I never should've answered the door that night.
It was late—well past midnight, long after the office party had ended. I lay sprawled on my couch, half-drained beer resting on my chest, staring at the hazy glow of the city filtering through cheap blinds. The apartment was quiet except for the distant murmur of traffic below, streetlights flickering gently, painting the darkened room with splashes of neon blues and reds. The scent of old whiskey and forgotten dreams hung heavy in the stale air.
Then, softly yet decisively, a knock came at the door. Gentle. Insistent. Like the first raindrops before a storm.
Somehow, instinctively, I knew who it was. And that was exactly the issue.
I swung the door open, and there stood Elena Vasquez, my boss's wife. Her silk dress shimmered under the hallway light, a deep crimson like spilled wine or warning signs. Her lips matched perfectly—blood-red, dangerous. Golden earrings glittered against her olive skin, drawing my eyes down the delicate line of her neck. Her gaze was fierce, confident, yet I thought I caught a fleeting flicker of something else—a whisper of vulnerability, perhaps?
She stepped inside without invitation, trailing a fragrance that was jasmine mixed with something darker, headier—temptation itself.
"You're alone," she observed, brushing past me. The smooth silk of her dress grazed my knuckles, sending a ripple of heat up my spine.
"Shouldn't you be with Mr. Vasquez?" I asked cautiously, shutting the door behind her. I watched her stroll casually through my apartment, her eyes coolly scanning the disorder—the whiskey bottles scattered on the coffee table, a forgotten jacket tossed carelessly over a chair, and the shadows of the city dancing across the walls.
She turned to face me, lips curving slowly into a smile—a smile that men chase, lose themselves over. But beneath her seductive mask lingered something uncertain, something that hinted at secrets yet to be revealed.
"My husband," she drawled, selecting her words carefully, "is too busy playing CEO. He hardly notices when his wife slips away."
A dangerous game. One I wasn't sure I wanted to play.
She lowered herself onto my couch with effortless grace, crossing her legs in a move that felt practiced and deliberate. The fabric slipped higher along her thighs—just enough to tease, not enough to promise.
"You're going to make me a drink," she said softly, tilting her head, those dark eyes challenging me. "Then, Lucas, you're going to listen."
Listen—not obey. Subtle distinction, enormous implications.
My hands shook slightly as I approached the bar tucked into the corner, glass clinking against crystal in a quiet betrayal of nerves. Amber bourbon splashed gently over ice, catching dim neon reflections as I turned to face her again.
Elena watched me intently, leaning forward slightly, her elbows resting on her knees, her eyes holding mine captive. Like a predator waiting patiently, her every breath measured.
I handed her the drink, our fingers brushing softly, lingering perhaps a heartbeat too long. Her gaze flickered down momentarily, then returned to mine, calm and unreadable.
"You're good at following orders," she murmured, swirling the drink, the ice softly chiming against the glass. "Do you ever grow tired of being the obedient one?"
Christ.
I tightened my jaw, heart pounding relentlessly. Was she really implying what I thought? Or was I misreading everything?
She settled back on my couch, a queen surveying new territory, silk whispering against her body as she moved.
"Tell me something," she began, her voice soft, contemplative, almost vulnerable. "Have you ever felt trapped? Like no matter how hard you try, someone else is always pulling your strings?"
I hesitated, caught off guard by the rawness in her question. "Sometimes," I finally admitted. "Why? Planning on cutting a few strings yourself?"
She laughed—a quiet, bittersweet sound that echoed gently through the dimly lit room.
"Maybe," she murmured. "Or maybe I'm just curious who notices when the strings begin to fray."
Heat pooled low in my belly, confusion swirling with intrigue. What was her real game?
"Vasquez trusts you, doesn't he?" she asked suddenly, her fingertips tracing idle circles on the rim of her glass.
I hesitated, wary. "I think so."
"Good," she said quietly, her gaze locking onto mine, intense yet unreadable. "That makes two of us."
She rose gracefully, setting her drink aside, stepping toward the window. Outside, the city sprawled endlessly, lights blinking like scattered stars, each tiny glow a separate story, a different life.
She didn't look at me when she spoke again, her voice quieter now, almost a whisper. "Do you ever wonder, Lucas, what it would feel like to become someone else—even just for one night?"
The atmosphere shifted, heavy and charged.
I leaned forward slightly, drawn despite myself. "Depends. What kind of night are we talking about?"
She finally turned to face me, her gaze mysterious, dark. Her lips curled gently upward, but the expression remained inscrutable.
"The kind," she said softly, taking one deliberate step closer, "where you stop asking questions... and start discovering the answers."