Seduction of the Mind

The Wrong Kind of Message

The last bite of steak was gone before Ethan realized he’d been eating on autopilot, his thoughts nowhere near the plate. He set down his fork, exhaling into the stillness of the kitchen. Upstairs, the laughter had faded; the boys had left when they said they would, the door closing behind them with quiet politeness. Everything about the evening had been… civilized. Almost strange, considering the way his life had spiraled lately.

Now the house was hushed except for the faint hum of the heating system. Ethan carried his glass to his office, settled into the chair that had molded to the shape of too many late nights. Files waited like silent judges across the desk—patients, progress notes, insurance forms—but the screen in front of him blinked with something far less clinical.

Julia: Only don’t you dare show up to dinner in a tux.

Ethan stared for a beat before a smile tugged at his mouth—unforced, startling in its ease. His fingers moved over the keyboard.

Last tux went out with the trash ten years ago.

The reply came almost instantly: a photo. Julia in a deep wine-colored dress, the neckline elegant without apology, her hair swept back like a dark wave. She wasn’t twenty anymore—but God, she was luminous.

Something like this deserves an effort, her message read. Try to match the vibe, Hale.

Ethan’s smile deepened, softer this time. For the first time in weeks, anticipation curled warm in his gut.

A knock tapped against the open doorframe. Claire leaned in, one shoulder resting against the wood, her face calm but curious.

“You’ve been smiling,” she said. “That’s new.”

Ethan closed the laptop halfway, meeting her gaze. “Maybe it is.” He hesitated, then added quietly, “I’m sorry, Claire. For… all of it. For how things ended with your mom.”

Claire shrugged, her expression unreadable at first. “We’re okay, Dad.”

He studied her, wondering if the words were a kindness or the truth. The question burned through him like a splinter: Did they stay because of him—or because it was the easier financial choice?

Before he could ask, Claire stepped forward and placed a folded sheet of paper on the desk.

“What’s this?”

“Permission form,” she said simply. “For work. I need your signature.”

Ethan opened it. A job application waiver—kitchen assistant at a local restaurant. His brows rose. “You want to work?”

Claire’s jaw set in quiet determination. “After Mom left, Olivia and I heard her on the phone… yelling at her friend. She said if she walks, she’s taking enough money so she never has to worry about us. Us, Dad—like we weren’t even real in the conversation. It was about status. Cars. Lunches with people who only cared about handbags.”

Ethan’s stomach knotted. “That’s why you barely said goodbye?”

“Part of it.” Claire’s voice sharpened just enough to cut. “It made me sick. Made us sick. Olivia already started babysitting. I like kitchens. I like creating something that doesn’t feel fake.”

Ethan swallowed hard against the bitterness clawing at his throat. He signed the form slowly, his hand steady even as disappointment in himself throbbed underneath—because he hadn’t seen any of this. Not their anger. Not their need to pull away from a mother they no longer recognized.

Claire smiled faintly, folding the paper back into her bag. “Thanks, Dad. Oh—and your phone’s buzzing.”

She slipped out with the ease of someone who had said everything that mattered, leaving Ethan in a silence that felt heavier than before.

The phone lay face down on the desk, pulsing with a soft glow. He didn’t check the sender. Just swiped, thumb pressing play.

The first sound froze him: a sharp gasp, low and throaty, followed by a man’s voice—rough, wordless, swallowed by rhythm. Then Vivienne’s voice, unmistakable in its velvet edges and dangerous ease.

“Harder,” she moaned, a note of laughter threading through the plea. Another broken sound. “Don’t stop—God, don’t you dare stop.”

Ethan’s breath strangled in his chest. The room blurred at the edges, heat striking through him like a live wire. He knew he should end it, drop the phone, erase the file—but his thumb didn’t move. Couldn’t. The sounds rolled on, wet and urgent, until they hit a crescendo that hollowed out the quiet around him.

When it ended, the screen blinked once before flashing a new message: Oops. Wrong person. Followed by a winking emoji. Then the audio vanished, replaced by a gray line: This message has been deleted.

But deletion couldn’t bleach the memory. Her voice clung to his nerves, silk barbed with teeth. Ethan pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, breath sawing through clenched teeth. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even disgusted.

He was… wrecked. Want curling like smoke in his gut, vicious and undeniable. All he could think—through the roar of his pulse, through the weight of shame—was that he would have traded everything, everything, to be the man in that recording.