A mother's love 2

The continuation of Giselle's fall into the dark side of life and motherhood, forced to cross the border of the human by someone smarter than her.

(Good morning everyone, I finally finished chapter two of "A MOTHER'S LOVE" from this chapter the situation will begin to worsen for Giselle, to the point of no return, EVERYTHING IS MADE UP)

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For the next few months everything continues in the same way, I make my children believe that I have stopped, that I am going out to work as a waitress, but it is not true, and one day a new message arrives
I’ve never received one like this one.

“Regular client. Special request. Triple payment. No questions. Be ready by 8 p.m.”

I stare at it, hoping it’ll vanish. It doesn’t. My heart climbs into my throat. I could refuse. I should. But when I see “triple,” something inside me shuts off. I think of Billy’s torn boots. Of Hayley pretending she isn’t hungry. Of Sarah looking at me like a broken machine. That thought terrifies me more than any man.

I say yes.

The apartment is luxurious. Sterile. Too quiet. He’s already there. Doesn’t speak. Just stares. Not at me, but—through me. He gestures toward the bathroom. “Clean yourself,” he says.

I don’t understand. Then I do.

I undress. I do what he wants. Not with my body, not yet. First with my dignity. I peel it off piece by piece.
His fetish has no name. It shouldn’t exist. He wants me humiliated, debased. Asks me to touch myself with things I don’t even want to see. Asks me to eat and drink things that came from him, he wants me to thank him for giving me his sweat and spit on the face, wants me to fake a smile everytime he lcks my face, he wants me to offer him my shame. To become a thing.

He laughs. I cry. When it’s over, he leaves the money on the sink. Not the table, the sink.

I walk out trembling. Not from cold. From nausea. From shame. From something I don’t know how to name anymore.
They’re waiting for me at home. No one speaks. They don’t have to.
Sarah glares at me from the hallway. Billy gives me a tired smile. Hayley hugs my legs, then pulls away, like she touched something wrong.

That night, Sarah screams. I hear her through the wall. She found a photo on my phone I forgot on the kitchen table. One I thought I’d deleted. Me, half-naked. Me, smiling. Me, lying.

“Is it true?! Are you really keeping doing this?!” she yells.

I don’t answer.
How could I?
And in that silence, it happens. I’m not their mother anymore. I’m no one.

For weeks, I take no jobs. The money is enough to get by. Pay bills. Buy the basics. Food. Soap. A used toy for Billy. But there’s nothing that can buy back what I’ve lost.

Sarah doesn’t look at me. She almost calls me by my name. Billy... Billy doesn’t ask me for things anymore. He goes to Sarah instead.

When the money inevitably runs out, I open the damned site again. My hands shake. But I click anyway.

No messages.
No offers.
Nothing.
I write to the agency myself. “Available. Any job.”

They reply two hours later. Cold. Polite.

“Dear Giselle, at the moment there are no clients compatible with your profile. Thank you for your collaboration.”

I read it again and again. “Not compatible.”

Not even good enough to be used. Not even worth buying.
I freeze. Still. Like even the air has decided I’m not worth the effort of breathing.
And I understand, it’s not the end of the world.
But it’s the end of mine.

Days pass, then a month, the pain is unbearable.
I leave the house and with the little money I have I buy two boxes of sleeping pills, determined to swallow them all.

I write a letter for my children.
I write the letter with shaking hands. I don’t cry. There is nothing left to cry.
The ink bled a little, but the words are clear. Three pages. One for each.

“Sarah, forgive me. You’ve always known. You carried everyone’s weight, even mine. You deserve a different mother. You deserve to be a daughter, not a burden.”

“Hayley, the world is cruel, but you’re stronger than you look. Don’t let my shadow steal your light.”

“Billy, my little one, I’m sorry. I gave you life, and then I poisoned it. I love you. Don’t forget that.”

I fold the pages. Slip them into the envelope. White, clean. Like it doesn’t know what filth it holds.
I’m about to seal it when my laptop pings. An email.
Not the agency. A private message.

The sender calls himself Nick. No photo of his face. Just... a pink doll’s dress hanging on a wall. Like in a twisted museum. Disturbing. Immaculate.

“Good evening Giselle,
I hope you haven’t stopped checking messages. I just wanted to say that your photos moved me deeply. Not just your beauty, but what’s beneath.
I noticed the toys in the background…
I like real women. The kind who understand sacrifice. The kind who have a world to protect.
I’d love to talk. Just talk. Maybe see that world.
Warmly,
Nick.”

I read it three times. The words sound kind, almost poetic. But something’s wrong. Something off. “That world.” The toys. “I’d love to see that world.”
I stiffen. I type back instantly.

“What do you mean by ‘see that world’? Why are you talking about my kids?”

The reply comes minutes later.

“Oh, I’m sorry if I gave the wrong impression. It’s just... it’s obvious you’re a mother. A real one. And I... find that kind of devotion fascinating.
I have no bad intentions, really.
It’s just... some women are more interesting when they have something to lose.”

My stomach knots. He hasn’t said anything technically wrong. But every word is a blade. A trap.

“More interesting.”
“Something to lose.”

Who is this man?
What does he want to see?
The doll dress.
The poisoned compliments.
And for the first time in months, I feel something close to fear.

But not for me.
For them.

Days go by.

Nick writes every evening. Always with carefully chosen words, never crude. He’s educated, refined. And he knows exactly where to strike.
He talks about me. About how extraordinary it is that I can still smile, run a home, feed three children on my own. He says my photos don’t show just a body, but a purpose. That I’m “a warrior mother, with hidden softness running through her veins.”

