Jillian woke to the oppressive afternoon heat, the curtains dimly aglow under the harsh sun. Her rose gold Cartier watch—an anniversary gift from Michael, still clasped on her wrist since the night before—read 2:20 PM. Her body ached from the sleeping pill's sluggish remnants, her mind fogged by both the aftereffects of last night's wine and the harrowing weight of what she had done. It wasn't just the heat that had her drenched in sweat—she was hungover, drowsy, and sick to her core.
The moment she opened her eyes, the events of the night before rushed back with a visceral force, unraveling in her mind like a perverse dream. But it wasn't a dream, and that was what made her stomach churn with every recollection. She lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to piece together how she had let everything unravel, how she had allowed for their relationship to become incestuous.
It had all begun innocently enough—a seemingly ordinary dinner with the Maples, marked by idle chatter and philosophical debate. But everything shifted when Michael disappeared with Kayla under the pretense of buying cigarettes, triggering that familiar knot of anger and betrayal deep within her. Her mind had spiraled back to the affair, the wound never fully healed. The wine had flowed too freely, dulling the sharp edge of her rage and inflaming the self-destructive streak she could no longer suppress. The earlier memory of the shower scene haunted her, a strange echo of desire and disgust rippling through her mind. And then Jonathan—sitting across from her as they both found themselves in their shared living room late at night, his presence both comforting and unnerving. The heat of the evening, the wine, and that unbearable knot of emotions bubbling just below the surface.
When had he suggested the game and why had she agreed to it? When had the atmosphere shifted, turning their late-night conversation into something far more dangerous? She couldn't pinpoint the exact moment, but somehow, they had arrived there—playing Truth or Dare, boundaries dissolving in the murky haze of resentment and misplaced desire. When had her role shifted from mother to something unrecognizable?
She replayed it over and over in her mind. Had there always been something simmering beneath the surface? Had Jonathan ever looked at her inappropriately before yesterday afternoon in the showers, with the kind of desire that disgusted her now? No, she thought. Nothing like that. Nothing that would explain this. It wasn't some long-hidden infatuation. There were no signs, no inappropriate episodes throughtout his upbringing. Everything had been pristine between them—healthy, normal, mother and son.
And yet, last night had happened.
It wasn't some twisted psychological reaction to Jonathan growing up, to her fear of losing him. No, it was worse. It was raw, unthinking, and carnal—devoid of reason or emotion, solely physical and mechanical, without any sensuality or love. No, she didn't make forbidden love to her son. She was fucked by him in a raw, loveless and animalistic manner. Was it a reaction to everything she'd kept pent up, to Michael's infidelity, to her suppressed desires, to her years of sacrificing her own needs for the sake of a marriage that had eroded over time? Most probably.
Indeed, that thought could explain the subtext of what had happened, it could explain her thoughts and feelings, but it couldn't absolve her of the actual physical act. Yes, Jonathan had been there, in the wrong place at the wrong time, and yes, she had been in the worst possible state of mind, but how could she have let it happen? This wasn't just some fleeting, impulsive mistake. It hadn't unfolded in a moment of weakness; it crept in, slowly, insidiously, over the course of one day and one night.
The actual act, too—it wasn't brief. It stretched on for what? Twenty minutes? Half an hour? And the most damning part: she instigated the intercourse. It was she who had shifted onto all fours, offering herself to him. She had wanted it, reveled in it. She knew what she was doing but she went ahead with it anyway, she had become so very wet as she begged him to do it, pleading with him not to speak. It was she who began ramming herself back onto him to amplify his thrusts as she reached orgasm.
This wasn't a story of familial dysfunction that had slowly, inevitably spiraled into madness. No, this had been entirely circumstantial. In another moment, in another setting, it would never have happened. But here, in this tangled mess of suppressed desires and frustrations, it had. And that thought terrified her. Was lust so overpowering, so indifferent to moral boundaries, that it could manifest between any two people if conditions were met, even a mother and her son?
She felt bile rise in her throat, and before she could stop herself, she stumbled into the bathroom. She barely made it to the toilet before retching violently, her body finally succumbing to the weight of her disgust. She collapsed on the cool tile floor, her mind swirling with self-loathing and confusion.
After rinsing her mouth, she stood in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection—pale, disheveled, haunted. Flashes of the night before flickered behind her eyes—Jonathan's hands on her hips, the desperate, shameful heat between them, the loud thumping noise of his crotch slamming against her backside as he penetrated her from behind, over and over again.
