Ruin Me Slowly

Chapter 6

Jane POV

The front doors of the Ellis mansion shut behind me with a heavy thud. The echo bounced off the high ceilings and marble floors, swallowed by the silence. The place was spotless, expensive, and cold—more museum than home.

I walked across the foyer, heels clicking on the polished tile. The chandelier above me glinted in the morning light, but it didn’t feel warm. Nothing in this house ever did.

I still smelled like sex and sweat and a night I hadn’t planned to talk about.

And then came her voice.

“You smell like sin and regret, Miss Jane.”

Lila stood just past the staircase, arms crossed, lips tight. She looked me over like I was dragging mud through the entryway.

I dropped my keys on the side table and met her stare.

She didn’t blink. “What did you do?”

I ran a hand through my hair—still tangled from last night—and shook my head. “What are you talking about?”

She looked over her shoulder, then stepped in close.

“Mr. Ellis is still at the breakfast table.”

I froze. “What?”

She nodded, her voice low. “He hasn’t left yet.”

My chest tightened. My father never stayed this late. He left the house at 7:00 a.m. sharp every morning. No exceptions. No delays. It was nearly ten.

“He’s waiting for you,” she said.

The second I turned the corner into the grand dining room, my father stood and slammed both fists on the table.

“You little whore!” he shouted.

My spine locked straight.

“So you think you can embarrass me now? In public? With him of all people?!”

My mouth opened, but I couldn’t speak.

He took one step forward, pointing a shaking finger at me.

“With Carter King?” he spat the name like poison. “You whored yourself out to Elijah King’s son?!”

And just like that, the room exploded.

I stayed still, letting his words crash over me like waves. My ears burned. My stomach twisted. But beneath all of it… there was a flicker of satisfaction.

He knew.

It worked.

But I didn’t expect this level of fury.

“Do you know who saw you?” he yelled. “It was my colleague—Paul Simmons! His daughter was at that damn nightclub and saw you all over Carter King like a bitch in heat!”

I clenched my fists. So that’s how he found out. Not through press. Not through headlines.

The damn paparazzi I paid didn’t even do their job.

“Mr. Simmons called me this morning,” my father continued, voice shaking. “Said, ‘Is that your daughter grinding on a King at Empire?’”

He slammed his glass against the table.

It shattered . I didn’t flinch.

Not yet.

He wasn’t done.

“You have been nothing but a disappointment since the day you were born,” he hissed. “You should’ve left with your whore of a mother when she walked out.”

The words hit hard.

They always did.

And just like that, a memory cracked open in my chest.

I was eleven. Sitting on the cold tile of the hallway outside his office. Crying. Shaking. I hadn’t solved the math equation on the test, and he was furious.

“You can’t memorize a simple formula?” he screamed back then. “You’re useless!”

He dragged me into the dark guest room, shut the door, and locked it. I sat in that darkness for hours. No food. No light. Just silence. Just me and my fear.

And that wasn’t the only time.

For years, he punished me like that—for anything less than perfection.

It stopped when I got older. No more locked rooms. Just sharp words and cold eyes. But that voice—the one that told me I was never enough—never left.

Even now, it echoed.

“You walk around like some independent woman,” he snarled, jerking me back to the present. “Waving your little degree like it matters. Look at you. Look at what you’ve become. Just like your useless mother.”

I didn’t respond.

He stepped closer. So close I could see the red in his face. The vein pulsing in his neck.

“I’m freezing your bank accounts. You want to play adult? Go survive like one.”

Still, I said nothing.

He grabbed his phone and started typing. “I’m cutting you off. No credit. No allowance. No driver. Nothing.”

Then he leaned in and hissed, “Let’s see how long Carter King sticks around when you have nothing to offer.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

He wanted me to cry. Beg. Break. But I didn’t give him the satisfaction.

I gave him a blank stare, turned on my heel, and walked to my room. My heels clicked on the marble floor—slow, steady, proud. I could feel his eyes on my back, still waiting for me to fold.

But all I felt was quiet victory rising in my chest.

I opened my bedroom door, stepped inside, and whispered to myself:

“ Mission accomplished.”