Forbidden Desire

They say the past never really stays buried. Sometimes it waits for the perfect moment to surface like a predator watching from the shadows, patient and quiet, until it’s ready to strike. For me, it began eight years ago. I was twenty-three when I started working at the Westwood Estate, a sprawling slice of paradise nestled just outside Napa Valley. The kind of place that looked like it belonged in a movie rolling vineyards, fountains that danced under moonlight, and a family so rich, even their silence echoed authority. I was hired as a live-in housekeeper. Not glamorous, but it paid well, and I needed the money. My mom had passed two years earlier, and my little sister was barely making it through college. I was alone in the world, surviving one paycheck at a time. The Westwoods were polite but distant. Mr. and Mrs. Westwood were always away business trips, charity galas, wine tastings in France. Their staff ran the house like clockwork, and I found my rhythm quickly. But then there was Logan. Fourteen years old. And trouble. He was tall for his age, with dark hair that curled just slightly at the ends and a mouth that always looked like it was hiding a secret. He had this unsettling way of watching me. Not in a boyish crush kind of way but in a way that made me feel like he was peeling back my layers, studying me, knowing things he shouldn’t. The first time I really noticed him was in the kitchen. I was scrubbing the marble counter when I looked up and saw him leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, smirking. “You always clean like that?” he asked. I blinked, caught off guard. “Like what?” He shrugged. “So focused. It’s kinda... intense.” It was a weird comment from a kid. But I just laughed it off and went back to scrubbing. From that day on, he made it a point to be wherever I was. Laundry room. Garden. Hallways. And always with that same half-smile. He’d say little things—sometimes harmless, sometimes bold enough to make my cheeks burn. One day, while I was folding linens in the guest wing, he walked in, sat on the bed, and just watched me. "You know you're pretty, right?" I froze, a sheet halfway folded in my hands. “Logan... you shouldn’t say things like that.” "Why? It’s true." I didn’t answer. Instead, I left the room, my pulse pounding. That night, I couldn’t sleep. Not because I felt threatened—but because something about the way he looked at me... scared me. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even lust. It was obsession, wrapped in teenage curiosity. So, I did the only thing I could. I left. I didn’t give notice. I didn’t say goodbye. I packed my things one Sunday evening and disappeared into the quiet hum of the city. Eight years later, I thought I’d left all of that behind. Logan Westwood had become a name I stored away in a distant, dusty corner of my memory. Now, I worked at La Lumière—a cozy upscale restaurant in downtown San Francisco. Soft lighting, string quartet on weekends, overpriced wine I couldn’t pronounce. I was the senior hostess, always with a polite smile and heels that pinched by the end of the night. And I was in love or so I thought. Daniel Carter. We’d been together five years. He was the kind of man who knew how to fold laundry and remembered your coffee order without asking. Safe. Steady. Dependable. But sometimes, safety feels like silence. And silence? It can get real loud. That night, the restaurant buzzed with the usual Thursday night crowd. I was fixing the seating chart when I heard the bell above the door chime. I didn’t look up until I felt it. That stare. That familiar, suffocating, all-consuming stare. He stood near the entrance, surrounded by a group of sharply dressed men, his black suit tailored to perfection, a glass of red wine already in his hand. His presence filled the room like thunder. Logan Westwood. My chest tightened. He was taller. Broader. His jaw was sharp, his eyes darker than I remembered. And they were locked on me. For a second, I didn’t move. I couldn’t. Then I smiled out of instinct, not emotion and walked toward him. "Welcome to La Lumière," I said, my voice calm even though my heart was sprinting. "Do you have a reservation?" He tilted his head, lips curving. "I didn’t need one. I just needed to see you." God help me. He remembered. "Logan," I breathed. He leaned in, his voice a low purr. "Still pretty." My face flushed. I seated him and his party at one of the VIP tables, pretending everything was normal. But the air around me shifted. He didn’t just walk in and bring memories he brought heat, tension, a kind of electricity I hadn’t felt in years. By the end of their dinner, he left a generous tip. Folded under the crisp bills was a small white card. Call me. -L. I stared at it for a long time after he left, heart pounding in my ears. Daniel was waiting for me at home. But Logan? Logan had waited eight years. And something told me he wasn’t leaving this time.