The Saturday sun filtered through the gaps in the curtains, drawing stripes of light across the bedsheet, but I had no hurry at all to get up. I stayed there, motionless, while flashes of the fight from the night before with Bianca ran through my mind like a poorly developed film reel. For the first time, I had put all the cards on the table, exposing the open wound of our coexistence. Now, all that remained was the doubt: how would she act from now on? I was still willing to keep her under my roof, but the rules had changed. She needed to stop being that arrogant, shitty woman—but in the silence of the bedroom, I wondered whether kindness was a language she was still capable of speaking. Was it really that hard for her to just be… human?
As I stared at the ceiling, my practical worries began to blend with the smell of coffee rising from the kitchen. My thoughts drifted to the next weekend and to the ominous figure of Vanessa’s father. His meeting with Jonathan was a ticking time bomb. So far, the silence regarding the details had been absolute. I was starting to suspect they would only release the exact location on the day itself—a classic move from people who don’t even trust their own shadow. I set a mental deadline: if I didn’t receive anything by Thursday, I would change my approach. I would confront Vanessa’s father and consult Henry to devise an alternative strategy. On their chessboard, I would not be just a pawn.
But despite the tension of business and the imminent risks, one specific image stubbornly kept burning into my retina: Grace.
I closed my eyes and the scene of her in the bathroom came back with full force. The sight of her smooth back, the flawless curve of her round ass, and the way her panties fit perfectly against her body… it was one of the most sensual images I had ever witnessed. I knew it wasn’t love. It wasn’t that emotional impact of falling in love at first sight. But there was an undeniable, almost primitive desire to have sex with her.
This was something new to me. Sexual desire had awakened voraciously, especially after I experienced pleasure for the first time. I felt that same throbbing with Vanessa, with Sofia, and—no matter how much my logic protested—I felt it with Bianca too. She could be petty and unbearable, but she was undeniably beautiful and hot. If she changed that attitude, everything would be so much easier, so much more pleasurable. The idea of having a docile Bianca, surrendered, without her usual venom, but with that body intact… that stirred my senses in a dangerous way.
The idea of “taming” her slipped into my mind without asking permission. Bianca had always acted like a wild animal, and the prospect of making her docile was fascinating. I shook my head, trying to push the thought away, questioning whether I was becoming just as twisted as she was. But then I realized the difference: she wanted a toy to use and discard; I wanted something more human—a connection where we could treat each other well and give mutual pleasure. After all, we had already crossed the line and had sex; the ice had been broken in the most intimate way possible.
What am I thinking? I asked myself, shaking my head again to clear the fog. Bianca changing felt like a distant miracle, but I had delivered the verdict. Now it was time to observe the outcome.
But returning to the women occupying my thoughts… I was immersed in a sea of distinct attractions. There was Olivia; we had kissed, and the chemistry between us was real. She had a beautiful body that I still wanted to explore. The same went for Emily, who, with her sexy and mysterious style, awakened a curiosity I had barely begun to satisfy.
With Grace, however, the feeling was of a different nature. I had seen her only once and felt an unknown desire, an urgency to make her mine, to possess that body. I was certain it wasn’t love, because I had loved Sofia in the past and knew exactly how that trap worked. When you love, you create illusions—you project an entire future beside the person, imagine the years together, the routine, tomorrow. Love builds castles in the mind. With Grace, there were no castles. There was only flesh, pure and raw carnal attraction. It was a crude desire I didn’t yet know how to name, but it demanded to be satisfied.
My stomach finally won, forcing me out of the comfort of the sheets around 8:00 a.m. I left the bedroom cautiously, almost expecting the impact of some insult coming from the hallway, but Bianca’s door remained sealed. I went downstairs quietly, and what I found there made me stop for a moment.
The living room was spotless. The cemetery of beer cans and the sour smell of alcohol from the night before had vanished, replaced by an order I hadn’t seen in months. In the kitchen, the aroma of fresh coffee guided my senses. On the counter rested a still-warm thermos and a package of fresh bread stamped with the logo of the bakery on our street.
There was only one explanation: Bianca. For the first time in years, she had taken a kind initiative, a subtle change that felt like a distant echo of the ultimatum I had given her. Was it real, or just a strategy to calm the hurricane before reverting to who she was? I decided not to lower my guard. For now, I would simply observe this forced metamorphosis.
