For eleven years, I have built my life on precision. Quietly, meticulously, and behind closed doors. A life so exacting that most people would never believe I actually live it. To them, I am Dr. Patricia Gillian Sta. Ana, the woman with M.D. and D.O. appended to her name from the most prestigious universities in Paris. They call it privilege. They whisper about generational wealth. Merde. But I would swear on my ancestors' graves that I earned every inch of it. I gave up my adolescence to discipline, refused every shortcut, and worked relentlessly to prove to my parents that I could stand where they stand. That was how they raised me: nothing given without something returned. Every kindness earned. Every reward paid for in full.
I have always hidden my harsher edges. God, I never even wanted to become like them. People who denied me the simple permission to have a gentle, ordinary childhood. Before I could ask for anything remotely resembling affection, I had to present perfect scores, flawless results, immaculate proof that I was worthy of what should have been given freely.
For a long time, I believed that was the only life available to me—until I met Jason.
With him, something in me unraveled. I became a little reckless, a little improper. And it was… freeing. There were parts of myself I hadn't even known existed, waiting quietly beneath all that control. I discovered the thrill of small deceptions, the strange relief of making mistakes, the dizzying freedom of losing control without apology. I learned to indulge. To eat what I wanted, to laugh too loudly, to dance barefoot on wet grass while the rain soaked through everything. I learned what it meant to live without calculation. I even allowed myself to build something fragile and beautiful: a child, a life that wasn't measured in achievements.
But love is not always kind.
When Jason betrayed me, everything I had buried came rushing back. It felt as though I had been reset, dragged back into the rigid patterns I thought I had escaped. Once again, my life became a performance. Every interaction rehearsed, every word measured. Except at home, with my daughter—she is the only place where I do not pretend.
The moment I face the world, the act begins. I must not disappoint. I must excel. I must win. Everyone becomes a benchmark, a rival, a silent contest I cannot afford to lose. That relentless voice returns, insisting that I must always be the best, always be untouchable.
And then there's Severino Haynes.
He will unravel everything if he keeps pushing his way into my thoughts like this. He is nothing more than a distraction. A man who doesn't take anything seriously, who drifts through life without consequence. I refuse to let someone like him disrupt what I have rebuilt. I've already dismissed him. That should have been the end of it.
Charity will understand. She has to.
Charity is already asleep in her room when I get home. I'm exhausted, even though all I did was drive. God. This is exactly why I never let a man into my life. He managed to give me a headache on the very first day I hired him.
I drop onto the corner of my bed the moment I reach my room. Closing my eyes, I press my fingers gently against my temples, easing the tension little by little. When I lift my head, my reflection stares back at me from the mirror across the room. My blonde bob is slightly tousled, and my cheeks are flushed a soft pink for no clear reason. I look disheveled. Unpolished in a way I can't stand.
After freshening up, I slip into a sheer white satin nightgown that falls just to the tops of my thighs. The fabric is deliberately revealing, offering a glimpse of the delicate lace-and-pearl lingerie underneath. I adjust the lighting until it casts a soft, flattering glow, then position the camera with care. No matter how I move, my face will remain out of frame. What I choose to show, and what I don't, stays entirely in my control.
I retrieved the seven-inch transparent dildo I'd recently acquired. A small, inconspicuous button sat on the right side of the base; I clicked through the settings until I hit the third and highest level.
My jaw dropped at the sheer intensity of the vibration. I pressed the head against my palm, watching the light catch the thick lubricant as it slicked over the clear surface and began to drip. Catching my reflection in the camera lens, I couldn't help but admire the view. I wasn't trying to be modest. I looked incredible, and I knew it.
I toggled the record button and began to trail the humming device across my chest. Sitting cross-legged, my free hand, encased in a sleek glove, kneaded my breasts, coaxing my nipples into hard, sensitive peaks. I tilted my head back and spread my legs wide for the lens, momentarily losing myself in the sensation before remembering to check the framing. The angle had to be flawless.
Impulsively, I buried the toy deep inside me in one smooth motion. A sharp moan escaped my lips as my right hand scrambled for purchase against the headboard. The stretch was overwhelming; I couldn't tell if the toy was genuinely massive or if I was simply out of practice.
"Ahh, shit..."
I picked up the pace, the friction generating a heat that sent beads of sweat rolling from my forehead down to my cleavage. My lingerie hung precariously off my frame, leaving my golden skin to shimmer under the amber glow of the room's lighting.
I'll be on top of you, probably in this car, and I'm clenching inside your pretty little cunt.
"Ahh!"
My entire body convulsed in a violent tremor, and the vibrator slipped from my hand. I writhed against the sheets, my legs kicking out blindly until I felt the metal tripod topple over. I didn't care about the gear or the recording anymore. The orgasm was all that mattered.
Although a single voice broke through and disrupted my focus.