At Rosa's Club, Elsa sat on the edge of the couch, her trembling fingers working the buttons of her shirt. Across the room, Jordin sat sipping his wine, savoring the sweet liquid as his gaze lingered on her.
Elsa felt no enthusiasm for this. A heavy, nagging weight pulled at her conscience; she needed to end this fling. It wasn't right. Yet, as she slipped the shirt from her shoulders, the motion felt sickeningly familiar—a routine she hated herself for slipping into.
Jordin was thoroughly pleased with her service. Elsa tried to rationalize it, telling herself it was normal—they were mature adults, after all.
A while later, after they had finished, Jordin pulled his casual shirt back on. He walked over to the table, scribbled a cheque, placed it down, and stood tall.
Elsa sat naked on the couch, hastily grabbing her shirt and pulling it on. She felt raw and exposed, and she despised the way Jordin watched her.
His eyes took in every inch of her—her bare neck, her flushed chest, and the enticing, round shape of her breasts beneath the thin fabric. The shirt pressed tightly against her skin, offering a fragile barrier as she covered herself. It traced the contours of her legs and arms while her brown, expressive eyes looked back at him. Her face was softly curved, framed by pretty, medium-shaped lips.
Jordin drank in the sight. There was that same faint, elusive smile on her lips—the exact one he had noticed since the day they met. He might have mistaken it for eagerness if not for the fact that it never slipped, not even when she worked her shifts. His heart did a sudden, heavy somersault in his chest, fluttering at her innocent, vulnerable appearance. Her eyes were so genuinely good that he couldn't tear his gaze away.
She looked almost painfully cute, tugging the cloth tightly across her bosom. He wanted her again. He wanted to sleep with her, to feel her soft body pressed flush against his, to push inside her and lose himself in passionate pleasure.
Elsa caught the look in his eye and felt a cold wave of revulsion. He looked like a predator hungry for round two, and the very thought made her stomach turn. Her eyes mirrored the profound disgust she already held for herself. Jordin saw it, acutely aware of how deeply uncomfortable she was with his gaze.
With a slow, knowing smirk, Jordin turned and left the room.
Yet his thoughts lingered on Elsa. He couldn't deny it anymore—he liked her. He was developing a genuine crush. His mind drifted to the other times they'd been together: the way she'd felt around him, the sweet, heady moans that had slipped past her lips and intoxicated him. He craved that sound. Her voice was low and melodious, and just the memory sent a hot blush creeping up his neck.
Heading out into the corridor, Jordin felt elation thrumming through his veins. He grinned, replaying the encounter in his head. He wanted to keep her. Even though she hadn't welcomed him at first, he convinced himself she could eventually be his. Her initial hesitation was only natural, easily dismissed. In his heart, feelings were taking root—feelings he tried, and failed, to brush aside.
Meanwhile, Elsa finished dressing, pulling her white shirt closed with a heavy sigh. I shouldn't be doing this, she scolded herself. But a hollow panic whispered back that she didn't know what else to do. It all felt like a runaway train.
Stepping out of the room, she forced herself to mask her turmoil, acting as though everything was entirely normal. No one paid her any mind, a realization that brought a fleeting wave of relief.
Why do I have to do this? I'm so stupid, such an idiot.
Even with the generous checks he left behind, she knew she couldn't keep going. It was wrong. Worse, If anyone ever found out, the shame would crush her and it would utterly destroy what little self-esteem she had left.
She walked out into the cool night air, desperate for home. She fled the club.
Arriving home, Elsa went straight to the kitchen. She grabbed a glass, filled it with cold tap water, and gulped it down. Remembering her routine, she refilled the glass.
Lucy was already tucked away in her room. Elsa took her time in the bathroom, scrubbing herself raw under hot water. Her body betrayed her; a traitorous part of her mind whispered that she was beginning to enjoy the raw, physical edge of it. Her hormones were screaming for more, driving her forward. But Elsa refused to let biology be her excuse. Everyone had hormones; she needed discipline.
It's normal, she tried to convince herself as the water cascaded over her skin. People do this every day. But she wasn't "other people."
She stepped out, wrapping a towel around herself, feeling sick to her stomach. Jordin was her first and only—and while that used to feel fine, it didn't anymore.
Sitting on the edge of her bed, she dried off and changed into a simple blue nightgown that fell to her knees on delicate, thin straps. Beside the bed sat a small table with a drawer. She slid it open, pulled out a pill container, popped a single pill into her mouth, and washed it down with the remaining water.
