Trigger Warning: ⚠️ ⚠️
This chapter contains sexually explicit content intended for a mature audience. Reader discretion is advised.

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It's seven pm, and Ronald should be arriving any minute now with the catering and event planning team.

The doorbell rings, and I drag myself down the stairs, each step heavier with regret for agreeing to this circus. Opening the door, I'm greeted by an overly enthusiastic Ronald, bouncing on his heels like an eager puppy. Behind him, a swarm of people begins pouring into my house, carrying tables, floral arrangements, lighting rigs, sound equipment, champagne flutes, and trays of hors d'oeuvres. Some wheel in carts stacked with elaborate centerpieces, while others unload crates of pristine white linens.

Ronald lunges forward and wraps me in a suffocating hug. My entire body stiffens in disgust, and I shove him away, the touch clinging to my skin like an oil slick.

"What the hell made you think that was okay?" I snap, glaring at him.

He steps back, chuckling nervously. "Hey, come on, man, lighten up. Thanks so much for doing this—I owe you one."

"Yes, you do."

Before I can retreat, a silky voice calls out, "Ronald!"

We both turn toward the source.

Standing there is a woman—tall, blonde, with hair cascading in glossy waves down her back. She's dressed in a sequined jumpsuit that clings to her figure, paired with towering stilettos. Her lips are painted a sharp, glossy red, and diamonds drip from her ears. She was so shiny and painfully artificial, like a porcelain doll that's just slightly cracked.

Her sharp eyes land on me, and she wrinkles her nose slightly, as if trying to place me in her mental hierarchy of worth. "Who's this?" she asks, gesturing toward me with a manicured hand.

Ronald's face falters for a moment before he plasters on a wide smile. "Uh... this is my butler. He watches over the place while I'm away."

I level him with a look, but he pleads silently, his eyes wide and desperate. He's not just borrowed my house—he's parading it as his own.

"Hi, I'm Estelle," she says, extending her hand toward me. Her voice is smooth, but her expression is expectant, as though her touch would be a privilege.

I don't take it. Instead, I look directly at Ronald. "You have two hours." My tone is clipped, final.

Turning on my heel, I head for the stairs, ignoring Ronald's fumbling attempts to explain my behavior.

"He's just really protective of the house," I hear him say. "It's been in my family for ages. He's, uh... kind of obsessive."

Estelle's laughter floats up faintly. "Aw, that's adorable!"

Adorable. I snort under my breath. She must find a lot of pathetic things endearing, given her apparent attraction to Ronald.

Once upstairs, I lock myself in my studio, the thick, soundproof walls swallowing the noise of the chaos below.

I turn to the piece I'd just finished—Josh, fractured like a puzzle. His features scatter across the canvas, a face unrecognizable unless you knew the exact way to piece it back together.

Reaching for a brush, I dip it into the red paint, thick and viscous like blood, and drag it across the canvas. The bright crimson oozes over the fragmented face, consuming it inch by inch. I don't stop until every piece is drowned in red.

I step back and stare at the canvas, my chest tightening with a sharp ache. A hollow need grows, clawing at the edges of my mind.

Josh. He consumes me. His very existence is a virus in my veins, spreading, infecting every thought. I crave him as a predator craves its prey. I want to devour him, to strip him bare, layer by layer, until all that's left is the raw, bleeding core of who he is. I want his surrender. His tears. His breaking point. To unmake him so completely that the only thing left of him is the version I create.

My hand trembles, gripping the brush like a lifeline, as the desire festers, dark and primal.

The faint sound of laughter echoes through the walls, snapping me back to reality. My jaw tightens. Two hours. That's all they get. Two hours, and then this farce is over.

For now, I turn back to the canvas, the brush still dripping red, as my mind drifts back to Josh. Always to Josh.

I stand still, staring at the painting. It unsettles me—not because of what it shows, but because of what it makes me feel. Desire, raw and unfiltered, surges through me. I've never experienced this for a person before, this suffocating need to claim them, to make them mine at any cost.

It reminds me of Charlie's scooter from Christmas years ago. I wanted it with the same intensity. When Charlie refused to give it to me after l asked, I didn't plead. I didn't sulk. I took it into the yard, doused it in gasoline, and set it on fire.

I stood there, watching the flames devour it, with an indescribable satisfaction buzzing in my chest. It felt right. If I couldn't have it, no one could. That was the natural order of things, the only logic that ever made sense to me.

So why was I hesitating now? Why was I letting doubt creep in? If I wanted Josh, why wasn't I doing something about it?

What was stopping me?

Maybe it was the boyfriend. The obstacle.
But obstacles are just temporary. Easily... removed.

A smile tugs at my lips as I reach for a fresh canvas. My brush glides over the surface with a fervor I haven't felt in years, my focus sharp and unrelenting. Time slips away until I finally step back to admire the finished piece.

It's him. The boyfriend. Tears stream from his eyes-thick, crimson streaks of blood. Countless hands claw at his body, pale and desperate, one curling around his neck, crushing his windpipe. His face twists in agony, frozen in the moment where life teeters on the brink of death.

