Lana’s point of view
I slam the car door shut with more force than necessary, wincing as the sound echoes through the quiet neighborhood. My entire body aches from the shoot, muscles I didn’t even know I had screaming in protest with every movent. The bruises around my neck throb in ti with my racing heart despite the thick layer of concealer I hastily applied before leaving the studio.
The Uber driver had given
concerned glances in the rearview mirror the entire ride, probably wondering if he should call the police. I’d spent the journey hunched over my phone, calling Adam’s number again and again, each unanswered ring driving the knife deeper into my chest.
Fifty calls. Fifty fucking calls and nothing.
I fumble with my keys at the front door, hands shaking so badly I can barely fit them into the lock.
Please be ho, please be ho, please be ho. The mantra repeats in my head like a prayer as I finally manage to turn the key.
The apartnt is dark and silent when I step inside, no welcoming light from the kitchen, no sll of dinner cooking. My heart sinks even before I call out his na.
“Adam?” My voice echoes through the empty rooms, bouncing back to mock . “Baby, are you here?”
Nothing.
I drop my bag by the door and move through the apartnt, flipping on lights as I go, revealing nothing but undisturbed furniture and the lingering ghosts of our life together. The bedroom is empty, the bathroom door standing open to reveal the dry shower and neatly hung towels.
He’s gone.
My fingers are already dialing his number again before I fully process the thought, pressing the phone to my ear so hard it hurts. One ring, two rings, three…
A faint buzzing sound catches my attention. Following it to the kitchen, I find Adam’s phone sitting on the counter, screen lit up with my call, my face smiling from his background image.
Beside it lies a folded piece of paper, my na written across it in his familiar handwriting.
My hands shake as I reach for it, unfolding it with the care one might give to handling a bomb.
Dear Lana,
I’ve started this letter a dozen tis, searching for the right words to express what I’m feeling, but I think words simply aren’t enough. I loved our ti together. You brought joy, passion, and adventure into my life in ways I never imagined possible. For that, I’ll always be grateful.
But today made
realize that we want different things, and neither of us should have to compromise who we are. What happened at the studio wasn’t just acting, it was a ssage, and I received it loud and clear.
I wish things could have been different. I wish I could have been the man you wanted
to be.
Please know that I’ll repay every penny of the $96,000 in student loans you paid off when we started dating. It might take ti, but I’ll honor that debt just as I’ll honor the mories of the good tis we shared.
I hope you find what you’re looking for, Lana. I truly do.
Goodbye,
Adam
The letter slips from my trembling fingers, floating to the floor like a fallen leaf. I collapse against the kitchen counter, my legs suddenly unable to support my weight. The apartnt spins around
as the full impact of what I’ve done crashes over
in rciless waves.
He’s gone. Really gone.
I slide down until I’m sitting on the cold tile, hugging my knees to my chest. The bruises on my neck throb in ti with my racing heart, physical reminders of my spectacular self-sabotage.
Ninety-six thousand dollars. I paid it because I love him. I just wanted to free him from that burden so he could write, so he could be happy.
So he would stay.
A laugh bubbles up from my chest, hysterical and broken. All that money spent and for what? To watch him walk away with nothing but a duffel bag and a debt he’ll never be able to repay.
The hysterical laugh transforms into a sob that tears through my body like a physical pain. I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t process the magnitude of what I’ve lost. My vision blurs as tears flood my eyes, hot and unrelenting.
I curl into a tighter ball against the kitchen cabinets, my sobs echoing through the empty apartnt. The cold tile against my legs reminds
I’m alone, truly alone. I reach out blindly, half-expecting to find Adam’s hand, only to grasp at empty air. My chest aches with a physical pain I’ve never felt before, like soone’s reached inside and torn everything out.
This hurts so much more than last ti.
God, the only thing that could make
feel better right now is a hug. Just Adam’s arms around , his steady heartbeat against my ear, the way he’d stroke my hair and tell
everything would be okay.
“Please co back, Adam.”
—
Adam’s point of view
The morning light filters through unfamiliar curtains, casting golden patterns across the luxurious sheets wrapped around . For a mont, I’m disoriented, my brain struggling to place where I am until the mories of yesterday co flooding back.
I stretch, surprised by how well I slept in this strange bed. The mattress is perfect, firm, but yielding in all the right places. I expected to toss and turn all night, replaying the horror show at the studio, but exhaustion claid
almost imdiately after my head hit the pillow. The emotional toll of everything, combined with Morgan’s expensive wine, knocked
out completely.
I look for my phone for a minute before briefly rembering i left it behind. It’s odd having no notifications, no social dia to scroll through, no texts from Lana. The silence feels both liberating and isolating.
A soft splashing sound drifts through the window, barely audible at first. I register it subconsciously, my mind still foggy with sleep. The rhythmic sound continues, water being displaced in steady, asured movents.
