The Valentine's Script
Chapter 3
Romance Sex Story: Chapter 3 - Ivy Lane lived between the shelves at St. Jude’s—quiet, brilliant, and invisible—until one miscalculated moment in the library turns private ink into public leverage. Her diary, a map of desire and the soft fissures in a Golden Boy named Aramis Walcot, is pulled from the shadows and into his palms. He isn’t the polished figure everyone assumes; he’s a boy suffocated by expectation who recognizes the same ember of hunger in her that she’s written about on paper.
Caution: This Romance Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa School First Oral Sex Safe Sex
Fumes of linseed oil and turpentine hung thick in the air, sharp enough to taste. Maya Seth’s studio occupied the attic like an afterthought—drafty, ribbed with rafters, canvases leaning against the walls like discarded bones.
Ivy sat hunched on a paint-splattered stool, a biology textbook open on her lap. The diagram of mitosis had blurred into abstraction—cells dividing endlessly, without resolution.
Across the room, Maya scraped dark crimson paint across a canvas with a palette knife. The sound was violent, but satisfying.
Maya didn’t paint pretty things; she painted furious, loud things. She was currently working on a series about urban decay, but the violence in her stroke suggested she was exorcising something far more personal than a city skyline.
Ivy watched the knife drag. Scrape, smear, stop.
On her lap, a heavy biology textbook lay open to a diagram of cellular mitosis, but the cells had ceased to be biology half an hour ago. They had become ink blobs floating in the gray soup of her anxiety. The diagrams of dividing nuclei struck her as the diagram blurred until it felt accusatory—dividing, dividing. One side was the girl who wanted to run, and the other was the girl who wanted to see if the fantasy could breathe.
“You’ve been staring at telophase for twenty minutes,” Maya said, not looking away from the canvas. She wiped the knife on her flannel shirt, adding a streak of red to a constellation of yellow and blue stains. “If you stare any harder, you’re going to split the nucleus with your mind, and I don’t have the insurance to cover a psychic break in here.”
Ivy blinked, the biology lab snapping back into focus before blurring again. She closed the book with a thud that sounded too loud in the quiet attic.
“I can’t focus. Everything seems ... loud—even the silence.”
“Clearly.” Maya turned, brushing a stray lock of hair from her eyes with the back of a charcoal-stained wrist. “You’re vibrating, Ivy; you’re actually emitting a low-frequency hum. It’s messing with my feng shui, and this room is literally filled with trash. What happened? Did Henderson finally ban you from the stacks?”
Ivy looked down at her hands; they were pale, the knuckles white from gripping the edge of the stool. She released her hold, flexing stiff fingers.
“I have to go somewhere tonight,” Ivy said, the words heavy, like stones dropped into a well.
“Okay. ‘Go somewhere.’” Maya picked up a rag and started cleaning her knife. “Is it a heavy metal concert? A secret fight club? Because unless you’re about to wrestle a bear, you look way too terrified for a Tuesday.”
“It’s ... Aramis Walcot’s house.”
The rag stopped moving, and Maya turned slowly, her eyes wide and unblinking. A slow, incredulous grin spread across her face, the kind of expression that usually preceded a disaster.
“Walcot? As in, the Walcot? As in, ‘my father owns the venture capital firm that bought half the town,’ Walcot?”
“Yes,” Ivy whispered, the name feeling like a brand on her tongue.
“Get out.” Maya dropped the rag. “You and the Golden Boy? Since when? Did you accidentally make eye contact in the library and freeze his soul with your silence? Is he finally realizing that Chloe Vance has the personality of a room-temperature salad?”
“It’s not like that,” Ivy lied. Meanwhile, the memory of the biology lab—the click of the lock, the scent of sandalwood, the way Aramis’s breath had ghosted against her ear—flashed hot behind her eyes. “He ... invited me. To discuss music. And some notes.”
“Music.” Maya snorted, leaning against her easel. “Right. And I invite guys over to discuss the socio-economic impact of acrylics versus oils. So, let me get this straight: you, Ivy Lane, the girl who apologizes to automatic doors when they don’t open fast enough, are going to the Walcot Estate. Specifically, to see Aramis Walcot—alone.”
“I shouldn’t go,” Ivy said, the doubt finally cresting, spilling out of her mouth. “It’s ridiculous, Maya. Look at me: I’m a scholarship student driving a Honda that sounds like it’s dying of consumption. Aramis ... he’s in a different stratosphere. He isn’t even a person—he’s a symbol, and symbols don’t notice girls like me. He’s the school king, and I’m the girl who hides behind the Encyclopedia of Chemical Bonds.”
She stood up, pacing the small strip of floorboards between the easel and the window. The wood groaned under her feet in sympathetic protest.
“He expects me just to walk in there,” Ivy continued, her voice gaining pitch. “Into that fortress. And do what? Play the part? I’m not Chloe Vance; I don’t know how to navigate that world. I’ll step through the door, and the house itself will reject me. The floorboards will probably groan in disgust. He’ll look at me in the light—the real, expensive light of his house—and realize I’m just ... a mistake.”
Maya rolled her eyes, walked over to a mini-fridge plugged into a chaotic tangle of extension cords, pulled out a can of sparkling water, and cracked it open.
“You think Aramis Walcot sits on a throne all day? He probably has a golden toilet to match his Golden Boy reputation, but he still has to use it like the rest of us. He bleeds, he sweats, and based on the way he looks at you when you aren’t looking, he’s definitely not indifferent.”
“It’s not funny, Maya. He has my...” Ivy bit her lip, stopping just short of saying diary. “He has something of mine, and he’s using it to force me to go there.”
Maya’s expression softened, and the teasing edge evaporated, replaced by the grounded, gritty wisdom that made her Ivy’s only real anchor. She walked over, placing her hands—warm and smelling of turpentine—on Ivy’s shoulders.
“Stop acting like you’re an extra in your own life, Ivy. You spend all your time writing, right? You create these worlds where women are powerful, and men are ... well, whatever it is you write about. Be the girl in your stories for once.”
’Be the girl in your stories.’
Maya didn’t know about the ‘Valentine’s Script,’ didn’t know that Ivy had literally written scenes where she was bold, demanding, and utterly seen. She didn’t know that Aramis Walcot was currently holding those fantasies hostage. But the advice struck exactly the fracture line in Ivy’s psyche.
“Be the girl,” Ivy repeated, testing the shape of the words.
“Yes. Stop letting everyone else decide the plot,” Maya said firmly. “You think Aramis knows what he’s doing? Please. Boys like that are just as lost; they’re just lost in more expensive cars. If you want to go, go; if you want to see what happens, see. But don’t stay here staring at mitosis and wondering ‘what if.’ That’s a tragedy, my friend, and I hate tragedies; they’re bad for the skin.”
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