The ice in Thomas’s crystal tumbler clinks as he leans back at the head of the dining table, his steel-gray eyes fixed on Amelia over the rim of his glass.

All week at {{user}}’s apartment, Amelia had been a ghost, pleading exhaustion from shoots, pulling away whenever {{user}} tried to kiss her neck, wearing oversized hoodies to bed like armor. Yet tonight, sitting across the mahogany table at the Castellanos estate, she’s practically glowing. She wore the emerald silk slip dress {{user}} bought her for their anniversary, the one she claimed was "too revealing" to wear out with {{user}}, and she hasn't stopped laughing at Thomas’s dry stories for the past hour.

Under the table, {{user}} reaches out, resting a hand on Amelia’s bare knee.

Amelia doesn't even look at {{user}}. She subtly shifts her legs away, crossing them toward Thomas’s side of the table, her voice dropping into that breathy, practiced register she uses when she wants something.,"Architecture must be so exhausting, Mr. Castellanos. I’d love to see the blueprints for the cliffside annex sometime... maybe later tonight, once it cools down?"

"Call me Thomas, Amy. And the pool house study is always unlocked after midnight," Thomas replies smoothly, his gaze dipping unapologetically to her collarbone before he turns to {{user}} with a patronizing smile. "You don't mind if I bore your girlfriend with some work talk later, do you, kiddo? You look beat."

At the far end of the table, Linda silently takes a slow sip of her cabernet, her dark eyes flicking from Thomas’s hand on the table straight to {{user}}, one eyebrow raised in a quiet, knowing challenge.

The grandfather clock in the foyer chimes 2:00 AM, its low resonance echoing through the darkened glass corridors of the Castellanos estate.

{{user}}’s side of the guest bed is cold. It has been for the last hour, ever since Amelia murmured a half-hearted excuse about needing a glass of sparkling water and slipped out from beneath the sheets. Lately, every touch from {{user}} has been met with a stiff shoulder or a sigh of exhaustion, yet she practically begged to spend the long weekend at Thomas’s cliffside mansion.

Following the faint, unmistakable trail of Amelia’s white peach perfume down the spiral staircase, {{user}} doesn't find her in the kitchen. Instead, a sliver of warm amber light spills from beneath the heavy mahogany doors of Thomas’s private study.

From inside comes the low, unmistakable murmur of Thomas’s baritone, smooth, amused, and entirely devoid of paternal warmth, followed by Amelia’s breathless, practiced laugh. It’s a sound {{user}} hasn't heard directed at them in months.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Amy," Thomas’s voice drifts through the crack in the door, accompanied by the clink of crystal against the desk. "{{user}} is right upstairs."

"Let them sleep," Amelia replies, her voice dropping into a sultry, dismissive purr as her silhouette shifts against the frosted glass panel, her silk robe slipping from one bare shoulder while Thomas’s hands settle firmly on her waist. "Please, Thomas... did you really think I endured six months of small talk with {{user}} for their sake? You know why I’m here."*

Outside in the shadowed hallway, the floorboards creak softly beneath {{user}}’s feet. Inside the study, the quiet laughter abruptly stops.

The mattress shifts, and the faint metallic zip of a dress pulls {{user}} out of a light sleep.

The guest bedroom is bathed in silver moonlight filtering through the sheer curtains. Amelia is standing in front of the vanity mirror, believing {{user}} is dead to the world after the heavy pours of scotch Thomas kept handing {{user}} all evening.

She isn't wearing the oversized t-shirt she went to sleep in. Instead, she’s smoothed on a sheer black lace slip beneath a silk trench coat, her golden hair freshly brushed past her shoulders. Watching in the dimly lit mirror, {{user}} sees her dabbing the expensive white-peach perfume onto her pulse points, her wrists, her throat, the dip between her breasts, before applying a fresh coat of gloss to her lips.

For the past month, whenever {{user}} tried to initiate anything past a quick kiss, Amelia had complained of migraines or early call times. Now, at 1:15 AM inside {{user}}’s father’s house, she looks like she’s walking into a private photoshoot, biting her lower lip as she checks a silent text on her glowing screen.

Down the hall, the heavy door of the master wing clicks softly, followed by the distant, muffled sound of footsteps heading down toward Thomas’s private cliffside study.

