She licked her lips. “You don’t have to apologize.”
And then she closed the distance between us and kissed me again.
I didn’t sleep that night. The party stretched into the early hours, music and conversation bleeding through the walls long after I’d locked myself in my room. When the penthouse finally fell silent, it was past three a.m.
I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the sick feeling in my gut.
The door creaked open.
I sat up, muscles tensing, but it was just my mom. She stepped inside with something in her hands.
“Romolo?”
“Yeah?” I flipped on the bedside lamp, and its soft glow illuminated her face. She didn’t look angry or pleased—just neutral.
Without a word, she handed me the papers she was holding.
Photos. Of me and Alana in the gallery. Kissing. Every angle captured in stark detail.
I looked back at her, my stomach twisting. “Is this…okay?”
A small smile tugged at her lips. “You did well.”
She turned toward the door but paused at the threshold, glancing over her shoulder. “You’ll see her again next week. She’ll be coming for tea every Wednesday from now on.”
And then she was gone, leaving me alone with the evidence of what I’d done.
* * *
Every Wednesday for the rest of the summer, Alana was there at noon.
My mother always ensured we had time alone, excusing herself for at least half an hour each visit. Her reasons grew increasingly flimsy—an urgent phone call, a sudden need to check something in the kitchen, an errand that couldn’t wait. Alana never seemed to question it. Or if she did, she didn’t care.
The dining room where Alana and I met had multiple hidden cameras. At first, she dressed modestly, but as the weeks passed, her outfits became more revealing—plunging necklines, tighter fits, shorter hems. We'd kiss. Sometimes she'd take my hand and place it on her breasts. Other times, she'd touch me over my clothes until my body couldn't help but react. But she never took it further.
My mother never said it outright, but I knew my job. I had to make Alana believe I wanted this. So I played along, even though my stomach turned every time she touched me.
One afternoon, the housekeeper walked in at the wrong moment. Alana’s hand was resting on my groin.
The look on her face—the way all the color drained from it—stayed with me longer than any of Alana’s touches. Made me feel something close to shame.
That evening, I overheard my mother speaking to the housekeeper in the kitchen, her voice firm and unyielding.
The housekeeper never stepped into the dining room on Wednesdays again.
My sleep started to get all fucked up. Nightmares. Sheets drenched with cold sweat. The nights before Alana’s visits, I rarely managed more than a few hours’ sleep.
I didn’t know how much longer this was supposed to last. No one had given me an end date.
By the end of August, I was still trapped in this nauseating routine when my mother announced she was hosting a big end-of-summer party at the house in the Hamptons.
“I want you to go up a day early,” she said, typing something on her phone, her attention elsewhere. “The caterers arrive in the morning, and I need you to supervise. You’ll get there Friday night. I’ll come up early Saturday afternoon, and the party will be that evening.”
“Okay,” I said, hesitating before adding, “Mom, did you look at the apartments I sent you?”
She finally glanced up, irritation flickering across her face. My living situation was another thing outside my control. I was still in my parents’ penthouse, dependent on their finances until I got made and could earn my own money. The apartment hunt had been her idea, but every time I brought it up, she brushed me off.
“I’ll look after the party, Rom,” she said dismissively, turning back to her phone.
