His Older Obsession

"…Ouuuu, I’m blinded by the lights…Oh, I can’t sleep until I feel your touch." Isla's eyes flew open from the usual terrible singing from her niece that woke her up. She realized that she was not surrounded by flowers in a park, and she didn’t have little children playing around like the sweet dream she was having; instead, she had her croaky-voiced niece giving her an early morning headache. She’s back to reality, waking up by seven every morning, doing her morning routine and moving her ass to work. She dragged herself down her bed after muttering a few words about her niece’s terrible singing and deciding to go down to seize the headset and phone from her so she and Ehan would be able to sleep in peace for at least a week. She was glad Ethan beat her to it, as he was the first to holler at her "Keep it down there, Fiona Thee Stallion," he screamed from his room, "Some of us are trying to get ready for school." "Shut up, Ethan," Fiona yelled back. "And it's The Weekend who sang the song, not Megan thee Stallion." Ethan screamed back, "Who cares?" Isla decided to speak up, "Thank you, Ethan." Isla came out of her room and met Fiona, doing her usual morning routine, exercising and singing horribly. This has been happening ever since she used her three-year savings to buy a treadmill so she can stop doing morning runs with Isla, saying that she gets too tired and sweaty, and no one likes sweaty girls. Weird how she thinks, right? She walked down the staircase of her mini apartment and caught sight of herself in the mirror, messy ponytail, faint shadows under her eyes, still beautiful, but the kind of beauty dulled by too much responsibility. Thirty-six and running on caffeine, bills, and willpower. She pulled her hair back tighter and whispered under her breath, “You’ve got this, Isla.” First stop, Fiona’s room. Who has stopped singing, by the way? The seventeen-year-old was already dressed, one leg dangling off the bed, music still playing from her phone. Isla yanked open the curtains, sunlight flooding the room. “Time for school.” “Ugh, do I have to go to school?” Fiona groaned, rolling over dramatically. “Yes, darling, Glad you’re dressed already,” Isla replied, heading for the wardrobe. “And that skirt?” She pointed. “Change it. You’re not auditioning for a music video.” “It’s not that short!” “It’s high school, Fiona. Not a catwalk. Change.” The glare Fiona shot her could’ve melted steel, but she grumbled her way toward the closet anyway. Isla didn’t wait around for another argument; she’d had enough for a lifetime. Ethan’s room was next. The nine-year-old was already up, shoes tied, hair combed, and backpack neatly packed. “Good morning, Aunt Isla!” he said brightly, that gap-toothed smile enough to melt her stress for a second. “You’re an angel,” she said, kissing his head. “Don’t ever grow up.” “I have to,” he giggled. “Otherwise, who’s gonna drive you when you’re old?” She laughed softly. “Point taken. Let’s go, champ.” Half an hour later, all three were crammed into her aging car. Fiona had her earbuds in; Ethan was humming to himself. Isla sipped from her travel mug, mentally organizing her to-do list: a client meeting at ten, case notes to finish, groceries to buy. Just another day surviving. When they reached Fiona’s school, the principal was waiting by the front gate. “Mrs. Simmons,” she greeted. “Could I speak with you for a moment?” Isla frowned. “Of course.” The woman smiled politely, too politely. “I’ve been sending letters home through Fiona these past few weeks. I wanted to confirm if you’ve received any?” Isla’s stomach tightened. “Letters?” She looked at her niece. “Fiona?” Fiona’s eyes flicked to the ground. “I… must’ve forgotten.” Mrs. Hanley’s expression said everything. “Perhaps you could stop by later today? It’s about her attendance, and some… concerns.” “Absolutely,” Isla replied, her tone clipped. “I’ll come by after work.” Back in the car, Isla sighed in exasperation. Ethan quickly understood that she was stressed out already. She drove to Ethan’s school next, forcing a smile when she parked. Ethan leaned forward, squeezing her arm. “Don’t be mad, Aunt Isla. Fiona’s just… Fiona.” “I know, baby,” she said softly. “Have a good day, okay?” He nodded and ran off, backpack bouncing behind him. Watching him disappear into the schoolyard, she felt something ache in her chest, a mix of pride and exhaustion. By the time she got back into the car, traffic was already building. She turned the radio down and took a deep breath. Another long day. Another endless list of things to fix. Her mind wandered, about bills, Fiona’s attitude, Ethan’s future, when a blur of red caught her eye. Then came the sound. CRASH. The jolt slammed her forward. Her coffee spilled, her purse hit