatic soup, a crisp salad, and three slices of bread, each cut with exacting symmetry. Becky blinked, her surprise evident.

“It’s a pre-scripted meal,” Trip explained, noticing the puzzled look on Becky’s face and offering a reassuring nod. Becky nodded and reached for the gleaming silverware, her fingers brushing against the cold, polished metal. She carefully unfolded an intricately folded fabric napkin, setting it neatly in her lap. As she took a bite of the crisp Caesar salad, the tangy dressing and grated parmesan cheese made her smile. Across from her, Trip dipped his spoon into a steaming bowl of tomato bisque, the rich aroma wafting up as he gently blew on the hot liquid before taking a cautious sip. After swallowing, he glanced at Becky and began speaking. “So, how are your classes going, Rebecca?”

Becky’s hand paused mid-air, her fork hovering with a delicate mix of romaine and croutons. Was Trip really trying to make small talk with her?

“Not well, actually,” she admitted, placing her fork down with a soft clink and meeting his gaze.

Trip’s eyebrows knitted together, genuine concern etching his features as he set his spoon aside. “Are you finding them challenging?” he inquired a hint of empathy in his voice.

Becky exhaled deeply, her shoulders slumping slightly. “It’s complicated. Perhaps we should just eat our food,” she suggested, her voice tinged with resignation as she shifted her attention back to her plate. Trip’s brow furrowed, lines of concern etched across his forehead. “Okay,” he murmured, picking up his spoon and dipping it into the steaming bowl of loaded baked potato soup. The rich aroma mingled with the tension in the air.

Becky, seated across from him, continued to eat in silence, her fork rhythmically piercing the lettuce and cherry tomatoes in her salad. She paused only when Trip cleared his throat, ready to speak again just as she set aside her empty salad plate and began to savor her own soup, the creamy texture a brief comfort.

“Have you made many friends since coming here?” Trip inquired, his voice steady, free of sarcasm or mockery, as if he genuinely wanted to know—if he was even capable of genuine curiosity.

Becky fixed him with a level stare, her expression unreadable but her eyes sharp. “No, I haven’t really had the opportunity,” she replied, her tone edged with a hint of bitterness. She couldn’t help but wonder what his angle was. Was he trying to provoke her, to twist the knife further into wounds he had caused? She felt the weight of his questions pressing down on her, each word a reminder of the isolation she had experienced since arriving. Trip picked up on the subtle shift in the air and decided to keep his questions to himself, opting instead to focus on the meal before them. Moments later, the waiter arrived, setting down a lavish sampler platter that overflowed with perfectly seared steak, bright red lobster tail, plump shrimp glistening with garlic butter, tender chicken, and a mound of flavorful jambalaya. Each dish was presented in delicate portions, clearly designed for sharing rather than a single diner’s feast. Becky’s eyebrows shot up in surprise; this was no ordinary meal for someone he was casually seeing and often neglecting.