“Yeah, and you hate me, I know,” he replied in his detached tone.

Anger fizzed inside me. Without thinking, I slapped his shoulder. He turned to glare at me so I slapped his chest, taking out all my frustration on him. When I raised my hand to hit him again, he grabbed my wrist tightly and shook his head. A second later, his other hand closed over my shoulder as he threw himself at me, slamming me against the wall and kissing me fiercely. He was kissing me so hard it was hurting my lips, but I kissed him back immediately.

It was raw passion. Anger-fuelled passion. He pinned me against the wall as both of us ravaged the other’s mouth like animals. He let go of my wrist and his hands roamed desperately down my body as I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer to me, needing to feel his body against mine.

He pulled out of the kiss just as I was gasping for breath and started kissing down my neck. His hands went straight to the buttons of my jeans, pulling on them frantically. I could feel how turned on he was when he pressed his crotch against my hip, showing me just how much he wanted me physically.

I squeezed my eyes shut as a realisation hit me. This was all I was to him. A body, nothing more. Something for him to get his kicks with, just like he did with hundreds of other girls. He wasn’t demanding we get married because he wanted to; he was doing it because he didn’t want Sasha to hate him.

All this little thing was right now was him laying claim to me, him claiming his dominance over me and my body. But I wouldn’t let him have it.

I gulped, trying to find my voice as he pushed my jeans down slightly, his hand groping my bum, one hand slipping down the front of my underwear. “Carson, stop.” My voice was barely more than a whisper. His mouth came back to mine and one of his hands wove into my hair, halting my protests as he kissed me roughly. I whimpered into his mouth and pushed on his chest. “Carson, stop it!” I said louder, using my forearms to shove his body away from mine.

He stopped and looked at me, his eyes filled with both want and anger. “Why?” he asked, his voice husky and thick with lust.

I tried desperately to get my breathing under control. “Because I don’t want this.” Not like this, anyway. It would be easy to just give in to my body’s urges because goodness knows I wanted him, but not like this, not just because he was demanding it.

He sneered at me, stepping closer to me again and pressing his hard body to mine. “Would it help if I offered to pay you? How much do you want? What’s the going rate for your bedroom?” he shot out.

His spiteful words felt like a punch in the stomach. My eyes filled with devastated tears as my chin quivered. I felt so dirty and used. I’d never felt so low in my life. I couldn’t speak. With that one little speech, he’d just showed me exactly how little he thought of me, and exactly how little he cared for me. With that one little speech, he’d ripped my heart out and had torn it into a million pieces.

Almost instantly he frowned, averting his eyes as if he wished he hadn’t said it. “I didn’t mean that. I shouldn’t have…” He stepped back, gripping his hand into his hair as he scowled down at the cheap bedroom carpet. My shoulders slumped as the last of my self-confidence, self-worth and self-belief went out the window. I turned my face away from him as silent tears fell down my cheeks. “Look, I don’t even know why I said that. I’m angry, it just slipped out.”

I felt empty inside. Everything I’d fought hard for since I was sixteen, everything I’d been through, how hard I’d worked to make something of myself, going to university, being a mum – they were all nothing now, because I was a cheap, dirty whore. The man I loved had just made that clear to me.

I shrugged him off and headed over to the bed where my stuff was half-packed, buttoning up my jeans as I went. “Are you still making us move in with you?” I asked, trying not to display any emotion in my voice as I spoke.

“Yeah,” he huffed.

I nodded and threw the remaining clothes and stuff into the bin bags and then picked them up, turning to walk out of the room. I kept my eyes firmly on the door; I refused to even look at him. As I got level with him, he took the bags from my hands.

“Emma?” he called, obviously trying to get my attention.

I just walked off; I couldn’t even bring myself to talk to him. I tried to hate him for making me feel this way, but I couldn’t. Instead, I hated myself, because everything I was feeling inside was my fault, not his. My parents were right about me all along; I was a cheap, dirty girl who had the devil inside her. Maybe I should have just joined that convent when they gave me the chance. Maybe then I’d have been able to save my soul.

I didn’t speak to him as I picked up my keys and mobile phone from the side table.

“You’re ignoring me now?” he asked incredulously as I stood silently by the front door. “One thing I say in the spur of the moment and I get the silent treatment?”

I gritted my teeth. “I’m not ignoring you; I just have nothing to say to you right now.”

He groaned in frustration. “I’m the one who should be fucking angry! You’re the one that’s kept me in the dark about my daughter, yet you’re angry with me?” He shook his head in exasperation. Clearly, he had no idea how much he’d wounded me with his nasty, spiteful comment about paying me for sex. “I’m sorry, all right? I didn’t mean what I said. It just came out!”

I shrugged, trying to go for the unaffected approach. “Don’t be sorry. You think I’m a dirty whore who sells herself for money, and you’re right, I do.” Technically, what he said was right; he paid me for sex all the time, so that made me a prostitute of sorts. It didn’t matter that I never saw it that way, that I saw it as love-making, that I used the money as if it were a child support payment. Technically, I was a hooker, plain and simple.