the floor, and her heart stopped for a full second. “Are you kidding me?” she hissed, slamming the gear into park. She jumped out of the car. Her front bumper was crumpled, and a sleek red Lamborghini idled crookedly across the lane. A car that probably cost more than her house. Her pulse raced with anger. She took a step forward, then froze. The driver’s door opened. And out stumbled a man. Tall. Young. Broad-shouldered. Messy blond-brown hair. A half-buttoned shirt, dark jeans, and an expression that belonged to someone who didn’t care much about rules, or mornings. He steadied himself on the doorframe, blinking against the light. His movements were slightly uncoordinated, slow, almost lazy… or maybe just drunk. Even from a few feet away, she could smell the faint trace of expensive cologne tangled with whiskey. Who drinks early in the morning? He ran a hand through his hair, eyes unfocused, and when they finally landed on her… Something in the air shifted. For one fleeting, electric second, the city noise fell away. His gaze swept over her, from her fitted blazer to the faint smear of coffee on her sleeve, and he smirked, just slightly. And though Isla would never admit it, something inside her chest fluttered. He looked like trouble. The kind of trouble that smiled while it ruined you. And right then, Isla Simmons had no idea that this stranger, this reckless, drunk, beautifully dangerous man…was about to change her perfectly controlled life forever. — Isla’s pulse was still hammering when she stormed out of her car. Her entire morning—her sanity—had already been hanging by a thread, and now this. A bashed bumper. Coffee all over her skirt. And an i***t who clearly thought traffic laws were optional. “Are you out of your…” She stopped mid-sentence, eyes narrowing as she got a better look at him. Of course. He was gorgeous. The unfair kind of gorgeous, tall, chiseled jawline, a crooked smirk that screamed privilege. The kind of man who’d never faced a real consequence in his life. He leaned against his car, looking her over like she was part of the scenery. “You alright, sweetheart?” His voice was low, smooth…too smooth. She blinked. “Sweetheart?” “Yeah,” he said lazily, still holding that cocky smirk. “You look a little rattled. Should I…” “Don’t,” she snapped, holding up a finger. “Don’t even finish that sentence.” He chuckled, slow and warm. “Feisty. I like it.” Her jaw tightened. “You hit my car. You’re lucky I’m not calling the police right now.” He lifted both hands in mock surrender. “Hey, accidents happen. I’ll take care of it. Promise.” “Take care of it?” she echoed. “You can barely stand straight!” Before he could respond, the passenger door of his Lamborghini swung open, and out stumbled a tall, half-dressed woman with a face Isla recognized from a few perfume ads. Long legs, glazed eyes, and an attitude to match. “Oh, for God’s sake,” Isla muttered. The model looked at her, squinting under the morning sun. “What’s your problem, lady? It’s just a car.” “Just a car?” Isla repeated, disbelief dripping from every syllable. “Here,” the woman slurred, reaching into her glittery purse and pulling out a wad of cash. “Buy yourself another one.” She tossed it at Isla like she was feeding a stray. Something in Isla snapped. She stepped forward, slapped the money out of the woman’s hand, then slapped her across the face. A clean, sharp sound cut through the air. The model stumbled back, gasping. Travis blinked, stunned for a second before that damn smirk returned, slower this time, more interested. “Well,” he said, voice husky with amusement, “that was… something.” Isla ignored him, grabbed her bag from her dented car, and strode right up to his door. “Hey…hey, where do you think you’re going?” “Somewhere your brain might sober up,” she fired back. And before he could react, she slid into the driver’s seat of his Lamborghini, slammed the door, and hit the ignition. The engine roared like a beast under her hands, smooth, powerful, utterly intoxicating. Travis stood there, jaw slack, watching her grip the wheel. Their eyes met through the windshield. For a moment, neither of them moved. Something flickered between them, heat, challenge, curiosity. It was ridiculous. Irrational. But it was there. She lifted her chin. “Next time, maybe don’t drive drunk,” she said through the half-open window. And then she was gone. The Lamborghini tore down the street, sleek and furious, leaving Travis and his dazed model standing in a cloud of disbelief and smoke. Travis exhaled, a slow grin curving his lips. “Well, damn,” he murmured. “Who the hell was that woman?” The model groaned beside him. “She stole your car!” He chuckled softly, eyes still on the disappearing taillights. “Yeah,” he said. “And she looked hot doing it.”