Chapter Two—Night Secrets
1058 Words
Layla met her soon-to-be stepfather that evening during dinner.
Unlike other rich people, Mr. Salvador was kind. He was also confident and composed—his presence calm but commanding. He spoke easily, asked thoughtful questions, and made her feel welcomed without trying too hard.
She was convinced her mom picked well. She turned to look at her, Miriam looked happier. She hasn't been this happy since Layla’s dad died.
What unsettled Layla most, however, was the resemblance between the father and son at the table.
Same posture.
Same quiet authority.
Same restrained intensity.
Same mannerisms.
The couple spoke politely, exchanging small talk over dinner, but Layla struggled to focus. Her attention kept drifting—unwillingly—toward the other man seated across the table.
Henry.
She avoided him deliberately. If she caught him looking at her, she glared until he looked away. Distance became her shield. She kept her responses clipped, her body angled away, her presence guarded.
Dinner ended quickly for her.
Layla stood and began clearing plates, eager for an excuse to leave. When Henry offered to help, she wordlessly handed him the dishes and walked away without looking back.
In her room, she locked the door behind her and exhaled sharply, leaning against it.
This was a mistake, she told herself. Being here. Being under the same roof. She tried to convince herself the house was big enough, she wouldn't have to fear bumping into him.
Miriam and Salvador however, seemed to have noticed the tension between them, and it got them worried.
So Mariam came to Layla’s room later that night and spoke gently, concern, softening her voice.
“If we’re going to be a family,” Miriam said, “...you and Henry need to try. I know you might hate him now, but I promise he's a nice kid. Get to know him, okay?”
Layla listened. She nodded. But inwardly, she refused. The problem was, she did not hate him, she was attracted to him.
She didn’t want to ruin the joy her mom had found by acting on her desires either. So it was best she kept her distance.
That night, Ceaser called.
The sound of his voice eased something tight in her chest. She hadn’t realized how much she missed him until she saw his face on the screen. He was warm, attentive, familiar—the kind of presence that felt safe.
They talked about exams, about his trip home to visit his parents, about everything and nothing. When he asked about her mother’s fiancé and his family, Layla simply said they were nice.
She didn’t mention Henry.
As the conversation deepened, the distance between them blurred. Words softened. Laughter faded. Desire slipped quietly into the space between them and the conversation took a flirtier turn.
She pulled her clothes off for him to see. He stripped his own as well. And they watched each other touch themselves. She moaned in pleasure, touching herself until she finally came. She heard him grunt with pleasure as well when he came, spilling his seed on the floor. She was satiated. They said their “I love yous, and I miss yous.”
The call ended, but she thought she heard sounds in the hallway. She dismissed the thoughts—it was probably the housekeeper—and slept off.
Henry had noticed her avoidance all day.
Every attempt to speak to her—to apologize, to even acknowledge her—was met with silence or sharp looks. He couldn’t tell whether he had embarrassed her earlier or if she simply didn’t want him around.
Either way, he deserved it.
He shouldn’t have commented on her state of undress. It had come out wrong. He had crossed a line without meaning to.
He decided to fix it.
That night, he walked toward her room, intending to apologize. To start over. To do this right.
He planned to knock.
He never did.
Sounds drifted through the door—soft, breathless. At first, he thought she was crying.
Then he heard a man’s voice.
Her boyfriend.
The realization stopped him cold.
Henry shouldn’t have stayed. He knew that. But his body refused to move away. He pressed his forehead briefly against the door, heart racing, shame twisting in his gut.
Her voice didn’t sound like it had earlier that evening.
It was warmer. Unrestrained. Laced with pleasure.
And it undid him.
When the sounds finally stopped, reality hit hard.
What he was doing was wrong.
She was off-limits.
She wasn’t his.
He forced himself to step away from the door and return to his room, anger and desire warring violently in his chest.
******
Morning came too soon.
Layla woke with sunlight on her skin and the lingering comfort of the night before. Ceaser called briefly again before her mother knocked, asking her to come down for breakfast.
At the dining table, it was just the three of them.
Miriam.
Layla.
Henry.
Henry sat across from her, freshly showered, dressed simply in a black T-shirt that fit him far too well. His hair was damp, his expression controlled.
He didn’t look at her at first.
He focused on his food, movements slow and deliberate. Calm. Restrained.
Miriam talked happily about wedding plans, flowers, and catering. Layla nodded along, barely listening. The air felt heavy—charged with something she didn’t want to acknowledge.
Then her mother smiled.
“Henry, you should show Layla around the house later. She’ll need to know where everything is.”
Layla looked up instantly.
Henry met her gaze.
Just for a second.
Something sharp flickered in his eyes before he looked away.
Layla didn’t know why disappointment stirred in her chest—but it did.
“There’s no need,” she said quickly. “I can manage.”
“Nonsense,” Miriam replied.
Henry’s voice was calm when he spoke. “I’ll show her.”
Layla’s heart skipped despite herself.
“Good,” her mother said. “After breakfast. I’ll be going grocery shopping.”
“Mom, I'll love to go with you.” Layla said, trying to feign enthusiasm.
“I'll be fine on my own,” Miriam said, winking at her—obviously trying to remind her of their conversation last night.
Layla forced a smile.
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect. She hoped she doesn’t make a fool of herself again.
- Writer