I drank my coffee in peace, savoring its bitter, comforting taste, until the doorbell announced the arrival of the cleaning lady. Since she would take over the house, I decided the apartment was too small for my thoughts. I put on comfortable clothes and left. My routine called for a run, but my body was weighed down by a tension that physical exercise wouldn’t solve.
I drove aimlessly for a while, feeling the movement of the city, until at 9:30 a.m. the car’s Bluetooth announced an incoming call from Olivia.
“Hi, Olivia,” I answered, letting her soft voice fill the cabin.
“Luke! Would you like to study with me tomorrow?” Her tone was sweet, welcoming.
“Study?” I asked, confused for a second.
“Yes. We have an exam on Monday. Remember?”
The realization hit me like a punch. The last few days had been so frantic, loaded with adrenaline and secrets, that college had become a footnote in my mind.
“I kind of completely forgot,” I admitted honestly. “I’d really appreciate it if you could help me.”
“Oh, I will! I’ve already studied everything—I just wanted to review tomorrow afternoon. Do you want to come over to my place?”
“Definitely.”
I ended the call with a faint smile, feeling that Olivia was the balance I needed. But as I put my phone away, my eyes focused on the destination ahead of me. I parked the car in front of the tattoo shop. My heart, which had been calm until then, began pounding against my ribs. What am I doing here? I asked myself, but my feet were already out of the car.
I went up the side stairs and rang the bell. When the door opened, the air seemed to leave my lungs. Grace was there. Her black hair framed her flawless skin and naturally red lips. She wore a white shirt stained with paint, gloves, and blue shorts that left her legs exposed. She exuded a scent of creativity and mystery.
“Oh, Luke,” she said, surprise lifting her voice slightly. “Did you come looking for Emily?”
I froze for a brief second. The excuse was ready on the tip of my tongue, but I looked into those deep eyes and the truth simply slipped out.
“Uh, no… I wanted to see you.”
Grace tilted her head, eyes narrowing in charming confusion as she tried to decipher my intentions.
“See me?”
“Well… yes,” I held her gaze, feeling the weight of my own sincerity. “I don’t know how to explain it properly. Since the last time I saw you, you haven’t left my mind… I feel strange. I don’t know how to explain it.”
A slow, provocative smile bloomed on her lips. She seemed to savor my discomfort, like an artist observing a new canvas.
“Do you want to come in?” her voice dropped, turning into an irresistible invitation. “Emily isn’t home. And I’m painting… would you like to see?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
I stepped inside, feeling the warmth of the house wrap around me as Grace closed the door and asked me to follow her. I walked behind her, and it was impossible not to notice the hypnotic movement of her body under the blue shorts, her ass swaying lightly with each step. We entered a room turned into an atelier. The smell of fresh paint was intoxicating. I noticed the paintings scattered around—magnificent works, with a technique that felt professional.
“You can sit on that stool,” Grace pointed, already crouching down to pick up some paints from the floor.
Her position was a visual trap for my sanity. I watched her spread colors across the palette, preparing the materials with a delicacy that contrasted with the strength she radiated. She resumed brushing an unfinished canvas, keeping her focus on the work, but her voice came soft, breaking the silence.
“You said you came to see me. You saw me naked and fell in love, Luke?” Her tone carried a provocation that made me tense on the stool.
“No. I don’t think I fell in love at first sight,” I replied with a frankness that seemed to catch her off guard.
“Really? Then my intuition was wrong.”
“Maybe yes, maybe no. I don’t know,” I continued, feeling more exposed with every word. “But since the last time, you haven’t left my head. It made me feel like a pervert.”
“A little,” she admitted, turning her face to look at me over her shoulder, red lips curved into a smile that challenged my self-control.
“Since when do you paint?” I changed the subject abruptly, breaking eye contact and focusing on the canvases leaning against the wall.
“Since I was a child,” Grace replied, her calm voice following the almost hypnotic movement of the brush. She didn’t stop; every stroke seemed like an extension of her own body.
“You’re talented enough to be a professional, Grace. Seriously,” I said, letting my sincerity show. It wasn’t an empty compliment to win her over; it was a statement of fact.
