I don’t let strangers into my home.

I tell myself it’s a rule—clean, sensible. But the truth is messier. I keep them out because some men know how to take you apart slowly, thread by thread, and you don’t even feel the first pull.

He waits outside.

The door stays shut, but the surveillance feed puts him right in my hand. I study him without being seen. Tall, standing between the hedges along the drive, fingers combing through unruly hair like he can’t quite settle into himself. I’ve never met him—not properly—but I already know the type.

He looks like the boys I pass when I drop Charity at university on the rare days she asks me to. Except he isn’t entirely a boy. Not with shoulders like that. Not with a presence that refuses to shrink.

Still… young.

When I open the door, his expression doesn’t change. No surprise. No polite smile. Nothing. I’d expected something—anything. Instead, he looks at me the way people glance at furniture.

Present. Unremarkable.

It stings more than it should.

“Severino Haynes.”

His name comes easily. The corner of his mouth twitches—barely.

“I am,” he says. His voice is low, steady. It doesn’t match the softness of his face. His eyes hold mine—sharp, watchful. The kind that notice too much.

Colored, I realize. Contacts. Intentional.

“You’re late. Seventeen minutes.” I step aside.

He walks past me, quick. His arm brushes mine—brief, but enough. Warm. Clean. There’s a faint scent left behind, something subtle and unfamiliar. Not heavy. Not cloying.

Just… him.

“Charity forgot to mention your house is practically hidden,” he says. “It’s not on any map. Took me four hours to find it.”

“And yet, you did,” I reply. “You could’ve managed better.”

He doesn’t argue. Just lets it pass, like it doesn’t touch him.

If not for Charity, I would’ve hired someone else. A woman, maybe. Simpler. Cleaner. But he’s her friend—has been for years—and she asked me. Promised she’d finally focus on her studies if I gave him the job.

This may be the closest thing we have to a bridge.

When I turn, I catch him looking around. His gaze moves across polished surfaces, bare walls, the deliberate absence of clutter. No paintings. No noise. Just order, restrained and precise.

I can almost hear the judgment forming.

Cold. Rigid. Old.

As if wanting things untouched is a flaw.

I clear my throat. “May I check your bag?”

“Sure,” he says. “Where?”

I gesture to the white Victorian table. He sets it down carefully—more carefully than I expect from someone his age.

The fabric is worn, edges stitched in rough black thread. Pins scatter across the front. Bands. Symbols. Pieces of a life I don’t fully recognize.

Some I do.

Fleetwood Mac. The Beatles.

“Sorry,” he mutters, pulling things out one by one. “It’s a bit messy.”

It isn’t. Just worn. It even smells faintly like him.

Inside: a thin sketchbook—expected. Charity mentioned he prefers filling pages to speaking. The rest is minimal. Practical.

His résumé told me enough already. Waiter. Barista. Virtual assistant. Construction worker. Bartender. A life stitched together out of necessity.

And beneath it, a Fine Arts degree. Finished, despite everything.

When I first opened his portfolio, I paused longer than I meant to. Surrealism. Abstract expressionism. Bold. Uneasy. Alive.

There’s no mistaking it.

Potential.

“I’ll help,” I say, already gathering his things before he can object. Efficiency over courtesy. I want this done.

“The sooner we start, the better. Follow me.”

I take the stairs first.

Halfway up, the silence stretches. Something prickles at the back of my neck. That familiar, irrational awareness of being watched.

Not my face.

Lower.

Ridiculous.

“You have a beautiful home, Patricia.”

I glance back. He meets my eyes easily.

There’s nothing improper about it. He has every right to use my name.

Still, hearing it from him feels… wrong.

Too familiar. Too close.

“Thank you…”

“Seven,” he says gently, catching my hesitation.

“…Seven.”

I knock twice on Charity’s door. He stands beside me, leaving a noticeable space between us. He doesn’t move, like he’s waiting for direction.

I don’t like boys who hesitate.

“Charity, open the door—”

The door swings open.

Her frown disappears instantly, replaced by something bright and unguarded. Like a light switched on behind her eyes.

“Seven!”

She throws her arms around him. I step aside, arms crossing as I watch.

He doesn’t hug her back the same way. His hands rest lightly on her shoulders. Controlled. Careful. His gaze flicks to me.

She’s comfortable with him. That much is clear.

I trust my daughter enough to recognize that.

But I don’t trust him. Not yet.

She pulls him inside, already talking, already smiling. Before the door shuts, she glances back at me.

“Mom, you don’t have to knock anymore, okay? I’ve got food. I have everything I need. Thanks.”

The door closes.

Just like that.

I stand there a moment longer, looking at the carnation-pink wood, then turn and head downstairs.

The kitchen is quiet.

I pour myself a glass of wine—expensive, measured—and take a slow sip while scrolling through my phone.

Mike again.

He’s been courting me for nine months now. A year older. PhD in Business from Philadelphia. Founder of a tech-focused strategy firm. Successful. Polished. Attractive.

