Don't Tell Mom!

Finally. Summer break. Three months of lectures, three months of watching professors pretend they're not staring at my tits while I explain Derrida to them. Literature faculty is a joke – but it's a joke I know how to play. Back on campus, I can't even walk to the café without someone trying to get my number. It's almost boring how easy they all are.

Now I'm here. At my mother's house. With her new husband.

He only knows me from old photos. Little Mila with pigtails and baby teeth. He has no idea what's waiting for him.

The front door opens. That's him.

I picked my outfit carefully this morning. Low-waist jeans sitting dangerously low on my hips, showing off every inch of my slender waist. A tiny denim jacket – open, barely covering my nipples, sliding to the side with every move I make. Giving him a perfect view of my curves, my flat stomach, the delicate line of my back disappearing into my jeans.

I walk down the stairs, slow, and stop on the last step. He looks at me. I look at him. This moment matters. I want his eyes to linger. I want him to swallow hard. I want him to burn this image into his mind and never forget it.

Then I step closer, too close. My hand finds his arm – light, warm, slow – and I hold up my phone. My mother's message glows on the screen:

"Be a good girl and take care of your new daddy."

I lock my eyes on his, hold his gaze, and let the words roll off my tongue slow and soft, almost a whisper.

"Mom's running late. She wants me to take good care of you."

My fingers trace down his arm as I let go – just enough to leave a chill behind.

Whether he understands what that really means... I'm about to find out.