She crawled back into bed, the weight of it all crushing her down into the mattress. She wasn't ready to face the world outside this room. She wasn't ready to see Jonathan. She wasn't ready to confront Michael, or the life she had so recklessly unraveled.
And then, just as she thought she might drift back into oblivion, the door creaked open. Michael stood in the doorway, his eyes scanning the room, his presence heavy in the thick, humid air. Jillian's heart pounded against her ribcage, but she lay still, frozen beneath the sheets, waiting for whatever was to come next.
"Hey," Michael said nervously, his voice a little too light, a little too rehearsed. "Did you get some rest?"
She blinked up at him, her head swimming with the remnants of last night, the weight of her own betrayal hanging over her like a shroud. "A bit," she muttered, her voice rough from sleep.
"It's a beautiful day," he continued, shifting his weight between his feet. "I made us some brunch… thought we could eat together. You should come downstairs."
Her stomach churned at the thought of food, but that was the least of her worries. Did he know? Had he seen or heard anything? She had found him fast asleep when she crawled into bed last night, her body still trembling, their son's semen oozing down her thigh. But now, standing there in the doorway, his expression neutral, she couldn't tell if anything had shifted.
"I drank too much wine last night," she offered, her voice stiff and brittle, hoping the half-truth would cover her nervousness. "My head's killing me."
Michael exhaled slowly, stepping further into the room, his hand running awkwardly through his hair. "I'm sorry about last night," he said. "About Kayla. I didn't mean to upset you. I just wanted to show her where the store was, that's all."
Before—before last night, before everything had spiraled into the unthinkable—she would have been livid at his excuses, the thin veil of indifference hiding something more careless. She might have snapped, striking back with a cynical, venemous remark. But now, after what she had done, her shoulders relaxed in an almost defeated way. "It's okay," she said, the words falling from her mouth like stones.
Michael smiled, visibly relieved by her response. "Jonathan left early this morning," he added. "He went with some of the local kids to a beach, way down the coast. He won't be back until tonight."
He paused, as though waiting for her to react. "So, it's just the two of us here." There was a shy note of romance in his voice, the kind that once would have made her smile, lean into him, embrace the quiet intimacy of their time together.
But now, it only confirmed that Jonathan had seen him this morning. And had said nothing. They had exchanged words, made plans, and yet Jonathan hadn't mentioned a single thing about last night. A wave of relief came over her, followed by sickening shame.
"Give me a few minutes," she said, pulling herself from the bed, grateful for an excuse to hide her face. "I'll come down."
She moved mechanically, brushing her teeth, splashing cool water onto her flushed cheeks, all the while trying to steady her thoughts. Last night's flashes kept invading her mind—the wine, the game, Jonathan's explosive thrusts, the slow, sickening realization of what had happened. She shook her head, as if to banish the memories, but they clung to her like shadows.
By the time she descended the stairs, Michael had already laid out a brunch spread—fresh fruit, eggs with pesto and prosciutto, toast, and orange juice in tall glasses. It looked wonderful, like something out of a lifestyle magazine.
"Here we are," Michael said with a forced cheerfulness as she sat down at the table. "Thought we could use a nice meal."
She nodded, though her stomach twisted at the sight of the food. She picked at her plate, forcing small bites, trying not to gag as the texture of eggs lingered too long on her tongue. Michael rambled on, blissfully unaware of her inner turmoil.
"They've put on weight, haven't they?" he chuckled, referring to William. "I've literally never seen anyone order three main courses just for himself. And Kayla… God, did you notice her face? She's definitely had work done. Botox, no doubt."
Jillian nodded absently, her mind drifting far from the idle gossip. Her thoughts danced back to last night, to the feel of Jonathan inside of her, to the sound of her own voice—Give it to me, fuck me. She shuddered, focusing hard on Michael's voice, clinging to the normalcy of his words, but the weight of her actions kept pulling her under.
When brunch was finally over, Michael eyed her with concern. "You're not feeling too well, are you?" he asked softly, seeing the pallor of her skin, the vacant look in her eyes. "Why don't you go rest on the couch? I'll take care of the dishes."
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible as she stood up.
As she walked toward the living room, she felt his gaze linger on her back. She wanted to disappear, to dissolve into the air, but instead, she collapsed onto the couch, staring blankly at the ceiling, the silence of the house enveloping her.
