Chapter 6: Crawl to Me, Goddess

(The world worships her light. But she keeps crawling back to the dark that owns her.)

She was everywhere.

Billboards in Times Square. Talk show reruns. Interview clips going viral.

"Ava Sinclair: The Golden Girl Who Can Do No Wrong."

She smiled, posed, laughed on cue. Wore the diamonds they gave her. Spoke about strength and beauty, whispered about "taking time to find herself."

But when night fell… she knew where she belonged.

Not in silk sheets or under glittering chandeliers.

But on her knees.

In his bed.

1:11 AM

Her penthouse was filled with gold and glass. The silence was so loud, it bruised her.

She'd tried to ignore him.

Tried to distract herself with scripts, shoots, champagne flutes and false friends.

But her hands shook when she opened her bedroom drawer.

Because inside was a hotel key. No address. No name. Just a Roman numeral etched in black metal: VI.

She didn't even change.

She threw a trench coat over her satin nightdress, slid into heels, and hailed a car.

Like a woman possessed.

Like a goddess unraveling.

Room 606.

She didn't knock.

She opened the door and crawled in.

Literally. On all fours.

Damien was already there—shirtless, smoking by the fireplace like some fallen king. The room reeked of danger and sandalwood. And he didn't say a word as she knelt before him, eyes dark with a hunger no fame could fill.

She whispered, "I hate you."

He smiled lazily. "I know."

She crawled closer. "You ruin me."

"I've barely started."

And then he grabbed her—by the jaw, hard—dragging her into his lap like she was prey and he was the hunter who'd starved for weeks.

There was no music. No sweet words. Just heavy breathing and the sound of clothes being ripped.

He bent her over the arm of the chair, her dress hiked up, her skin blazing.

"You walk red carpets, win golden statues," he hissed in her ear, "but here? Here, you're just my plaything."

She moaned—broken, beautiful.

"You crawl to me, Ava," he growled, thrusting into her so hard the chair scraped the floor. "Not the cameras. Not your fans. Me."

And she did.

She crawled, cried, begged.

Her nails carved his back. His hand left prints on her throat. Her mascara ran like black sins down her cheeks.

It wasn't sex. It was war.

And Ava Sinclair lost beautifully.

Later, wrapped in tangled sheets and sin…

He watched her sleep—his mark on every inch of her, bruises like art.

His phone vibrated. A text appeared from an encrypted contact:

"She's closer to remembering. Keep her distracted."

He replied:

"She crawled again. She'll always crawl. But if she ever stands up—truly remembers—none of us survive."

Meanwhile…

Ava woke alone in bed.

The fire was out. The sheets were cold. But in the corner of the room, a black folder sat on the table.

Curious, she opened it.

Inside were surveillance photos.

Of herself.

From months ago.

From before she ever met Damien.

One image.

Her on set, smiling.

Another.

Her in a hospital lobby.

And the last one—

Her as a child, holding the hand of a man whose face was scratched out in red ink.

Her heart hammered.

The folder was labeled in delicate handwriting:

"Project Saint — Subject A6"

To be continued…