Chapter Text
Feyre stood still, currently witnessing her boyfriend—never mind, ex-boyfriend—scramble out of his bed and cover himself up with minimal clothing, attempting to splutter out some "it's not what it looks like" excuse.
Ianthe, Tamlin's secretary, whom she "never had to worry about because she is just a friend", was no better, clutching the sheets to her chest. Except Ianthe had a smirk on her face and no remorse in her eyes.
Feyre, on the other hand, had tears streaming down her face. 4 years. Gone, just like that. Clearly they didn't actually mean anything to Tamlin, which only added to the pain.
Feyre snapped out of her semi-hysterical headspace the moment Tamlin actually came within arm's reach of her. Rushing back, she only panicked more when Tamlin exceeded her pace. And slammed the door shut before she could leave the room, causing her to hit her head and back right against it. Trapped by Tamlin.
Like she had been so many times before.
"How could you, you asshole, you disgusti—"
"Feyre, for fuck's sake, shut up and listen to me!" Tamlin shouted.
Who. The fuck. Did he think he was.
"Feyre, you have to understand that I'm a high-value male. I've explained this to you before many times. And like, I love you—don't get me wrong—but I needed sex. And you're always so, like, 'I don't want sex right now, Tamlin. I'm sorry. Not tonight, Tamlin. I can't, I'm on my period. No, Tamlin'. And you need to understand that it's cruel of you to deprive me of something that the man in me needs." When quoting her, he made his voice obnoxiously high-pitched. A mockery of her.
Feyre let out an incredulous sound, something between a laugh, a sob, and a choke. He could not be serious. She was in the wrong now?
Tamlin went on continuing his rushed rant. "And so when Ianthe offered me herself for the night, you'll understand that I had to say yes! It's really not my fault, Feyre. You'd be blind not to see that."
Feyre knew that her mind was not capable of processing everything that was happening and all that was about to come, so she made the choice to leave.
But when attempting to grasp the door handle, a strong, firm hand caught her wrist hard enough to definitely leave a bruise.
"Feyre, please. It's not my fault that I get attracted to someone who isn't so fucking pale. Honestly, look at you. You're skin is disgusting. And you're too thin and simultaneously look like a whore with those tits. I've told you to get a reduction a hundred times. I know that I told you to eat less a while ago, but this is too far. Go eat some fucking burgers. Aside from that, you know that I like lighter hair. Yours is too dark, so I asked you to bleach it. And fuck, your dyslexia—it's so embarrassing, Bron and Hart laugh about you so much. Honestly, Feyre, I've been so lenient and have given you so many warnings, it's your own fault that I've had to hurt you through this."
In that moment a strange yet comforting wave of calmness washed over Feyre. She thought back to all the hundreds of nights choking on her own sobs. All the times where she had been hunched over the toilet with her fingers shoved down her throat. The hanging of her head and disappointment in her mind whenever she stepped on the scale and heard the little *beep beep*, just to see a number that never satisfied her. Back to all the excuses she made to avoid sex. Back to all the times where many of those excuses were ignored. Back to all the times where she begged Tamlin to stop, to leave her alone. To get off her. Not that he ever listened. Back to her childhood, where she was still undiagnosed with dyslexia and dreaded being called upon to read in class, to face the snickers and whispers of her classmates when she stumbled and paused on words. To when she wasn't allowed to play with the other kids because she was "weird".
She looked to Ianthe. Ianthe, with her light, perfectly curled hair. Ianthe, with her tan skin. Ianthe, with her supple body and appropriate breasts. Unlike Feyre's, which were apparently disproportionate. Ianthe, with her law degree and perfect voice. Ianthe, Tamlin's ideal.
"You do understand what you are getting yourself into?" Feyre wanted to be sure that Ianthe understood who Tamlin really was. Instead, she just got a scoff and insult in return from the woman.
It was then that Feyre felt grateful that this had happened. Yes, she understood that Tamlin was abusing her. That it had been rape. That she had practically developed an eating disorder.
But she had still loved him. He was hers and she was his.
Not anymore, though.
But that was okay.
With now half-dried tears, Feyre looked up at Tamlin. Then turned to Ianthe. And bid them farewell.
"Feyre, you can't be serious. Are you actually leaving? Bet you're going to cry to Rhysand, running for love and your happily ever after. You're so pathetic, so predictable."
Feyre said nothing more, instead choosing the door, this time successfully grasping the door handle and leaving the room.
Maybe she was pathetic, and embarrassing, and sick. And maybe Tamlin had been right about her being predictable.
Because she found herself walking five kilometres at night. On a path that she knew all too well.
Then in the lift to Rhys's penthouse.
And then at the door.
And then she knocked three times.