Chapter 8: Cracks in the Facade

The second week felt like holding your breath underwater. The mansion’s routines hardened into armor: breakfast at 7:30, parents leaving for errands or golf by 9, Sophia sketching in the sunroom with earbuds in (music she wasn’t really listening to), Julian coding in his wing with the door ajar just enough to hear footsteps. They moved around each other like planets in careful orbit—close enough to feel gravity, far enough to avoid collision in daylight.

But the nights grew hungrier.

Monday they used the basement rec room—unused since high school, still smelling faintly of old popcorn and chlorine from the hot tub nobody maintained anymore. Sophia waited there after midnight, hoodie unzipped, shorts around her ankles, bent over the old pool table. Julian found her like that—ass presented, fingers already working her clit in slow circles.

He didn’t speak. Just dropped his jeans, stepped behind her, slid in deep with one smooth thrust. The felt rasped against her palms as he fucked her hard—cue sticks rattling in their rack, balls clacking softly with each impact. He fisted her hair, pulled her head back so she could see their reflection in the darkened window that overlooked the backyard.

“You used to sneak down here to smoke weed with your friends,” he rasped. “Thought I didn’t know. I could smell it on you the next morning at breakfast. Now look at you—bent over the same table, taking your brother’s cock while Mom and Dad sleep upstairs. You’re still the bad girl who never grew up. Just wetter. Needier.”