The rest of the day passed in a haze. She wandered the house aimlessly, the oppressive weight of the previous night clinging to her like a shadow. Michael, having given up on a romantic afternoon with his wife after noticing her mental absence, threw himself into his work. At one point, she ventured to the beach, hoping the sun and sea might cleanse her, might wash away the hangover and the gnawing regret, but the salt air only magnified her inner turmoil. The waves, indifferent and eternal, did nothing to quiet the storm inside her. After an hour, she returned to the house, her skin burning, her thoughts darker than before.
Back in the garden, she tried to read. The familiar comfort of a book, usually her escape, felt distant and futile. The words blurred on the page, her mind unable to settle. Instead, her eyes drifted to the horizon, where the sky was beginning to soften into the deep hues of late afternoon. Time had become a cruel companion, ticking away slowly, each passing minute bringing her closer to the inevitable — Jonathan's return.
As the sun sank lower, her nerves tightened. By now, Michael had retreated indoors, engaged in one of his rare evening conference calls with some European publishers. The low hum of his voice carried faintly through the open window, mingling with the soft rustle of the breeze. Jillian tried to focus on the lightness in the air, the way it momentarily lifted the lingering headache and nausea, but it was impossible. The night was coming, and with it, Jonathan.
At around 8 PM, the world seemed to still. Jillian sat in the garden, watching the fading light, the quiet anticipation of dusk settling in. Her heart raced with every minute that passed. Then, suddenly, she heard it—the familiar sound of a car pulling up on their street. The engine cut off, followed by the unmistakable clunk of a car door. Her pulse quickened as the distant sound of keys jingled, followed by the metallic scrape of the gate unlocking.
The gate swung open, and there he was, Jonathan, standing in the doorway with a backpack slung over his shoulder and a damp beach towel in hand. Their eyes met, locking in a moment of shared, unbearable recognition. The memory of last night hung between them, heavy and unspeakable. His expression shifted—shame, fear, something darker flickered in his eyes before he covered it with a forced smile, the kind of smile that belonged to the boy he once was.
"Hi," he said, too casually, his voice bright and hollow. It was the jolliness of someone playing a role, as though everything was fine, as though nothing had changed. Jillian could see through it instantly, but in a way, the charade relieved her.
"Hey there, kiddo," she replied, the words slipping out before she could stop herself. She hadn't called him kiddo in years. It wasn't a word she used anymore; it belonged to a simpler time, a term of endearment that had long since faded from their lives. Yet now, it felt like a shield, something to hide behind, a defensive mechanism she hadn't realized she still had.
"How was your day at the beach?" she asked, her voice light, almost detached. The question felt rehearsed, as though they were performing for an invisible audience, both pretending that the night before was nothing more than a bad dream.
"It was cool," Jonathan answered, his voice tight. "Went to a cove with the guys… it was chill."
The conversation dribbled on, thin and meaningless. A brief exchange of pleasantries—what they had done with their day, who they had seen. Both of them careful, both of them avoiding the elephant in the room, the thing they could not name. Jillian caught herself, more than once, wishing this was all some nightmare from which she would soon wake, but she knew better. This wasn't a dream. Last night had happened, and now they were left to navigate the wreckage.
The setting sun cast a warm glow across the garden, but to Jillian, the light felt harsh, exposing too much. She glanced at Jonathan again, catching the faint lines of tension in his jaw, the nervous way his fingers fidgeted with the strap of his backpack. He wasn't the only one pretending.
Jonathan abruptly cut their strained conversation short, offering a quick "I'm going inside" before turning on his heel and walking away. As he disappeared into the house, Jillian felt an unexpected wave of relief wash over her. For the first time all day, the weight on her chest seemed to lift, if only slightly. It was as if in their awkward exchange, they had reached some unspoken agreement, an unholy camaraderie born from the shared burden of their secret. They were both too intelligent, too rational, to let the weight of last night destroy them—at least, that's what she told herself.
She lingered in the garden, letting the cool breeze dance across her skin as the night settled in, the stars blinking softly into existence above her. There was something soothing about the stillness of the evening, a temporary reprieve from the turmoil inside. But soon enough, the pull of the house beckoned her back, and with a deep breath, she retreated indoors.
She found Michael in the living room, his laptop closed, the remnants of his conference call behind him. He was relaxed, sipping a glass of wine.
"Where's Jonathan?" she asked, her voice casual, though her heart still raced.
"In his room," Michael replied, leaning back against the couch. "He said he was tired from the beach and wanted to rest."
Jillian nodded, a faint sense of relief mingling with her apprehension. Jonathan had locked himself away, sparing her from another encounter. For now.