A good match, by every standard.

Charity doesn’t like him.

She says he’s too perfect. Told me to wait at least a year before taking him seriously. I agreed.

I’m not looking for anything, anyway.

I know myself. I lose interest. I always end up choosing work.

My phone buzzes.

From: Mike

*Can I come over? Please? I want to see you.*

I stare at the message.

I told him before—if he asks for anything, he says *please*.

He still hasn’t learned.

Now that I’ve said yes, I suppose I’ll wait.

And put on a performance once again.

I let the intercom ring twice more before I moved.

It wasn't that I didn't hear it. My house was designed to carry sound like a whisper through glass. I waited because anticipation, when timed right, is a weapon. Two minutes was my sweet spot—long enough to unsettle, short enough to remain polite.

I set my wine down and crossed the marble floor barefoot. The stone still held the warmth of the afternoon sun. On the monitor, the camera feed flickered to life.

Mike. Of course.

He had two bouquets this time—red roses, predictably over-the-top—and a sleek box of imported chocolates tucked under his arm. He shifted his weight, practicing patience the way men like him always did: visibly.

I opened the door the exact second he started to lose his cool.

His face lit up like a switch had been flipped. His glasses were spotless, catching the hallway light. Mike didn’t do anything halfway; even his charm was polished to a high shine.

"Good evening to the most beautiful woman on earth."

There it was. A line practiced in a mirror, delivered like it had never failed him.

I leaned against the doorframe, unimpressed. "You’re getting predictable, Mike."

"Predictability builds trust," he said smoothly, stepping past me before I could invite him in.

Some people don’t ask for permission. They just take up space. The scent of roses followed him—thick and theatrical. I took one bouquet, sniffing it out of habit.

"I’ll take these," I said, dropping them on the table. "I assume the other is for Charity?"

"Of course." He pulled out a chair, sitting with the confidence of a man who owned the room. "Where is she? Asleep?"

I opened the chocolates. Dark, glossy, expensive. I bit into one, letting the bitterness coat my tongue before washing it down with wine. "No. She’s with someone."

Mike paused mid-reach for his glass. "Someone?"

His tone shifted. It was a tiny crack, but I caught it. Dermatology taught me to read surfaces; life taught me to read what crawled beneath them.

"Her boyfriend?" he asked.

I took my time. Another sip. Another second of silence to make him sweat. Then, a voice cut through from the hallway.

"I don't like boys, Uncle."

We both turned. Charity stood there, but my eyes immediately snagged on the man behind her. He filled the doorway, making the kitchen feel suddenly cramped. He had a single bag slung over his shoulder and a loose, lazy posture that made Mike look stiff. Severino didn't fit the room, and somehow, that made the room look worse, not him.

He looked at us with a stare that bordered on disgust.

"I'll walk Seven out, Mom," Charity said.

"I'll do it, sweetheart. Stay here." I stepped toward her, smoothing her hair. "Just say hi to Mi—"

"No." The word snapped. She folded her arms, chin high.

I swallowed a sigh. Now wasn't the time for a lecture. "Wait here," I told them, then turned back to Mike.

He looked sour. He knew Charity hated him, and he was too proud to try and win her over. "Well," Mike muttered, "I guess I’m being ignored again. Who’s the kid?"

"Charity’s tutor," I said. "It’s late, Mike. I have to see him out."

Mike adjusted his leather coat, buffing a spot that wasn't there. "I’ll take him. Where does he live?" He grabbed my arm, nudging me aside as he let out a sharp, careless whistle toward the door. "Kid! Where do you live? I’ll drop you."

"Mike..." I grabbed his shoulder, pulling him back. He tried to lace his fingers through mine, but I pulled away. "I’ll handle it. I need to talk to him about her grades."

He exhaled, long and dramatic. He knew that tone—it meant the conversation was over. "Fine. Looks like I don't have a choice." He leaned in, his thumbs tracing slow circles on my elbows. "See you at the clinic." He kissed my cheek.

It felt like nothing. No spark, no heat. Not even a flicker of the fire I could find on my own.

I didn't walk him to the door. He knew the way out. I waited until I heard the heavy thud of the front door before turning back to the kitchen.

Charity and Severino were talking, her voice light and animated—a side of her Mike never saw. At nineteen, she looked almost like his peer.

"Finally," Charity sighed when she saw me. "Mom, please don't do that stuff in front of us. It's embarrassing, especially with Seven here."

I glanced at Severino. He was scrolling through his phone, his long fingers moving fast. "Is your friend ready?"

"Yeah, he's just messaging his aunt," Charity said, leaning in to peek at his screen. They were comfortable. Too comfortable.

"All right. Let's go."

***

"Do you live alone?" I asked as we wove through traffic.

The car was small, and his scent—something warm and masculine—was fighting with my perfume. It made the air feel heavy.

"No. I stay with my aunt," Severino said, looking out the window. "Parents are dead. I moved in to help her earn a living."

