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.

It was late afternoon, and I was on my second client. I don't take just anyone; my time is split between these clinic walls, hospital boardrooms, and investment meetings. My life is a series of interconnected moves, and I don't waste breath on the unimportant.

But Angelica Jenine was different. She was one of Paris's most understated models-authentic, unfiltered, and strikingly sincere. She reminded me of who I used to be before I learned to stay cold.

"Doc, I have a runway show this Thursday. Please come?" she asked, her voice light as I worked a needle along the side of her neck.

"Of course," I said, a small smile appearing. "Anything for the princess."

She giggled. "You made me a princess. That makes you the queen."

"Maybe," I murmured. "But I'm more of a witch."

Angelica didn't blink. "Then you're both. A good witch and a bad one. Life isn't all sunshine, right? We don't bloom without storms." She laughed at herself, then looked at me earnestly. "You're incredible, Doc. I wouldn't be this open if you weren't."

I wasn't used to such generous words. I shook my head, hiding a smile. "I already said yes to the show, Angelica. Now it sounds like you're trying to get today's session for free."

She laughed, unashamed. "I wouldn't say no! But really, you'll love the show. We're debuting a new designer. He's underrated, independent, and..." she lowered her voice, "he's adorable."

"Good," I replied, finishing the final touches on her neck. "Emerging artists deserve the space."

"Do you want to see him? You might recognize the name." She grabbed her phone from her lap and tapped the screen. "Here, let me show you. It's-Severino David Haynes-oh my god, Doc, are you okay?"

*Merde.*

A sharp clatter echoed through the room. My instruments slipped from my hands, scattering across the floor. I bent down fast to retrieve them, my heart hammering against my ribs. My assistant, Ann, was already there helping, her eyes curious.

When will that man finally leave my head?

"I'm sorry," I said, my voice tight. "It slipped."

"It's okay," Angelica said gently. "That's on me. I shouldn't have brought up a random name. They say it brings bad luck."

For a moment, I stood perfectly still. This time, I was inclined to believe her.

***

After that disaster, I retreated to Le Marais for a cold espresso. I'd had to cut the session short-my professionalism had cracked, and I owed Angelica a free appointment to make up for the embarrassment.

"Trish, you're zoning out again," Evelyn said, watching me stare blankly at a child with a rainbow kite in the distance.

"It's just the caffeine," I lied. But even the espresso couldn't steady my hands. I've spent years mastering my craft, yet here I was, unraveling over a man. It was absurd.

"It's all over your face," Evelyn said, slicing into a strawberry croissant. "Just say it. Is it a man?"

I stayed silent.

She set her cup down, a smirk spreading across her face. "It *is* a man. Mike?"

"Can we go?" I snapped.

Before she could answer, her phone rang. She checked the screen and stepped away to take the call, giving me a moment of unwanted solitude.

I pulled out my phone and logged into my private account. It was a six-month-old secret-a quiet rebellion that had turned into a lucrative obsession. The numbers were triple what most creators made. It wasn't about the money; it was about the power.

For years, Jason made me believe my body was something to hide. His words had been a scalpel, cutting away my confidence. But my inbox told a different story. Strangers called me beautiful. Irresistible. Even when the compliments were laced with hunger, I let them soak in.

A notification blinked.

*Aquarius.*

He was loyal, consistent, and tipped more than anyone else. He'd asked for a private call several times, and I'd always refused. My body wasn't for sale, even if the view was.

I tapped the message.

**From: Aquarius**

*Hey. Thank you for last night. I can't wait to see you in person and hear you breathless. To hear you gasping my name while you're taking every inch of me.*

Attached was a photo. A man, shirtless, his skin looking like polished marble. His chest was broad, his torso lean and lethal. A white towel hung dangerously low on his hips, revealing the sharp V of his Adonis belt. A dark trail of hair disappeared beneath the cotton, hinting at everything else.

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. *Merde.*

"Trish? You okay?" Evelyn's voice cut through the fog.

I shoved the phone into my bag and stood up, forcing my face into a mask of cold composure.

"Let's go."