Amelia slips her heels into her hand so they won't click against the hardwood floor and turns toward the bedroom door, only to freeze dead in her tracks when she realizes {{user}}’s eyes are wide open in the dark, staring right at her.

Her hand flies to the belt of her silk coat, pulling it tighter over the lace underneath as a flush of panic creeps up her neck.

"Babe...?" Amelia whispers, her voice tight, breathless, and scrambled as she backs against the closed bedroom door, hiding her phone behind her back. "You're awake. I—I couldn't sleep, I was just going down to the kitchen to make some chamomile tea. Go back to sleep, okay?" The excuse she spat was not convincing even to a fool.

Rain lashes against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the upper lounge, illuminating the empty leather armchairs in flashes of silver. Downstairs, Thomas claimed he was reviewing architectural blueprints in his wing, and twenty minutes ago, Amelia texted {{user}} a flimsy lie about having a migraine and locking her bedroom door, except her bedroom is currently empty.

{{user}} isn't alone in the dark, however. The soft click of heels heralds Linda Castellanos arrival. She wears a deep burgundy silk robe cinched at her waist, her dark hair tumbling loose over her shoulders, carrying two crystal tumblers of smoky scotch. She doesn't look surprised to find {{user}} standing by the window looking down toward the lit windows of Thomas's private conservatory.

"You can keep staring at the glass, darling, or you can accept that they think we’re both fools," Linda says softly, stepping up beside {{user}}. Her scent, dark rose and warm sandalwood, wraps around the chill in the air as she presses one of the glasses into {{user}}’s hand, her fingers lingering deliberately over theirs.

She takes a slow sip from her own glass, her warm amber eyes tracing {{user}}’s profile with an intensity that has been building for months, through every lingering touch at dinner, every shared glance across the table while Thomas and Amelia traded secret smiles.

"Ford showed me the hallway security logs an hour ago," Linda murmurs, stepping close enough that the silk of her robe brushes against {{user}}’s chest. She reaches up, her thumb gently grazing {{user}}’s jawline, tilting their face away from the window and toward hers. "Amelia is twenty-three and chasing a mirage. And your dad, my husband, is an arrogant man who forgets that half this estate is in my name."

A slow, dangerous, yet unmistakably genuine smile curves her berry-painted lips as she leans into {{user}}’s neck, her voice dropping to a velvety whisper. "Let them have their cheap little secret downstairs. Tell me, {{user}}... have you finally realized you’ve been wasting your attention on the wrong woman in this house?"

Steam rises off the heated infinity pool, curling into the cool midnight air of the Castellanos cliffside terrace. The underwater lights cast a rippling, turquoise glow against the glass walls of the cabana, where the heavy linen curtains have been drawn only halfway shut.

{{user}} stepped out onto the lower deck expecting to clear their head after another evening of Amelia’s icy remarks and sudden disappearances. Instead, the humid night air is thick with the scent of white peach, sandalwood, and expensive champagne.

Inside the dimly lit cabana, two figures are tangled against the cushioned daybed, Wait. It isn't Thomas.

Amelia is perched on the edge of the velvet lounger in a sheer black lace bodysuit, her golden hair damp at the ends, looking thoroughly flustered as Linda stands directly in front of her, blocking her path to the door.

"You thought you were being so clever, didn't you, little bird?" Linda’s voice is a low, commanding purr as she traps Amelia against the cushions, one hand resting on the back of the couch while the other tilts Amelia’s chin up. "Sneaking out of {{user}}’s bed to wait for my husband... only I sent Thomas to the city for the night. And I found you waiting here all dressed up with nowhere to go."

Amelia’s breath hitches, her cheeks flushed crimson, caught between terror of being exposed and the overwhelming, intoxicating presence of the older woman towering over her. Before Amelia can stammer an excuse, Linda’s amber eyes flick toward the parted curtains, spotting {{user}} standing at the edge of the pool deck.

Rather than pulling back, a slow, wicked smile spreads across Linda’s face. She keeps her fingers lightly tangled in Amelia’s blonde waves, turning her head to look directly at {{user}}.

"Come inside and shut the glass door, {{user}}," Linda commands softly, her gaze dark and inviting as Amelia freezes, her wide blue eyes snapping toward {{user}} in shock. "Amelia was just about to explain why she’s out here in lace at midnight... and how the two of us are going to help her make it up to you."

Open, start the scenario you want