Why are you like this

I arrived at my mom’s and her new husband Phil’s place for the first time after summer vacation. I’m eighteen, my name is Stephanie, and this was my first visit to their enormous, almost fairytale-like house. Everything here radiated luxury: marble floors reflected the light of huge chandeliers, and the walls were decorated with paintings, each of which seemed to be worth a fortune. Mom greeted me at the doorstep with her usual warm smile, but I sensed a slight tension in her eyes. — Stephanie, dear, I missed you so much over the summer, — she said, hugging me. I nodded, still overwhelmed by the grandeur of the house, when he appeared—Phil, her husband. His confident, calm manner, expensive suit, and faint smile immediately made it clear: this was a man accustomed to power and comfort. — Good to see you, Stephanie, — he said, extending his hand. — I hope you’ll enjoy it here. I took his hand, slightly embarrassed, and felt curiosity growing inside me. Something told me that this house held much more than it appeared at first glance. I stood in the spacious living room, still taking in the majestic house, when Mom gently took my hand: — Let me introduce you to Phil properly. Phil approached with a slight smile, and I felt a strange mix of respect and mild nervousness. He was tall, with neatly styled hair and a focused gaze that seemed almost piercing. — Stephanie, — he said in a steady, confident voice. — I’ve heard a lot of good things about you. Mom has been looking forward to this day. I blushed a little and smiled in response: — Nice to meet you. He nodded, as if confirming that now everything would follow certain rules, and Mom, noticing our awkwardness, quickly redirected our attention to a tour of the house: — Come on, I’ll show you around our home. Phil followed us, occasionally stopping to add a comment or make a joke, and I felt the tension gradually easing. But deep down, I knew this visit was going to be the beginning of something unusual… — Patrick will be here soon, — said Phil, and I felt a slight tension in my chest. I remembered Mom once mentioning that Phil had a son, a little older than me. At the time, it seemed like a distant detail of his life, but now, standing in his house, it felt much closer and more real. I began imagining what this guy might be like: confident, perhaps, maybe with the same strict gaze as his father. Phil noticed my unspoken curiosity and smiled slightly: — Patrick lives in another wing of the house, he was in Rio, but he’ll be here soon. I’m sure you’ll get along. I nodded, though a mix of excitement and mild apprehension was growing inside me. What if he turned out to be nothing like I imagined? What if we didn’t get along? Mom, sensing my tension, tried to ease the atmosphere: — He’s very friendly, Stephanie. I’m sure you’ll become friends quickly. We continued the tour, but now my eyes unconsciously searched for signs of Patrick’s presence: photographs on the walls, sports equipment, books on the shelves. The house felt alive, full of stories and secrets, and I sensed that meeting Patrick could be the start of something important—or perhaps a challenge for me in this new world. — I’ll show you your room, — Mom said softly when we were alone. The room was spacious, with large windows through which bright sunlight poured in. White walls, neatly arranged furniture, and a luxurious view of the garden outside—it all seemed beautiful yet slightly foreign. I placed my bag on the bed and looked around, trying to make myself feel at home. Mom sat on the edge of a chair across from me and spoke seriously: — Stephanie, — she began, lowering her voice slightly, — Patrick will be here soon. He’s a very serious guy… and rich. Not like what we’re used to. I nodded, trying to remember her words. She continued: — You need to be polite and friendly with him, but careful. Understand? He’s used to a different level of life, and first impressions matter. A slight anxiety crept over me. Not long ago, Patrick was just my mom’s husband’s son to me, but now he seemed almost like a mystery: a person I would have to build a relationship with in this new world of luxury and rules. Mom smiled, as if trying to soften the seriousness of her words: — I’m sure it will go well. Just be yourself, but remember your manners. I took a deep breath and nodded, sensing that the day ahead would be full of unexpected meetings and challenges that would define my place in this new home. I felt out of place. This huge house, the expensive things, the perfectly tidy rooms—it all felt foreign and a little intimidating. I wanted to turn to Mom and ask her to rent me a small apartment somewhere on the outskirts of the city, so I could commute to university comfortably and live my own life. All this wealth, sparkle, and ostentatious luxury weren’t for me. It was important to me not to impress anyone with expensive things, but simply to be myself. I thought of my friends, of small habits and freedoms that here seemed unattainable. — Mom… — I began quietly, but she hadn’t yet entered the room, and I realized it wouldn’t be easy for her. Inside me, a feeling of anxiety was growing: how could I fit in this house, where everything breathed someone else’s life, someone else’s order, and someone else’s rules? I sat on the bed and closed my eyes, trying to imagine what I could say: that I needed my freedom, my simple life. We sat down for dinner around eight o’clock. Soft light fell from the chandeliers onto the long table, set with silver and crystal dishes, while the aromas of dishes prepared by top chefs filled the air. It was all meant to impress me, but my attention was completely focused on one person—Patrick. He entered the house with a confident, easy stride, and at that moment I realized I had never seen anyone like him before. I thought I knew what a handsome guy looked like, who drew attention, but Patrick… He was more attractive and more sensual than anyone I had ever seen. Tall, muscular, with broad shoulders and effortless grace, he was dressed simply, but expensive things didn’t need to be shown—they spoke for themselves. His T-shirt didn’t hide his tattoos, which seemed to tell stories about him. His blue eyes locked onto mine instantly, making my heart race, and the black eyebrow raised upon our introduction gave his gaze a daring, playful edge. — Stephanie, — Phil introduced us, — this is my son, Patrick. — Nice to meet you, — I managed to say, my voice trembling slightly, though I tried to keep my back straight. He nodded slightly in response, smiling faintly, and I felt it impossible to look away from his gaze. Everything around—the luxurious house, the set table—suddenly faded into the background.