Michael stood and stretched. "What do you say we go for a walk? Get some fresh air by the sea? Maybe head to the promenade. I hear it's a bit of a tourist trap, but still, supposed to be pretty."
She hesitated for only a moment before agreeing. It would be good to leave the house, to escape the thick air that seemed to linger between its walls. It was still early enough—just past 9:00. Perhaps the night could provide the distraction she desperately needed.
They went upstairs, changing into something more suitable for a seaside stroll. Michael, ever the considerate father, called out to Jonathan before they left, telling him they were heading out for a walk. Jillian remained silent, her stomach tightening slightly. There was no response from behind Jonathan's closed door.
The walk by the sea was just what Jillian needed. The salty air was crisp, carrying with it the rhythmic sound of the waves crashing gently against the shore. They walked in a comfortable silence for a while, the vast expanse of the ocean stretching before them, a canvas of deep blues and silvers under the moonlight. The cool night air seemed to strip away some of the heaviness she had been carrying, and for the first time in what felt like ages, she allowed herself to relax.
As they neared the promenade, the quiet gave way to the hum of activity. The cobblestone path was lined with little street vendors, their stalls illuminated by strings of lights. Caricature artists were scattered among them, sketching quick, exaggerated portraits of the passersby who sat grinning in their chairs. Sidewalk cafés bustled with chatter and laughter, the air thick with the scent of roasted chestnuts and cinnamon.
Jillian found herself enjoying the walk, the ordinary charm of the bustling promenade pulling her away from the tangled mess of her thoughts. Michael, too, seemed more at ease, and their conversation flowed naturally, touching on the light and inconsequential.
As they wandered through the crowded street, a small collection of paintings displayed on the pavement caught Jillian's eye. They were vivid, dreamlike, filled with sweeping lines and bold colors reminiscent of Henri Matisse's works. The artist, a handsome man possibly in his fifties with shoulder-length gray hair, was standing nearby, talking animatedly with a couple examining his pieces.
Something about the paintings drew Jillian in. She walked closer, her eyes lingering on one in particular—an abstract composition that seemed to pulse with energy and movement. Michael joined her, and the artist turned to greet them with a warm smile.
"Beautiful work," Jillian said, her voice soft but sincere.
"Thank you," the man replied, his eyes lighting up. He introduced himself, speaking with the easy confidence of someone comfortable in his craft. He had recently moved back to his hometown on the coast after spending years abroad. Now, he had a small studio nearby where he worked and showcased his paintings.
Jillian was tempted by the piece that had caught her eye, turning the idea of purchasing it then and there over in her mind, asking Michael what he thought. The artist handed them a business card, inviting them to stop by his studio in the coming days if they were interested in seeing more of his work. He mentioned how much he enjoyed showing people his creative space, sharing stories behind his paintings.
Michael, ever the pragmatist, suggested they take the artist up on his offer and not purchase right away. Jillian agreed, though she felt a strange attachment to the painting already. They exchanged goodbyes with the artist and continued their walk down the promenade, the noise and lights of the bustling street gradually fading as they made their way back toward the quieter shore.
By the time they returned home, it was late, and the house was shrouded in darkness. Jillian felt the familiar knot of anxiety tightening in her stomach as they entered. She half expected to find Jonathan sitting in the living room, as he often did, waiting for them, but the room was empty.
Michael glanced toward the staircase. "Looks like he's still in his room," he said, stifling a yawn. "Probably fell asleep. He was pretty worn out from the beach."
Jillian nodded, but the nervousness didn't leave her. She knew that sleep was only a temporary reprieve. Jonathan was still there, behind that door, and sooner or later, they would have to face each other again.
But that wasn't her only fear. Jillian's mind spiralled into darker corners, where her son's rational facade began to feel like a thin veil masking something far more dangerous beneath. What if Jonathan wasn't handling this at all? What if his calmness was merely a pause before the storm, a prelude to confrontation? Worse yet, what if he was on the verge of coming clean to Michael, the one person who had no inkling of the grotesque undercurrent running beneath the surface of their family's life?
She could almost picture it: Jonathan, filled with guilt and disgust, sitting his father down and unraveling the tangled nightmare that had unfolded. She shuddered at the thought. The very idea of her secret being exposed, of their polished family image shattered, sent a ripple of nausea through her.
As much as she dreaded speaking to Jonathan about what had happened, her paranoia gnawed at her, forcing her hand. She felt cornered. If she didn't confront him first, he would destroy everything.