She placed the glass on the table, put the container away in her wardrobe, and slipped beneath the covers.
Her eyes remained wide awake in the dark.
I don't think I'm that good girl anymore, she thought bitterly. She was fractured, changed. She knew explicit, harsh realities of the world now. Was she still innocent? Deep down, beneath the guilt and the survival instincts, she knew the truth: she was still Elsa. Just a girl trying to find happiness, trying to stay true to herself, trying to survive.
The next morning, the sun broke warm and bright.
Silas was powering through a punishing workout in his home gym, sweat beading down his neck and tracing the valley of his chest in a singlet and shorts that clung to his frame. After knocking out a final set of push-ups and heavy weights, he draped a towel over his neck and headed for the shower.
Across town, Elsa and Lucy sat at the old wooden dining table over a generous spread. Lucy had been up since sunrise, scrambling eggs, frying bacon to a crisp, toasting thick bread, and steeping fragrant tea.
Elsa blew on her steaming cup, took a sip, and smiled. "Okay, I'm genuinely impressed. This is amazing, Lucy. When did you become a master chef?"
Lucy speared a piece of egg with her fork, offering a casual shrug. "It's just breakfast. Bacon, eggs, toast. Nothing fancy." She grinned. "You could do it too, you know. No secret recipe."
"Yeah, but I didn't," Elsa laughed. "You did. So I'm just going to sit here and enjoy it."
Lucy rolled her eyes, unable to hide her smile. Their conversation drifted easily—floating from a bizarre dream Lucy had, to Elsa's upcoming meetings, down to the eternal debate of whether toast tasted better with butter or jam. Their voices were low and comforting as the warm morning stretched out around them.
By then, Silas had finished cleaning up. With his hair still damp, he pulled on a faded gray t-shirt and black joggers, padding quietly into the lounge. He sank onto the couch with a soft exhale, the deep-muscle soreness already fading. Pulling out his phone, he opened Cailyn's profile.
A new post from last night stared back at him: her standing at a high-end restaurant, the city skyline glittering behind her like spilled diamonds, flashing that half-smile she always wore when she knew the camera was catching her best angle.
He scrolled further. Another one—a blurry, candid shot from a bookstore, her nose buried in a thick paperback, a strand of hair tucked neatly behind her ear. He lingered on the images, scrolling through her digital life.
The corporate office hummed with quiet efficiency, outfitted with perks employees actually used—a sleek coffee dispenser, quiet lounge corners, and towering glass walls catching the brilliant morning light.
Roman walked toward the lounge, a ceramic mug in hand with steam curling from the rim. That's when he saw Jane.
There she is. The thought hit him before he could build a defense. With documents tucked against her side and that purposeful, unhurried stride, she moved down the hallway like she owned it. Flashbulbs of memory sparked in his mind: her slick, wet body beneath him in his office. He let out a low, knowing grin—the kind that acknowledged their shared secret. But Jane didn't see him.
Weeks had passed since that afternoon. To Jane, what they'd shared felt like a transaction of neutral adults, yet it left a hollow ache in her chest. Roman hadn't reached out, hadn't pursued her, and hadn't shown an ounce of lingering interest. It stung to know she had let him under her clothes only for him to act like nothing had happened, even as she kept her head high, she felt a bittersweet ache in her chest, a quiet frustration that he could cross that line and simply walk away as if nothing had changed. She swallowed the thought, keeping her eyes forward
heading straight toward the editor's office.
Later that evening, the casino hummed with a different kind of energy—the low clack of pool balls, the soft thud of darts, and the crisp ring of ice against glass.
In a private back room, Roman leaned over the green felt of a billiards table, cue stick in hand, lining up his shot. Across the room, Derek—a guy of medium height—raised his arm and sent an arrow sailing straight into the dartboard with a satisfying, solid thwack.
"So, how's work been?" Derek asked, not taking his eyes off the board as he retrieved another dart.
"Relatively quiet," Roman replied evenly. Yet, beneath his calm exterior, his mind flicked rapidly through the stacked meetings of the week—Lauren's endless questions, and the memory of Jane's eyes looking across a conference room table, silently wondering if he felt anything at all.
"Things have been moving fast on my end," Derek said, pulling back his arm. "Work has its principles. Plenty to keep us busy."
Roman didn't answer right away. He exhaled slowly, dialed in his focus, and struck the cue ball. It kissed its target cleanly, sending the ball rolling in a smooth arc before dropping into the pocket with a crisp click.