Chapter 1: Attraction She Can't Deny

Purdey stood before her bathroom mirror. The face looking back at her was one she barely recognised. Where confidence had once sat like a well‑tailored collar, exhaustion had settled into the fabric of her features: thin crescent shadows beneath her eyes, a softness at the jaw that sleep might have repaired if she ever found the time. She thought back to her University days before she had met Ian, when sharp edges defined her—both in appearance and behaviour. Back then, she’d been reckless, wild, moving between church groups and parties with the same dangerous charm, offering intimacy carelessly to strangers in bathroom stalls and empty classrooms. The memory of those spontaneous encounters, of lips pressed against skin and quiet gasps in darkened corners, felt like another lifetime. Her body had changed—softer now, more maternal than seductive—and with it, her life had rounded at the edges too. She sometimes missed that earlier version of herself, the girl who took without asking, who knew the power of her body and wielded it like a weapon.

She had met Ian at a friend’s party, where the dim lights and pulsing music created an intimate atmosphere. He stood out in the crowded room—cute and friendly, his six pack abs peeked through his fitted shirt when he reached for his drink. Though he was dating an acquaintance of hers at the time, making him off-limits, their eyes had met across the room more than once. She’d even sat on his lap in her underwear once. During a Christmas party, in the middle of a game of strip poker, he had slipped out and returned dressed as Santa. His partner dressed as a sexy version Mrs Claus, short skirt and matching bra. After they party, they added each other on Facebook, a digital connection that seemed innocent enough.

Three and a half months after that party, as autumn leaves scattered across Melbourne’s streets, Ian had broken up with his long time girlfriend and had began posting on her Facebook page. Their playful exchanges grew more frequent, like kindling slowly catching fire. When her footy team, Carlton, was scheduled to play Ian’s team, tension crackled between them. He proposed a wager that hovered on the edge of flirtation—whoever’s team lost would have to wash the other’s car in their underwear. Purdey, with unwavering faith in her beloved Carlton, accepted the challenge, imagining victory. However, that year they suffered a crushing defeat to North Melbourne by over 80 points, the scoreboard a glaring reminder of her lost bet.

Ian asked if would accept going on a date with him instead of the aforementioned car wash—a debt to this day that he still playfully reminded her that she had yet to pay up. Their romance ignited like wildfire, consuming rational thought in its heat. After only the second date, Ian was at her place where they kissed and Purdey soon had his cock in her mouth. Each date ended the same after that, their bodies would find each other in darkened rooms, against kitchen counters, in hurried moments of passion. Nine months later, they had bought the house they currently reside in, after moving in they christened every corner of every room. Ian’s appetite was voracious, and so was hers, or so she thought. Soon enough Ian had proposed but just as they had sent wedding invites out, Purdey discovered she was pregnant, so they hastily changed the wedding to just before she reached four months with Olivia growing inside her.

Now, years later, the sharp edges of their passion had dulled, filed down by 3 a.m. feedings, mortgage payments, and the predictable rhythm of family life. Some nights, like tonight, as she sat at the kitchen table with bills spread before her and Ian asleep on the couch, the television casting blue shadows across his face, they had become like roommates who helped look after children. Purdey caught herself wondering if those edges could ever be honed again, or if they were lost to the comfortable numbness of their routine.

She cupped cold water in her palms and pressed it against her cheeks until the sharpness woke something in her chest.

It was easy to forget how vivid life used to feel. In their first apartment, every surface held a memory: the chipped counter where they’d shared hurried breakfasts, the narrow balcony that had once been the site of spontaneous laughter and careless kisses. Those echoes remained, softened and distant, after years of deadlines and diapers and the slow accretion of responsibility.

Ian arrived home carrying flowers—again. He had developed a habit of showing up with blooms, as if each stem could purchase back some intimacy they’d misplaced. Purdey accepted them automatically, letting him kiss the top of her head before moving to the kitchen. They had learned a grammar of small gestures to stand in for conversation: flowers for apology, wine for celebration, polite touches at the end of long days.

The doorbell rang downstairs. Purdey straightened her blouse, forcing a brightness she didn’t feel.

Ian stood in the doorway, his fingers fidgeting against the cellophane that wrapped the colourful blooms. His lips curved upward as he extended the bouquet toward her. Purdey’s face remained impassive as she took the flowers, her movements mechanical and detached. Without the slightest acknowledgment or whispered gratitude, she placed them in a nearby vase, the rustle of petals against glass the only sound between them.

Eleven‑year‑old Olivia stood at the kitchen island with arms folded and a theatrical pout. Lila, about four years younger, clutched a well‑mended doll and waged a miniature war over whose turn it was to set the table.

“You promised it was my turn,” Olivia argued.

Purdey divided them with the easy authority of a parent who had done this a thousand times.

“Both of you, please. Dinner in ten.”

She set the camellia pot back on its stand and ran her hands in the soil.

Outside, the low hum of suburban quiet filled the evening. Inside, sauce simmered; the scent of garlic wrapped around unspoken words.