The room feels warmer now, and my throat is parched. I glance at my phone, dreading the thought of encountering Ronald or his vapid guests. Instead, I send a quick text:

"Get everyone out."

With that, I throw myself onto the floor, lying flat, staring at the painting. My mind churns with images, my breath quickening. I imagine my hands on his neck, his pulse pounding beneath my fingers, his desperate gasps fading into silence. The adrenaline spike is electric, sharp and consuming.

The need builds—a visceral hunger that I can't ignore.

I stand, unable to take my eyes off the painting. Sweat drips from my forehead, and I pull up my shirt to wipe it away. Rolling the fabric with my hands, I hold it against my neck, grounding myself as the ache in my body intensifies.

Unbuckling my belt, my gaze locks onto the canvas. I allow the scene to take root in my mind-his hands clawing at mine, the life draining from his face, and in the corner, Josh, tied up, watching it all unfold. His soft whimpers fill my head like music.

A low moan escapes me as my hand travels to the growing tension in my trousers. The first touch sends a jolt of heat up my spine, a wave of satisfaction coursing through me.

The imagery sharpens-the boyfriend's eyes, wide and glassy, the scratches on my arms as he struggles, the light dimming as I tighten my grip. Josh's cries grow softer, his tears streaking his beautiful face.

I stroke faster, my other hand cupping and tugging, gasping at the sheer ecstasy of it all. The pleasure coils tighter, climbing higher, until i take just one glance at the painting of Josh's eyes staring back at me and tip over.

My body seizes as I release, the hot mess splattering across the canvas.

I stand there, trembling, riding the high. My breathing is ragged, my legs weak. I feel... alive. More alive than l've felt in years.

My gaze drifts between the painting, now dripping with my cum, and the smaller canvas of his eyes.

Shit. I wanted him. I wanted him more than I've ever wanted anything in my life.

Once I regain feeling in my legs, I walk to the door and pull it open. Silence greets me, a welcome change.

I pick up my phone and send a quick text to Ronald.

Me: Did you clear everyone out?
Ronald: Yeah, had to take Estelle home, but I'll be back to clean up after.

I roll my eyes and toss the phone onto the bed. Finally, the circus was over. Good thing I called the cleaning company—they'd be here soon to deal with the mess.

I hate being home when they clean. Might as well go for a run, clear my head.

First, though, I needed to clean up myself. I shoot a quick text to the cleaning service, letting them know they can come now, and head toward the bathroom.

As I reach my room, something feels... off. The door is slightly ajar. I pause, frowning. I'd forgotten to lock it with the key, but Ronald knows the rules. My bedroom is off-limits.

If he let someone into my room, I'd kill him.

I push the door open and scan the space. At first glance, everything seems fine. But then I notice my laptop on the table—it's been moved. Not by much, maybe three inches, but enough.

Someone's been in here.

My eyes dart to the bathroom. The light is on, and a shadow moves across the crack of the door.

I thought Ronald said everyone had left.

Without hesitation, I grab the bat leaning against the wall near the door and step forward, quiet and deliberate. My grip tightens as I push the bathroom door open just enough to peek inside and assess the situation.

Whoever it is, they'll regret this.

My breath catches when I see him.

Josh.

What the hell?

He's standing at my counter, oblivious to my presence. I watch as he picks up a bottle of my cologne, brings it to his nose, and inhales. Slowly. Deliberately.

He sprays it on his wrists, rubs them together, then presses them to his neck. He takes another long sniff, his eyes closing this time as if savoring the scent.

What is he doing? Why is he here?

Do I confront him or keep watching? My mind races, trying to make sense of the scene.

"What are you doing?" I say, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade as I step into the room.

He startles, his eyes snapping open to meet mine. For a moment, neither of us speaks. His gaze is intense, wide and cautious, like prey caught in the jaws of a predator.

He opens his mouth, but before he can speak, his phone rings. He pulls it from his pocket and listens briefly before answering.

"Yeah, I'm on my way," he says, then hangs up and looks back at me.

"You're the butler right, Ronald said I could wait inside while I waited for my Uber," he explains, his voice steady but his eyes betraying him. "I needed to use the bathroom, so I found one myself."

It's a weak excuse, and we both know it. The lie flickers in his expression, but I let it slide. For now.

"And your Uber?" I ask, my tone even.

He checks his phone, frowning. "Looks like it canceled. Guess I'll have to order another one, but that'll take forever."

"If you're in a rush, I could drop you off," I offer, forcing a casual tone.

"You don't have to."

"It's no problem," I insist, watching his hesitation. Should I ask if he remembers me? Would it be too much? "Wait outside. I'll clean up quickly."

He nods and walks past me, his movements slow, deliberate. The scent of my cologne clings to him, wrapping around me like a taunt.

It takes everything in me not to grab him, to shove him against the wall and claim him right here.

Baby steps, Mark. Baby steps.

Step two is building a connection, right? I can do that. A drive home is the perfect start.

Authors note:
Word count: 2089 words.
I am sorry for the trauma this chapter might have caused. I wish I can say this is the worst thing you'd have to read but I'm bad at lying 💀