002

“Aria, what the hell are you doing?”

Her mother’s voice slices through the pool house like a damn knife—too sharp, too loud—and Aria’s heart just… stops. Like full stop. Silence in her skull, just pounding, choking silence.

She’s still on the floor. Naked. Sticky. Her thighs a mess. Adrian’s taste still on her lips like sin.

Her towel’s over there—crumpled, useless—so she lunges for it, hands slipping on the slick marble. She fumbles it, almost falls, and the shame—it’s instant. Vicious.

Oh God. Oh God.

She saw.

The air turns thick. Not just chlorine—it’s grief and fear and sweat and… what-the-fuck-am-I-doing all stuffed down her throat.

“I—I was just—” Her voice cracks, pathetic. She yanks the towel over her chest, hands trembling. Her skin’s burning—Adrian’s hands still ghosting there—and her mom’s eyes… they’re wide. Ruined. Wine-stained blouse clinging to her like grief. Mascara smeared like war paint.

Adrian doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just leans back against the counter like he owns it, towel low on his hips, smirking like the devil that knows he’s already won.

“Get up,” Mom snaps, but it’s not strong. It wavers. She’s breaking, holding it together with rage and duct tape. “Get up and get out of here. Now.”

Aria staggers to her feet. Legs jelly. Towel slipping again. Palms slick.

Her thoughts are all tangled—

He touched me.

He made me come.

I wanted it.

Her throat closes up. It hurts to even breathe.

What would she even say?

Sorry, Mom. I let your dead husband’s best friend finger me 'til I screamed his name?

Her stomach flips. Her eyes sting. She can’t look at either of them.

“Aria,” Adrian says—calm, smooth, that velvet voice soaked in danger. “We’re not done.”

She freezes. Her damn body listens. Like some dumb animal. That low ache between her legs flares to life again. Treacherous.

Mom whips toward him like she might throw something. Her voice shatters. “You shut your mouth, Adrian. She’s nineteen. She’s—she’s my baby.”

Baby.

That word cuts deep. Aria’s throat tightens, and something inside her just caves.

She’s not supposed to be this. Not the wild one. Not the one breaking everything that’s already cracked.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. It’s weak. Pathetic. She doesn’t even know who she’s talking to anymore.

Herself.

Her dad.

The ghost in the room.

And then she’s running. Bare feet slapping the stone path. Towel clutched tight like armor. But it’s nothing. It doesn’t cover what she’s done. What she still wants.

The guest house is silent. Drenched in it. That heavy kind of quiet that wraps around your throat. Her room’s still a disaster—half-packed boxes, clothes everywhere. Dad’s photo on the nightstand, smiling like he doesn’t know what’s rotting in her.

She collapses onto the bed. The towel falls. She doesn’t care.

She buries her face in her hands.

She’s still wet. Still trembling.

She can feel him.

His hands. His mouth. His fingers inside her like he belonged there.

“I hate him,” she whispers.

She doesn’t.

She wants him.

She wants him more because she shouldn’t.

Buzz.

Her phone lights up.

She doesn’t need to check.

It’s him.

Come to me.

Three words. Her breath catches. Her pulse’s back to that frantic thump. Her thighs press together but it’s no good.

She types—

I can’t. Mom knows.

Backspaces.

Types again.

Stops.

Throws the phone. Like it burned her.

She’s shaking. Dizzy. Guilt and heat tangled up in a knot at the base of her spine. Her legs won’t stop twitching. Her chest’s tight. She can’t… she can’t breathe.

Knock.

She jumps.

Heart skids.

“Aria?” Mom’s voice. Quieter now. Cracked. Like she’s carrying everything all at once. “We need to talk.”

No. No no no—

She can’t. Not now. Not while she still aches for the man her mother just caught her begging for with her body.

“I’m… I’m tired,” she says, voice barely there. “Tomorrow?”

Silence. Long. Then footsteps fading.

She doesn’t sleep.

How could she?

Her mind’s a hell loop.

Dad’s casket.

Mom’s sobs.

Adrian’s hands.

She paces. Barefoot. Skin raw.

Her vibrator’s dead. Her fingers? Useless.

Nothing touches the place he already lit on fire.

It’s past 2 a.m. when she ends up at the window.

The light in his office is on.

Golden. Waiting.

He’s there. She knows it.

Watching? Maybe.

Thinking? Definitely.

Her breath’s shallow. Her thighs clench. Again. Fuck.

She’s already slipping into her shorts.

No panties. No bra. Just… bare and reckless.

A tank top over hot skin. She doesn’t even look in the mirror.

Every step across the lawn is a sin.

The jasmine’s strong. Too strong. It’s in her lungs. Her sweat. Her shame.

She touches the doorknob. It’s open.

Of course it is.

He’s there.

Shirtless. Whiskey in hand. Chair leaned back like he’s the goddamn king of the world.

He looks at her like she’s the meal he ordered hours ago and now it’s finally time to eat.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says.

But he’s already standing.

Her breath catches.

“I—I know.”

But she doesn’t move.

Doesn’t want to.

Her eyes flick down—his chest, the scar across his ribs. She wants to press her tongue to it. Bite it.

She hates him.

She hates how much she wants to ruin herself on him.

“I just… I couldn’t—”

He grabs her wrist.

Pulls her in.

His mouth’s on hers before she even finishes the thought.

Rough. Desperate. Possessive.

His hands slide under her shorts, and she moans into his mouth—loud. Filthy. Already soaked.

He lifts her onto the desk like she weighs nothing. Papers fly. Glass shatters on the floor.

She doesn’t care. She’s not here anymore. She’s in him.

His mouth moves to her neck. Her chest. Sucking bruises into her skin like marks of ownership.

She arches. She begs. She bites her own lip to stay grounded.

He growls. Rips her shorts.

Spreads her legs.

Looks at her like he owns her body and soul.

“You’re mine.”

Not a question.

Not even a statement.

It’s a sentence.

And then—

The door creaks open.

A new voice.

Cold. Sharp. Dangerous.

“Well, Adrian. This is a fucking surprise.”