He said it so casually it hit harder than a sob story. I tightened my grip on the wheel, focused on the GPS. "That must have been hard."

"How would you know?" he shot back. "You’ve never been in my position."

I glanced at him. "I don’t have to live your life to understand it."

Silence stretched between us, thick and vibrating. I opened my mouth to bring up Charity’s lesson plan, but he beat me to it.

"Have you ever been with a younger man, Patricia?"

My foot slipped off the accelerator. "Excuse me?"

The car slowed. I turned to him, and he was already staring. His eyes were dark, burning with a look that wasn't respectful or "tutor-like." He was looking at me like a challenge he intended to win.

"I’m asking if you’ve ever had a relationship with someone younger," he repeated, his gaze dropping shamelessly to my lips. "I’ll take that as a no."

"Do you want to get fired on your first day?" My voice was sharp, but there was a hum in my blood I couldn't ignore.

"Fired for a question?"

"That wasn't just a question."

He leaned in slightly, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "Then what was it? Why won't you answer? Are you embarrassed to admit you've never—"

The crack of my hand against his cheek cut him off.

My palm stung. My fingers trembled as I pulled them back. A bright red flush spread across his skin. I didn't regret it for a second.

Severino didn't flinch. He just ran his tongue slowly over his lower lip and turned back to me, looking more amused than hurt.

"The next time you slap me," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low crawl, "I won't let it end there. I'll be on top of you, probably in this car, and I'm clenching inside your pretty little cunt."

It wasn't a threat. It was a promise.

Before I could breathe—before I could decide whether to scream or reach for him—he opened the door. The roar of the city flooded the car. He stepped out, shut the door with a final thud, and walked away.

I sat there in the silence, my heart hammering against my ribs, skin flushed with a heat I couldn't explain.

Severino Haynes was a jerk. And I was in trouble.

For eleven years, I’ve built my life on precision.

To the world, I am Dr. Patricia Gillian Sta. Ana—a woman with a collection of degrees from Paris and a pedigree of generational wealth. They call it privilege. I call it a debt I’ve paid in full. I traded my adolescence for discipline, proving to my parents that I could survive their world: where nothing is given, only earned.

I never wanted to be like them. As a child, I couldn't just ask for affection; I had to present perfect scores and immaculate behavior to prove I was worthy of it.

Then came Jason.

With him, the control unraveled. I became reckless. Improper. It was the first time I felt the thrill of a mistake—dancing barefoot in the rain, laughing too loud, living without a calculator in my hand. I even built something real: a daughter. A life that wasn't a performance.

But love is a liar.

When Jason betrayed me, the walls went back up. I reset. Now, the performance is back. I have to excel. I have to win. Everyone is a rival, and I cannot afford to lose. Except with my daughter. She is the only place where I don’t have to pretend.

And then there’s Severino Haynes.

He’s a distraction—a man who drifts through life without consequences. If I let him in, he’ll wreck everything I’ve rebuilt. I’ve already dismissed him, and that should be the end of it. Charity will have to understand.

When I get home, Charity is already asleep. I’m exhausted. This is exactly why I don't let men in; Severino managed to give me a headache within an hour of being hired.

I drop onto the edge of my bed and press my fingers to my temples. In the mirror, my blonde bob is a mess and my cheeks are flushed for no reason. I look unpolished. I hate it.

After a quick shower, I slide into a sheer white satin nightgown. It’s short, barely hitting my thighs, offering a glimpse of the lace and pearls underneath. I adjust the ring light until the glow is soft and expensive, then position the camera. My face stays out of frame. In this room, I control what is seen.

I reach for the seven-inch transparent toy I recently bought. I click the button on the base, skipping the lower settings until the vibration hums at its peak.

The intensity makes my jaw drop. I press the head against my palm, watching the light catch the lubricant as it slicks the surface. I catch my reflection in the lens. I look incredible. There's no point in being modest about it.

I hit *record*.

I trail the humming device across my chest, sitting cross-legged. My free hand, encased in a sleek glove, kneads my breasts until my nipples are hard. I tilt my head back, spreading my legs for the lens, momentarily lost before checking the framing. The angle has to be perfect.

In one smooth motion, I bury the toy deep. A sharp moan escapes me. My right hand scrambles for the headboard as the stretch overwhelms me. I can’t tell if it’s actually that large or if I’ve just been alone for too long.

"Ahh, shit..."

I pick up the pace. The friction creates a heat that sends sweat rolling down my cleavage, my skin shimmering under the amber lights.

*I'll be on top of you, probably in this car, and I'm clenching inside your pretty little cunt.*

"Ahh!"

The memory of his voice hits like a physical strike. My body jolts in a violent tremor. The vibrator slips from my hand as I writhe against the sheets, my legs kicking out until I hear the tripod topple over. I don't care about the gear or the footage. The orgasm is all that exists.

Although a single voice cuts through my mind, shattering the room.