Luggage clicks behind her like punctuation each wheel a crisp sentence saying: I’m back, and you’ll never catch up.
She’s... pretty. Not in the fragile, youthful kind of way Vivian weaponizes, but the kind of beautiful that’s been earned. Mid-to-late forties, maybe, but polished, glowing, terrifying. All cheekbones and precision. The way she carries herself? Like the house already belongs to her. Like we do.
I stare at her, dumbly.
Is this Damian’s lover?
But I thought age-gap romances were supposed to go the other way you know, emotionally unavailable older man, wide-eyes, rich and either the boss or best friend’s dad. Was this some kind of twisted reverse trope?
“Hello,” I manage. “Who... may you be?”
Vivian gasps. Actually gasps.
“s**t. Was she someone I was supposed to know?”
“
