"Yeah, but honestly, it's not that crazy," another classmate chid in, folding his arms. "Rich people do shady shit all the ti. But the crazy part? It's passed down to us their kids to and... Justin doesn't even look out of place. It's like his parents set him up for this shit from the start, y'know?"
Back by the window, Justin took another sip of his drink, letting his gaze sweep across the room. He could feel their eyes on him. His classmates. The business moguls. Hell, even so of the old money in the room was giving him side-eye.
They were all thinking the sa thing: How the hell did he make it look so effortless even after experiencing such a big loss?
But honestly, Justin didn't care. They could think what they wanted. He wasn't playing a part for anyone. This was his life now, whether he liked it or not.
And if he had to carry all that weight on his shoulders? Fine. He was doing it on his terms, no one else's.
*****
The day dragged on painfully, the weight of everything suffocating, pressing down like the world had just decided to screw him over for good.
One by one, the guests left, even his classmates, their hesitant goodbyes fading into the echo of the mansion's cavernous halls. Now, it was just him, the silence, and the staff.
The workers moved around like shadows, quiet and careful, their faces heavy with sympathy. They tried not to stare too much, but every now and then, Justin caught their glances. Their eyes said it all—grief, respect, maybe even pity. They'd lost their employers, but maybe they knew or thought it wasn't their place to feel it as deeply as he did.
Justin stood by the massive window, the city lights twinkling in the distance, his hand loosely holding the stem of his wine glass. He didn't even know why he was still standing there, staring out into nothingness like it would give him answers. The wine was gone; he drained the last bitter drop and just held the empty glass, the weight of it sohow grounding him.
A maid approached, her footsteps so light they barely made a sound on the polished floor. She stopped just behind him, her head bowed as she gently took the glass from his hand. "Sir," she murmured, her voice soft like she didn't want to disturb whatever fragile piece of calm he'd managed to cling to.
Justin didn't look at her, didn't say a word. She bowed slightly before retreating, her figure lting back into the house's quiet rhythm.
Night had fallen, wrapping the mansion in shadows. It was the kind of quiet that wasn't peaceful—it was empty. And then, she appeared again.
The sound of her heels clicking against the floor echoed down the hall. Slow, deliberate.
She stepped into his space and it was like the atmosphere shifted.
No hat this ti, her blonde hair spilled down in soft waves, framing a face so striking it could've sold out a million-dollar campaign on sight. Her skin was flawless, her eyes sharp but inviting, and her lips—Jesus, those lips—painted in a soft rose shade that made you wanna stare too long.
Her body? Curves in all the right places didn't even begin to cover it. The way her sweater hugged her torso showed off her full chest, the material stretched just enough to tease but not give it all away. Her waist dipped perfectly, leading down to hips that didn't quit.
And the way her jeans fit, like they were designed specifically for her, emphasized every inch of her toned legs and that round, perfect ass that made her presence impossible to ignore.
"Justin," she said, her voice smooth like lted caral, but with a slight edge, like she wasn't here to play gas.
He turned his head slightly, finally acknowledging her, but didn't say a word.
"You've been standing here too long," she murmured, stepping closer. Her hand brushed against his arm, featherlight. "You need to rest. You're not made of fucking stone, you know." Her hands rested on his shoulders, firm but tender, like she wasn't just holding him but grounding him.
She started with his coat, slipping it off his shoulders with ease. Her fingers grazed his skin for just a second—long enough to feel the warmth of him but short enough to play innocent. The coat hit the floor with a soft thud.
Her fingers went to his tie next, loosening it with practiced ease before pulling it off completely.
Justin just stood there, silent, letting her take the reins. It wasn't submission—it was exhaustion.
She caught his hand and guided him up the grand staircase, her hand never leaving his arm. When they reached his room, she turned and pushed him gently but firmly against the wall. Her hands went to the buttons of his shirt, working them open one by one.
She didn't rush, but there was a determination in the way she moved, like she had a job to do and wasn't about to half-ass it.
"Guess I'm doing all the work tonight," she teased, her voice dropping into a lower, more seductive tone.
Justin didn't move. His gaze followed her, but his body stayed passive, like he was letting her take control—and maybe that was the point.
She stepped closer, close enough that the scent of her—sothing sweet, like vanilla mixed with just a hint of spice—wrapped around him. Her fingers went to his shirt buttons next, one by one, popping them open with deliberate slowness.
Her nails, painted in a soft nude shade, skimd against his skin as she worked.
When the shirt finally slid off his shoulders, she stepped back, taking a mont to admire him. And damn, he was sothing to admire.
His chest was toned, every muscle defined like he'd been hand-sculpted by so perfection-obsessed deity. His abs were tight, the kind that made you wanna run your fingers down them just to feel the grooves.
Her gaze lingered, unapologetic, before flicking back up to his face. "You could at least pretend to be impressed," she joked, though her tone hinted at sothing deeper.
She didn't stop there. Her hands moved lower, unfastening his belt with a swift tug. The buckle clinked softly, and then his pants followed, pooling around his ankles. Now he was just in his boxers, and for a mont, the air between them felt charged.
"Wow," she muttered under her breath, her eyes flicking over him once more. "I an, seriously, who the hell designed you? Fucking big~"
Justin gave the faintest smirk—barely there, but enough to show he wasn't entirely immune to her.
She bent down, grabbing his discarded clothes and folding them neatly like she hadn't just undressed him with both her hands and her eyes. Then, grabbing the pajamas from a nearby drawer, she straightened and held them out to him.
"Lift your arms," she ordered.
He obeyed without a word, letting her slip the pajama shirt over his head. Her hands lingered for just a second as she smoothed the fabric down his chest. Then she helped him into the pants, her movents efficient but undeniably intimate.
When she was done, she guided him to the bed, her touch firm but gentle. He sat down heavily, his body sinking into the mattress. She pulled the blankets up over him, tucking them in with surprising care.
For a mont, she stood there, looking down at him. Then, without warning, she leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.
"Goodnight," she whispered, her voice softer now.
She turned and walked out of the room, the sway of her hips hypnotic as she disappeared into the hall.
Justin lay there, staring up at the ceiling. His expression didn't give much away, but his mind? That was a whole other story.
The night had co but the next day was hell of a day yet to co.
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