At first, I hold back. But then… I start answering. A word. Then a sentence. Then full messages.
We talk about books, food, music. Sometimes he asks about my days. Other times, about the kids. He says he “loves hearing their laughter in the background when your voice notes cut off for a second.”
I laugh. I tell him they drive me crazy sometimes. He replies:

“But that’s the beauty. Hearing them… real. Unfiltered. Innocent. Pure. It’s rare these days. Children are perfect worlds… worth exploring.”

I read that line three times. It sounds odd. But then he changes the subject. Talks about cooking, art, the loneliness of single mothers.
And I follow. Because I’m starving. Starving for someone who listens. Who sees me.

One day, he writes:

“Giselle, I could really help you. Not pocket change. Real money. I could fix your life. Clear your debts. Give your kids a future.
But to do that… I need to meet you.
And I don’t mean just you.”

I stare. Say nothing.

“What do you mean?” I type.

He replies:

“I mean I don’t want to buy a service from you. I want to buy a possibility. I want to… know your world.
Just for a short while. One afternoon. With you there, of course.
Nothing wrong. Just tea. Some games. A conversation.
I want to feel what it’s like to be part of your life.
You are the passage. The bridge.”

The bridge.
I repeat that word in my head.
He offers money. A lot. He even sends a number. It’s obscene. With that, I could pay every bill, the mortgage, even send Sarah to a real school.

And I… I still don’t understand. Or maybe I don’t want to understand.
Because for the first time, it feels like someone is choosing me. Not for sex. But for something deeper. Something darker.

But I don’t see the dark.
I see artificial light.
And I mistake it for salvation.

I say yes.
Maybe because I feel empty. Or maybe because I want to believe there are still kind people. Men who see something in me beyond flesh.
Nick arrives on time. He brings a gift for each of the kids. Hayley gets a pastel set. Billy a remote-control car. Sarah a book of French poetry.

He looks at them like he’s known them forever.

“Sarah,” he says, brushing her shoulder, “you seem like a creature from a Baudelaire verse. So elegant… so blooming in your youth.”

She blushes. Whispers a thank you.

Then he leans toward Hayley. “You have tiny little hands… artist’s hands. Hands always tell stories. Yours are full of secrets.” He smiles at her. Too long.

Finally Billy. He lifts him onto his lap without asking. “You’re the prince of the house, huh? But I bet you can be quite the rascal. Boys know how to drive their mommies crazy… and how to make them smile, too.”

I laugh. But something clenches in my stomach. I don’t know why. He’s polite, right? Educated. Cultured. Thoughtful.

And yet there’s something.
Something I can’t quite name.
We have dinner together. I made roasted chicken, potatoes and vegetables. Nick drinks red wine, but not much. He toasts with us. Tells funny stories, talks about his travels, the books he’s read.

The kids listen closely. Sarah laughs for the first time in days.

“You see,” he whispers to me at one point, “how beautiful they are when they laugh? This… this is what I want. Just to be part of it. Even for a little while. You’re giving me a dream, Giselle.”

And I… I want to believe him.
I want to believe that, for once, my ruin is building something.
Even if I don’t know what I’m really offering.
Even if the price might be more than I can pay.

Nick stays after dinner. The kids, full and strangely calm, move to the living room to watch a cartoon. Sarah keeps Hayley close, like she always does, protective even though no one ever asked her to be. Billy seems to like Nick. He watches him with those big, curious eyes, trying to figure out what kind of man he is.

I clear the table slowly. Nick is sitting, legs crossed, that calm, thin smile on his lips. He sips his wine like he owns the place. Speaks softly, politely, sweetly.

“You have three wonderful children, Giselle. Truly. It’s rare to find kids... so authentic.”

I freeze. Something about the word authentic feels off, but I let it pass. I nod, thank him, try to act normal.

“Hayley is a flower. So delicate. She reminds me of something… pure.”

He smiles again, but his gaze lingers too long toward the hallway. Then he turns to me. “And Billy… so full of energy. But fragile inside, you can tell. He needs protection.”

My stomach tightens, but I keep smiling. Because I need the money. Because I don't want to ruin this over a vague comment. Because… I’m exhausted.

Then his voice shifts slightly. Lower. “And Sarah… already a little woman. Strong, quiet. Just like you. But with something more.”

I swallow. A nervous smile escapes. “She’s just a kid.”

Nick tilts his head. “Right. Just a kid.”

Then he smiles again, as if nothing happened, and changes the subject. He tells me about a trip to Turkey. A seaside villa. How much he’d pay to take “all four of you, on a holiday, far from this misery.”

A chill runs down my back.
Then his hand moves toward mine on the table. Slow. Steady.

“I’m offering you a way out, Giselle. Not just for you. For them. A new life. But there’s only one condition…”

He pauses. Looks at me. Deep. And I… I’m scared of what he’s about to say.

"I want you all, all four, all for me, devoted...I want you to love them beyond human conception, beyond normality, beyond the social norm, I want to see you make your children yours and they make you theirs, I want to participate in this wonderful family "

A shiver runs down my spine, my eyes widen, my mouth arches in a form of terror, I let the monster enter my house, with my children, the most important things in my life. those for whom this sick spiral began

I'm about to pick up the phone, call the police, Nick is calm, fumbles with his jacket, takes out his wallet before I can press the buttons
He places a credit card on the table and writes the secret code on a napkin.

"Everything in here, Giselle, will be yours, enough to raise your kids, send Sarah to a good school, buy your son the console he wants and Hailey all the shoes she wants"

My hesitation gives him time to take the phone out of my hand, he sees in my hesitation an opportunity, in my fragility the realization of the dream.

He takes the credit card, lifts my dress, gently slides it into my panties, giving it a gentle pat.

"Now you are mine, you are all mine"