Gilded Obsession

UNBIDDEN

Albert’s two-bedroom apartment on Tunxis Road sat on the second floor of a well-kept colonial-style building, nestled in a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood in West Hartford, Connecticut. The apartment had an easy charm—spacious, yet modestly furnished, a reflection of a man who cared more for efficiency than extravagance. He lived in the kind of town that felt polished, a balance of affluence and charm, upscale boutiques, and coffee shops where baristas knew customers by name. It was the kind of place where young professionals and ambitious entrepreneurs were satiated with opportunities to collaborate and find their rhythm. The very air smelled of the kind of progress built on the influence of left-leaning ideals.

The open-plan living room stretched toward a pair of large floor-to-ceiling windows, framed by thick navy-blue curtains that were often left slightly open, allowing in the golden glow of the streetlamps at night. The walls were painted in a neutral taupe, giving the space a warm yet impersonal feel, as though it was still in the process of becoming a home. A dark gray sectional couch sat in the middle of the room, facing a sleek, sixty-five-inch wall-mounted TV. The coffee table in front of the couch was stacked with a mix of footwear prototypes, forex trading journals, and an empty glass tumbler.

Down the hallway, the second bedroom was sparsely furnished, its primary purpose unclear. Some days it functioned as an office, cluttered with shoe sketches, trading monitors, and a whiteboard filled with figures and market trends. Other times, it was nothing more than storage—a place for things he wasn’t ready to part with but had no immediate use for.

His bedroom, however, was the one space that felt somewhat personal. A king-sized bed with charcoal-gray sheets dominated the room, flanked by dark wooden nightstands. One held a minimalist lamp and an unfinished book, the other a wireless charging dock where his phone rested. A walk-in closet stood open, half-filled with neatly arranged designer sneakers, creations of his bespoke line and high-end casual wear, alongside a few more formal pieces that he hardly used. He absently folded a navy-blue hoodie, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles before placing it in the half-empty dresser.

Moving from Greenwich was a deliberate effort at escaping festering ennui, an opportunity to meet new people and perhaps pick up new habits. His online footwear business was gaining traction, his forex trading account was showing promising returns, and yet, familiar restlessness slowly crept in, the nagging sense that even this change would not be enough.

Then there was Marcia.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if to physically dispel the thought. All of a sudden, she was occupying so much space in his mind. Why the hell was that? But there she was—uninvited, persistent since his last visit to the family estate in Simsbury where she worked as his grandmother’s caregiver. It had started subtly, creeping in when he least expected it. A flicker of her voice, and the way that gown clung to her body and accentuated her curves. He barely knew her, not in any meaningful way. The exchanges were polite, her attitude always respectful, but there was something about her that lingered. And that was the problem. Maybe he’d been caught off guard by the way she had looked at him that one time—just a little too long, the merest hint of lustful desire in her eyes. Maybe he was imagining it. Maybe it was nothing more than resurfacing ennui, his mind latching onto something-someone- in the quiet of his new, empty apartment. He welcomed the thought, but he couldn’t ignore the excitement.

He stepped into the kitchen; it was clean but not meticulously kept. Stainless-steel appliances gleamed under the soft overhead lighting, but a few dishes sat in the sink—remnants of a meal hastily prepared and abandoned in favor of something else. A black marble island divided the kitchen from the living space, cluttered with a laptop and stacks of paperwork related to his online footwear business. He reached into an overhead cabinet, retrieving what he needed to make himself a grilled cheese sandwich.

As he ate, the scent of fresh cotton and packing paper filled the air, but his thoughts were on Marcia's perfectly round buttocks. He tried to focus on the markets instead—GBP/USD had been in consolidation all day, and he was anticipating a breakout. Maybe he should set an alert and check the charts again. But even as he reached for his phone, Marcia’s image invaded his mind again, that lingering stare, her red hair and green eyes, a twinge of something unsettling coiled in his chest, followed by a sultry hardening of his d**k.

He couldn’t deny it any longer. This was desire, raw and unbidden, a deep longing, perhaps even full-blown lust. And what unsettled him most was that he liked it.

His laptop chimed, the GBP/USD trade had just hit his profit target. Bless the green revolution, he thought, settling into the closest chair to set up a short position.

Stretching, Albert took a slow sip of water, staring at the city lights beyond his window. It had been a long day, but restlessness gnawed at him. He paced back to the living room, idly adjusting a framed photo on the bookshelf. It was a picture from years ago, taken at a family event. He barely recognized himself in it.

He ran a finger through the trackpad of his laptop, price had moved about 80 pips in his direction. That was fast. He adjusted the stop-loss to lock in 40 pips of profit. Not a bad day.

The thought of Marcia lingered, slipping between his attempts to distract himself. He found himself wondering when he would see her again, looking forward to his next visit to Simsbury.

The sound of keys turning in the front door snapped him out of his thoughts.

The door swung open effortlessly, and a familiar voice called out, light and affectionate, yet laced with ownership.

“Babe, I’m back early, boy, have I got a day to tell you all about.”