I slide out of bed and pad across the plush carpet to the window, drawing back the curtains. The morning sunlight hits
full in the face, montarily blinding . As my vision adjusts, I see the source of the noise.
Morgan glides through the water of her massive swimming pool, her naked body a pale blur beneath the surface. True to her word from last night, she’s swimming without a stitch of clothing. Her red hair is slicked back, darkened to auburn by the water, and her powerful arms cut through the crystal blue with practiced efficiency.
I should look away. I know I should. But there’s sothing srizing about the way she moves, powerful and graceful at once. She reaches the far end, executing a perfect flip-turn before pushing off again, completely unaware of my presence at the window.
The sight stirs sothing in , a warmth that spreads through my body despite my best efforts to remain detached. I finally force myself to step back from the window, feeling like a voyeur.
I glance down and realize I’m hard as a rock. The realization doesn’t particularly surprise . Morgan was a pornstar until recently, after all, and she certainly has the looks for it. Her athletic body, cutting through the water with such confidence and grace, would affect anyone with a pulse.
I need to cool off.
A shower seems like the perfect solution.
The bathroom attached to the guest room is a marvel of modern design, all sleek marble and glass. I fiddle with the controls of the rainfall shower, marveling at the array of settings and options. When I finally get it working, I step under the cascade of water and nearly moan aloud.
I’ve never used a rainfall shower before. The sensation is incredible like standing beneath a warm waterfall, the pressure perfect as it drums against my scalp and shoulders. The stress and tension from yesterday’s nightmare at the studio seems to lt away, if only temporarily, as the water bukakes my body.
Finally, feeling refreshed and sowhat more human, I shut off the water and grab one of the plush towels from the warming rack. I wrap it around my waist and step out of the bathroom, droplets of water still clinging to my chest and shoulders.
Morgan stands just inside the bedroom door, her wet hair darkening the shoulders of the white towel wrapped around her body. The towel barely covers her, revealing long, toned legs still glistening with moisture from her swim. Her green eyes lock with mine, a playful smile tugging at her lips.
“Did I catch you looking at ?” she asks, her voice teasing but not accusatory.
Heat rushes to my face. “I.. Uhhh… I was just waking up and heard splashing,” I stamr, painfully aware of how exposed we both are. “I didn’t an to invade your privacy.”
Morgan laughs the sound light and musical. “Adam, I told you I swim naked every morning. It’s hardly an invasion of privacy when I gave you fair warning.”
She steps further into the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click. “Besides,” she continues, moving toward the window to adjust the curtains, “I’m not exactly shy about my body. Occupational hazard, I suppose.”
Morgan steps closer, the scent of chlorine and her expensive perfu mingling in the air between us. Her fingers reach out, lightly tracing a path across my still-damp chest. The touch sends an electric current through my body.
“I was wondering,” she says, her voice dropping to a husky whisper, “if you could make
breakfast? I’m absolutely famished after my swim.”
Despite not having formally accepted the job she offered, I find myself nodding. After all, cooking breakfast seems like the least I can do to repay her kindness.
“Sure, I’d be happy to,” I reply, trying to ignore the way her fingertips linger on my skin. “Do you have any special requests?”
Morgan’s eyes light up, a genuine smile spreading across her face. “Surprise . The kitchen is fully stocked.” She takes a step back, adjusting her towel. “I’ll get dressed and et you downstairs in fifteen minutes?”
“Sounds perfect,” I say, returning her smile.
After she leaves, I quickly pull on yesterday’s clothes, feeling slightly awkward but determined to make a good impression with breakfast. This simple task gives
sothing to focus on besides the wreckage of my relationship with Lana.
I change and quickly head downstairs. The kitchen is even more impressive in the morning light. I open the massive refrigerator to find it indeed fully stocked with premium ingredients. I spot fresh eggs, thick-cut bacon, and a carton of heavy cream. Perfect for a simple but decadent breakfast.
I set to work, finding my rhythm quickly. There’s sothing therapeutic about cooking, the familiar motions grounding
as I whisk eggs with cream, salt, and pepper. I discover a loaf of artisanal bread in the pantry and decide to make French toast as well, slicing it thickly before dipping it in the egg mixture.
The bacon sizzles in one pan while the French toast browns in another. I find fresh berries in the refrigerator and arrange them artfully on a plate.
“Sothing slls incredible,” Morgan says from the doorway.
I turn to find her dressed in a simple silk robe, her damp hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. She looks younger sohow, more approachable without her usual polished appearance.
“Just about ready,” I tell her, sliding the last piece of French toast onto a plate. “I hope you like French toast and bacon.”
“I love it,” she says, settling onto one of the barstools at the island. Her eyes widen appreciatively as I place the plate before her. “It looks divine.”
Morgan takes a bite of the French toast, closing her eyes as the flavors hit her palate. A soft moan escapes her lips, the sound sending an unexpected shiver down my spine.
