DAY 1
June 21
7:06 AMFreda's heart raced like it was trying to beat its way out of her chest. Her head still
throbbed, the ache behind her eyes pulsing with every shaky breath. She stared at Paxton,
his chest rising and falling with slow, steady rhythm and she panicked.
➢ What the hell happened last night?
She reached out and gave his shoulder a firm shake.
➢ "Hey."
No response.
"Paxton."
Still nothing. He lay motionless, one arm over his face, like he was carved from stone, or
dead.
➢ "Oh my god," she whispered, inching away slightly. "You didn't, are you even
breathing?"
She poked him. Hard. Nothing.
Before she could launch into full crisis mode, a soft knock landed on the bedroom door. A
second later, it creaked open to reveal a tall, older Black man in a crisp gray vest and white
gloves, holding a silver tray with a note and folded napkin.
The butler stepped In, not yet noticing her. "Sir, breakfast is ready in the sol….
"
His eyes landed on Freda.
They widened. Then softened with the warmth of a man who had seen it all.
➢ "Oh," he said with a small, polite nod. "Pardon me, little ma'am. I didn't know Sir
had….company."
Then, with a twinkle in his eye, "Tell your boyfriend that breakfast is ready and his father
awaits."
➢ "Wait, I…he's not… " she started, but the butler had already closed the door behind
him with a quiet click and a knowing smile.
She groaned.
➢ "Unbelievable."The room felt suddenly too small, too dark. She stood, her legs wobbling slightly, and
walked toward the large windows framed by deep navy curtains. She grabbed the heavy
gold cord and yanked.
Light flooded in.
Sunlight spilled over the hardwood floors, rich and amber, like liquid gold. The blue-gray
walls glowed in new contrast, and the framed records lining the shelves sparkled with dust
particles dancing in the air. The bed, with its grey sheets and dark oak headboard, looked
like it belonged in a home magazine, expensive, curated, untouched.
Except for the boy still laying in it.
He stirred.
Brows twitching.
And then, in a low, gravelly voice laced with sleep and mild annoyance:
➢ "Who opened the damn blinds?"
She spun around, arms crossed, fire igniting behind her eyes.
➢ "You're awake? Great. You can tell me what the hell happened last night."
"Good morning to you too," he mumbled, turning his head slowly toward her. "Jesus."
➢ "Cut the crap, Paxton. Why am I here? Why am I in your bed, wearing your T-shirt?"
He rubbed a hand over his face, letting out a sigh that sounded way too casual.
➢ "Relax. Nothing happened. I'm a lot of things, Freda, but I'm not a monster. You were
drunk. Passed out on the couch. I brought you here because no one else was sober
enough to drive."
➢ "And you thought the best move was to change me into your shirt and sleep next to
me?!"
➢ "I wasn't gonna let you choke on your own vomit alone," he said, swinging his legs
over the side of the bed. His voice dropped lower. "And I wasn't gonna do anything to
you. You can hate me all you want, but I don't take advantage of girls."
Freda narrowed her eyes. Her heart was still sprinting, but his tone was…oddly serious.
Controlled.He reached for the landline beside the bed, pressed a single button, and held the receiver
to his ear.
➢ "Yes, hey. It's me. Send someone up with fresh clothes for a guest. Medium top, size
four jeans. I'd guess a 34C, size eight shoe."
Pause.
"Yeah, make it something clean. Casual. No florals."
He hung up like it was routine.
Freda's jaw dropped.
➢ "Did you just…are you guessing my bra size? My shoe size?"
Paxton stood, shirtless, stretching like a cat with nothing to prove.
➢ "You think you're the first girl I've had over?"
➢ "You are disgusting."
➢ "And you," he said, walking past her to the bathroom, "are getting dropped off as
soon as you eat something and calm the hell down."
__________________________________________________
8:02 AM
They walked downstairs together in awkward silence, her in his T-shirt and borrowed
leggings, him in a fresh white tee and sweatpants like none of this was weird.
The house was even more beautiful in daylight, a mix of modern elegance and cold wealth.
The staircase curved in a perfect arc. White walls, dark wood, sleek lighting fixtures. A
grand piano sat in the corner of the open living room, untouched. The windows stretched
nearly floor-to-ceiling.
The dining room had a long glass table with silver-rimmed plates already set. A man sat at
the head, early fifties, thick gray hair, tailored navy suit, reading The Wall Street Journal like
it was the Bible.
Paxton's father.
He didn't look up until they reached the table.➢ "You're late," he said, folding the paper with a single, precise motion.
Then his eyes landed on Freda.
A flicker of curiosity. Disapproval. The faintest twitch of a smirk.
➢ "And who might this be?"
Freda opened her mouth, hands halfway to a polite wave
➢ "She's your daughter-in-law," Paxton said flatly, pulling out her chair before she
could respond.
She froze.
His father blinked.
A beat of silence.
Then,
➢ "Charming," the man said. "Do try not to get her pregnant under my roof."
Freda's cheeks flared, but she forced a tight, sweet smile, and slid into the seat beside
Paxton like she belonged there. Under the table, her foot shot out and nailed his ankle with
the heel of her borrowed shoe.
He didn't flinch.
But his smirk widened.
__________________________________________________
8:05 AM
The Reeve Residence, Eastbridge Hills
The dining table was too long for three people, but no one seemed to mind. Freda sat
quietly, half-nervous, half-curious, fingers resting on the edge of her porcelain plate. The
utensils were real silver, heavy in her hand. The chandelier overhead looked like it belonged
in a cathedral, all gold branches and crystal teardrops. The room smelled faintly of
cinnamon rolls, fresh coffee, and money.
Then came the sound of heels, soft, deliberate, echoing down the hallway like rhythm on
polished marble.
➢ "Ah," Paxton's father said, folding his napkin once. "Now we may begin."She entered like she'd been summoned by the sun itself.