I didn’t have the bandwidth to deal with people. Nodding and pretending with strangers that I’d never see again. But hopefully they were older than my parents. Older meant safer. Less temptation. Fewer intrusive thoughts.
That was the lie I told myself as I pushed the iron gate open.
The hinges groaned softly. I slipped inside, gripping the bars for a second longer than necessary, as if the cold metal might steady me.
The soft glow from the windows was warm and welcoming, but the bundle of nerves tightening in my abdomen made me want to hurl. My parents loved hosting. Loved polishing everything until it looked effortless. I could already picture my mother floating from guest to guest, glass in hand, performing contentment.
I followed the stone path around the house, my heels clicking too loudly against it. The further I walked, the clearer the voices became—cutlery clinking, someone clearing their throat, the faint scrape of chairs.
When I reached the back door, one of the waiting staff stood nearby, leaning against the brickwork and smoking a cigarette.
He didn’t move when he saw me.
I began to explain who I was, my mouth already shaping the polite introduction, when he raised his hand.
“Don’t care,” he said abruptly, before taking a long draw of his cigarette.
The smoke curled between us.
He was bad news. The attitude. The tattoo snaking up his forearm. The eyebrow piercing catching the light. The white shirt tucked into black trousers, except for one careless strip hanging loose at the front.
My eyes lingered longer than they should have.
He was young. Early twenties, maybe. He’d have energy.
Probably not stamina, though.
Heat crept up my neck at the thought.
I forced my gaze away and stepped past him, the scent of smoke and cologne trailing after me. The hallway was cooler than outside, quieter too, the noise from the dining room softened by distance.
I didn’t slow down.
I headed straight for the stairs, taking them two at a time, my pulse skittering in my throat.
One room. Five minutes. Breathe.
I just needed a moment before facing them.
???
The black dress was conservative, no flesh on display except for a small portion of my arms. I turned, checking the narrow split at the back before smoothing the white crochet collar around my neck. Everything sat where it should—modest and contained.
The stockings were for my comfort and pleasure, hidden beneath the hem where no one could see them. The only luxury against my flesh.
No heels. Sensible flat shoes instead.
No make-up, only a faint sheen of rose lip gloss pressed carefully into my lips.
No extravagant hairstyle for my red curls, which were usually sanitised with a straightener or woven into a plait.
Nothing to bring shame to my parents—again.
I closed my eyes.
The memory of the vile video surfaced uninvited, as it always did. Not only within my school, but across all my social media platforms, shared and reshared until it found its way into my father’s business accounts—his clients, his associates, men who shook his hand and pretended not to know.
It spread like wildfire through my mother’s accounts next. Her social clubs. Her personal friend groups. Women she’d known for decades, all suddenly aware of my body in ways they never should have been.