“Oh my god,” she murmurs, cutting another piece. “This is incredible.”
She looks up at , standing awkwardly by the stove, and pats the stool beside her. “Co sit with . Where’s yours?”
I wipe my hands on a kitchen towel, suddenly self-conscious. “I don’t know. I guess I was just so focused on making your breakfast I forgot to make any for myself. I usually just eat cereal anyway.”
Morgan shakes her head, her expression one of mock disapproval. She spears a piece of crispy bacon with her fork and holds it out to , the gesture unexpectedly intimate. Her green eyes lock with mine as she guides it toward my mouth.
“No, no,” she says, her voice low and silky. “Cereal won’t do for my house manager.”
I hesitate before accepting the bacon from her fork, my lips brushing against the tal as I take it. The smoky flavor explodes on my tongue as Morgan watches
chew, a satisfied smile playing at her lips.
“So you’re accepting the position?” she asks, still holding her fork suspended between us.
I swallow, considering my options. I have nowhere else to go, no money, and the thought of returning to Lana just for the sake of survival makes
want to die.
“I think I am,” I say finally. “If you’re serious about the offer.”
Morgan’s smile widens, sothing triumphant flickering in her eyes. “Excellent.” She cuts a piece of French toast and offers it to . “Now open up. I insist we share.”
I obey, allowing her to feed . There’s sothing strangely nurturing about it despite the undercurrent of tension between us. Her fingers brush against my chin as she wipes away a drop of syrup.
“I think this arrangent will work out perfectly for both of us,” she says, her voice warm with promise. “I’ll have my lawyer draw up a contract later today. Salary, benefits, living arrangents, all spelled out clearly.”
“That sounds very... professional,” I say, surprised by her businesslike approach.
Morgan laughs, the sound light and musical in the spacious kitchen. “I always am, darling.” She takes another bite of French toast, humming with pleasure. “This really is subli. Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“YouTube,” I reply with a self-deprecating smile.
She sits there staring at , her fork suspended halfway to her mouth. “Huh?”
“I only learned how to cook for Lana’s sake,” I admit, looking down at the counter. “I never cared much before, and I wanted to feel like I could provide at least sothing, even if that sothing was ager, like food.”
Morgan sets her fork down, sothing shifting in her expression. The playfulness recedes, replaced by genuine interest.
“You taught yourself to cook... for her?” she asks, her voice softening.
I nod, mories flooding back despite my efforts to keep them at bay. “When we first got together, I felt so inadequate. She had this huge career, all this money, and I was just... . So I started watching cooking videos every night while she was at shoots.”
Morgan reaches for her coffee, her eyes never leaving mine. “That’s actually quite sweet.”
“I guess.” I shrug, uncomfortable with the praise. “I just wanted to contribute sothing to our relationship. I couldn’t afford nice gifts or fancy dates, but I could make sure she had a ho-cooked al waiting when she finished work.”
“And now you’ll cook for
instead,” Morgan says, a strange satisfaction coloring her voice. She takes another bite of French toast, chewing thoughtfully. “Tell , what else did you do for Lana? Besides cooking.”
The question catches
off guard. I shift on my stool, trying to organize my thoughts.
“Well it’s like you said yesterday I was like her house husband. I kept the apartnt clean. Did the laundry. Managed the bills.”
Morgan nods slowly as if confirming sothing to herself. “And how did that make you feel? Being the caretaker?”
“I liked it,” I admit, surprised by my own honesty. “There’s sothing satisfying about creating order, you know? About making soone else’s life easier.” I hesitate, then add, “It made
feel needed.”
Morgan leans forward, her silk robe falling open slightly at the collar. The movent reveals a glimpse of her collarbone, the hollow of her throat. Her green eyes shine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
“Well, I need you, Adam,” she says, her voice a seductive purr that sends a shiver down my spine. Her crimson lips curve into a smile that’s both inviting and dangerous. “This house needs you. I need soone who understands the importance of creating order and making life... easier.”
Her fingers brush against mine as she reaches for her coffee cup, the contact brief but electric. I try to ignore the way my pulse quickens at her touch.
“I think we could be very good for each other,” she continues, setting her cup down with deliberate slowness. “Don’t you?”
I swallow hard, suddenly aware of how intimate this feels, sharing breakfast in her kitchen, she’s barely dressed, the morning sunlight streaming through the windows. It’s dostic in a way that makes my chest ache with longing for what I’ve lost.
“I do think so,” I finally manage, my voice rougher than I intended.
Morgan stands, smoothing her silk robe with a practiced gesture. “Good.” She glances at the clock on the wall. “I have etings this afternoon, but I should be ho by six. Perhaps you could prepare dinner?”
“Of course,” I say, grateful for the task, for sothing concrete to focus on. “Any preferences?”
She pauses at the doorway, looking back over her shoulder. “Surprise
again. You seem to have a talent for it.”
“Of course, sounds good.”
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