For the first time, the rhythmic movement stopped. The brush hovered in the air as she turned her face toward me, locking eyes with mine. I noticed a swirl of complicated emotions: longing, wounded pride, and a hint of gratitude she tried to hide.
“Thank you. I wanted to be a professional once, but that’s in the past,” Grace paused, staring at her own painting as if seeing a ghost. “Still… hearing someone praise my paintings makes me happy. Truly.”
She smiled genuinely—the first smile that didn’t carry that armor of provocation. I felt my face warm, disarmed by her sudden honesty.
“Why did you give up?”
“Well, you don’t want to know. It’s a boring story,” she murmured, but her eyes studied me, as if searching for a reason to trust me. I sensed she needed to talk; that secret felt like it had been locked away in a drawer for far too long.
“You can tell me. I have time,” I said, settling on the stool, making it clear I wasn’t leaving.
Grace took a deep breath, and the story began to flow, tinted with melancholy. She talked about her childhood dream and love for the arts, but the light in her eyes faded when she reached the chapter from twelve years ago. The stupid crime. Her parents, returning from a night out, were approached during a robbery. Her father, out of instinct to protect them, reacted, and the robber shot him. To leave no witnesses, the criminal executed her mother immediately afterward.
At sixteen, Grace saw her youth die there. She had an eight-year-old sister, Emily, to raise. Alone. She gave up her art studies, her brushes, and her desires to become the pillar of that household. While other girls her age lived school romances, Grace accumulated jobs and took care of Emily.
“Now I paint just to try to relax,” she finished, eyes fixed on the canvas as if apologizing to her own art. “A boring story, right?”
“No. It was sad, actually,” I replied, feeling the weight of her losses resonate with my own.
I felt compelled to share my own scars. I told her how I lost my biological mother very early, a memory that was more of a blur than a face. I spoke about my father and my stepmother—Bianca’s mother. I told her how she became my safe harbor, how she gave me the love I didn’t remember receiving, and how the world collapsed again three years ago when both of them died and left me alone.
“I’m sorry,” Grace said, and her tone changed. She was no longer the femme fatale; she was someone who understood the pain of watching life’s foundation disappear. “Let’s stop talking about sad things. The mood got too heavy.”
“You’re right. Have you done anything good lately?”
“No. Just work and paint,” she gave a sad half-smile. “And you? Been up to anything interesting?”
There was something about Grace that gave me absolute safety. Maybe because she was an outsider to my personal chaos, I felt I could vent. I ended up lying down on the atelier floor, staring at the ceiling as the words spilled out unfiltered. I told her about the danger involving Vanessa’s father and Jonathan, about Sofia’s suffocating possessiveness, my problems with Luther, and the cold war I lived with Bianca at home. I even talked about my concern over Emily’s play. I tried to keep a friendly tone, but Grace, perceptive, caught the subtext immediately.
“I bet you’re sleeping with them,” she commented with an acidic laugh. “Only men’s dicks would get you into this much trouble over ‘friendship.’”
“Well… not with all of them,” I confessed, feeling the weight of the truth.
Grace turned to face me, eyes half-lidded.
“Wait. Are you sleeping with my sister?”
“No!”
“Do you intend to?”
“I… don’t know. Look, with the women I’ve been involved with lately, I only had sex because they took the initiative first. They wanted it.”
“Really?” she raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised by my passivity.
“Yes. You’re the only one that I—”
I stopped mid-sentence, but the damage was done. The silence that followed was electric, dense enough to cut with a knife. Grace gave me a skeptical look, but deep in that dark iris I saw a trace of expectation. I had just admitted that, for the first time, I was the hunter.
“It’s almost lunchtime,” she said, changing the subject with masterful agility to ease the tension. “Emily will probably eat out today.”
“Do you want to have lunch with me? Somewhere around here?”
Grace stood up, wiping the paint from her hands.
“Well… I’ll go. But I’m going to take a shower first,” she pointed a finger at me, a playful and dangerous glint in her eyes. “And don’t go into the bathroom this time, Luke.”
I watched her leave the room and lay back down on the floor. The smell of paint and the honesty of the conversation made me feel light. For the first time, I had exposed my demons to someone outside my circle, and the feeling of being understood by Grace was better than any drug.