She followed Michael upstairs, her body moving on autopilot as they got ready for bed. The routine—slipping into her satin nightgown, brushing her teeth, removing her makeup—offered no comfort. It was mechanical, as though someone else were inhabiting her body, performing the steps. Michael, exhausted, seemed oblivious to her inner turmoil, though it was she who had endured the sleepless night. He'd risen early, while she had lingered in bed well into the afternoon, numbing herself with a sleeping pill to escape reality.
Michael had busied himself with his work, drafting chapters for his latest novel, even preparing a lavish brunch and early dinner for them. But now, he too surrendered to sleep almost immediately, his deep breaths settling into a rhythm beside her. Jillian lay motionless on her back, staring at the ceiling, while her mind raced.
Jonathan. Her thoughts returned to him like a haunting refrain. She imagined him in his room, torn between guilt and the need for confession. Would he unburden himself, dragging her down with him? Would he ruin them? Her insides twisted at the thought of her spotless, carefully curated image unraveling. The shame, the disgust, the scandal. She could not bear the thought of people knowing.
Jillian's extreme need for privacy, for maintaining social respect and order, clawed at her. If she had one true character flaw, it was her obsessive need to be perceived as perfect by others, probably a by-product of her elitist upbringing. She couldn't wait any longer. She needed to know what was going on in Jonathan's head—needed to control it before it spiraled beyond her reach.
She reached for her phone on the nightstand, her hands trembling. Opening Instagram, she navigated to her son's profile, hesitating only a moment before sending him a direct message:
"Is everything okay?"
She stared at the screen, unable to close the app, watching for the telltale typing bubble with a nervous intensity. Her heart pounded in her chest, the silence of the bedroom pressing in on her. Then, finally, she saw it—Jonathan was typing.
"Yeah, I'm ok."
The words appeared, and with them came a fleeting sense of relief. Maybe he was handling this better than she was.
"What's up?" she typed, trying to keep her tone light, even though her insides felt knotted.
"Just thinking."
The cryptic reply made her heart stutter. Thinking. What was he thinking about? Was he deliberating on what to do next? Her paranoia flared again, sharp and unyielding.
"Are you sure you're okay?" she pressed, desperate for reassurance.
"I think I am," he replied. And then, the message she had dreaded: "I'm just thinking about last night."
Her blood ran cold. She began typing a response, fingers moving rapidly across the screen. She needed to say something, anything to make this right. She wanted to tell him it would all be okay, that they just needed to be strong. People make mistakes. She was still his mother, after all. They would pretend this never happened, because that's what their family needed—time would heal, wouldn't it?
But as her message grew longer, her fingers faltered. The words felt hollow, meaningless. She stared at the screen, reading and re-reading the paragraph she had written, and then, with a sudden rush of despair, deleted it. What could she possibly say that would make this right?
She lay there in the dark, her body a heavy weight sinking into the bed, as the silence pressed down around her like an oppressive fog. The night was still, yet inside her mind, everything churned. The room was suffocating, but it wasn't the air—it was the thought that refused to leave her. The paranoia gnawed at her relentlessly, chewing through every attempt to rationalize the situation. What if he didn't want to forget? What if he couldn't?
Her hands clutched the sheets as she stared into the blackness, her breath shallow, feeling as if the world had tilted on its axis. She wasn't afraid anymore of the hold it had over him. Whatever it was—whatever they had done—they would survive it. She told herself that over and over, as if repeating it could make it true. What terrified her now was not the aftermath or the damage done in the heat of the moment—it was the fear of the outside world discovering what they had become.
The secret was the real danger, the thing that had lodged itself in her throat, tight and suffocating. She had caught herself thinking, for just a fleeting second, that she would do anything to protect it—to keep it hidden, buried beneath layers of silence and denial. But even that thought frightened her more than she could bear, because it implied the lengths she might go to, the depth of the darkness she might sink into.
Gathering her courage, she typed again: "Is it okay if I come to your room so we talk?"
She held her breath, staring at the screen. Her heart pounded against her ribs, each second dragging out like an eternity. Finally, the response appeared:
"Ok."
That single word sent a shiver down her spine. She lay still for a moment, gathering her thoughts, before quietly slipping out of bed. Michael's steady breathing continued beside her, blissfully unaware of the chaos swirling just beyond his grasp.
With a final glance at the sleeping figure of her husband, she stepped into the hall, the soft sound of her bare feet on the wooden floor the only noise in the stillness of the house. She approached Jonathan's door, her hand hovering over the handle, her heart lodged in her throat.
This was it.
There was no going back now.