“Mom, if you’re reading this, I’m not at home. I’m safe, so please don’t worry. I’m staying with Seven at his studio. I know you fired him, but I don’t want to lose him. Please don’t come looking for me. I’ll be back.”

I was halfway home when Charity’s message flashed on my dashboard. I forced my hands to stay steady on the wheel. At least she’d told me where she was. At least I wasn't chasing shadows. But the anger was there, simmering. She was with him. That boy. I hadn't considered that firing him would drive her straight into his cramped little apartment.

I called her. Again. Again. Every attempt went straight to voicemail. Her phone was off.

I took a sharp turn toward the address I’d memorized from his résumé. I never imagined I’d actually need to use it.

*“If you lay a finger on her, I’ll kill you,”* I hissed into a voice message for Severino. I didn't want to hear his voice, let alone see his face. The thought of him made my stomach turn. I needed him to understand this was about Charity, and nothing else.

I pulled my Renault Clio to the curb and slipped through a narrow gate. A rusted maroon staircase loomed ahead, the metal steps groaning with age. Four units. Which one?

My phone buzzed. An unfamiliar number.

*C302. Third floor.*

I took the stairs two at a time. The landing was shallow, the climb steep. My flats struck the metal with a hollow clang that echoed through the dark stairwell.

*Breathe, Patricia. You only have to do this once.*

I reached C302 and knocked. A few seconds later, the door swung open. Severino filled the frame. I had to tilt my head back just to meet his eyes.

He looked infuriatingly good. A white tank top clung to him under a black apron stained with paint. More flecks of color marked his neck and broad shoulders. He was in nothing but black shorts, looking as though the heat and the mess didn't touch him.

“How was the climb?” he asked, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. “Did you have so much work done on your face that you forgot how to smile?”

I bit my tongue. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a reaction. It was absurd—I was a grown woman, a professional, yet he was getting under my skin with a single sentence.

“I’m not here to entertain you,” I said coldly. “Where is Charity?”

“Didn’t med school teach you to greet people? Where are your manners—”

“You’re not a client, Severino.”

I brushed past him. He let me through, and I ignored the chaos of his living room. The air smelled of fresh turpentine and paint.

“Charity.” I crossed the room in three strides. She was curled on a red sofa, fast asleep under a fluffy beige blanket. I checked her face, her clothes—everything. She was fine. She was sleeping so deeply her cheek was pressed into a round pillow. I brushed her hair back with my knuckles; she didn't even stir.

I felt him move behind me, his shadow falling over us. I stood up and faced him.

“Let’s talk,” I said, keeping my voice low but firm.

I’d changed before coming here. Not just because I’d been working, but because I didn't want to walk into his world draped in luxury. I knew Severino wasn't wealthy. I had no desire to flaunt my status in a cramped studio. Basic decency shouldn't have a price tag, even if my parents never taught me that.

“My room is small,” he said, breaking the silence.

The whole place felt small.

“I know it’s cramped,” he continued, as if reading my mind. “But my room is even smaller. We can talk in there. I need space to breathe—and to admire that pretty face.”

I shot him a glare. I hated his arrogance. I hated his confidence. And most of all, I hated the unsteady thrumming in my chest that I couldn't quite name.

“Fine. Your room,” I muttered, stepping ahead of him.

Now that I was looking, the apartment was unmistakably an artist’s space. It was intentional. Soft blues, deep blacks, and warm wood. The ceiling was covered by a tarp painted with drifting clouds. Sheets of paper were pasted to the floorboards, covered in black paint and delicate butterflies. It was aesthetic. Effortless.

It was also spotless. Aside from a few unwashed dishes in the small kitchen, the place was meticulously clean.

He opened the door to his bedroom and stepped in first. I followed, leaving the door slightly ajar.

If the living room was art, this was an obsession. Posters of films and bands lined the walls in perfect alignment. A vintage guitar sat in the corner, and a massive white bed dominated the center of the room. It smelled faintly of air freshener and something masculine.

“Sit anywhere,” he said, clicking on an electric fan.

The windows were shut, hidden behind pastel blue curtains. I sat on a beige couch, the cushions surprisingly soft as I sank into them.

“I thought you lived with your aunt,” I said, trying to find my footing.