Page 7 of Depraved Temptation

I jolt up, the weight of the day's reality sinking in. I push the sheets away and swing my legs over the side of the bed. Glancing around my apartment, I see it through her eyes—the scattered magazines, the empty coffee cups, the trail of clothes leading to my bedroom from the night before. Not exactly what I’d call “presentable.”

I start tidying up, picking up each item methodically. The rhythmic motions serve as a welcome distraction from the emotional whirlwind inside. Each fold, each swipe, each adjustment feels like an attempt to put order to the mess that's not just in my living room but also in my heart.

When I gather the stray clothes, my fingers brush against the crimson dress from last night. For a second, I’m lost in it again—the glint in Alexander's eyes, the touch of his hand, the sound of his voice. But, I shake the memory away, balling the dress up and setting it aside for laundry.

Focus, Lila.

Yet, no matter how hard I try, the intoxicating blend of Alexander's cologne and the remnants of last night cling to me, a bittersweet reminder, a question of when I’ll see him again.

The doorbell interrupts my musings, snapping me back to the present. I move to answer it, and my mother, Isabelle, stands there with a smile, her simple attire a reminder of the world we left behind. Her intuitive hazel eyes, so much like my own, scan me immediately. We've always had this silent communication, born from years of facing hardship together. She steps inside, and I catch her glancing around the apartment—a space I've managed to make comfortable with my earnings from Risqué.

"Morning, Mom," I greet, pulling her into a brief hug.

"Good morning, sweetheart," she replies.

"Tea?" I offer, hoping to shift her focus.

"Always," she says with a smile.

While I busy myself with the kettle, we talk about the weather, my job, and her new boyfriend. But the weight of my recent revelations presses down on me. This is Mom. She's been my rock, my anchor. And right now, I feel the need to confide in her, even if I’m not sure how she’ll take the news.

"Mom," I begin, placing our tea cups on the table and sitting across from her, "there's something I need to tell you."

She looks up from her tea, her gaze sharp with concern. "What's going on, Lila?"

I take a deep breath. "I've met someone... someone who’s made me feel things I haven’t in a long time. Maybe ever.”

Her eyes soften slightly but remain guarded. "Who is he?"

"It's... it's Alexander Harrington," I confess.

Recognition flickers across her face. "Harrington? As in..."

I nod. "Yes, Cameron's father."

Her expression is a mix of shock and worry. "Lila,” she admonishes, disappointment in her tone. “How could you be so careless?”

The words sting. “Careless?” I ask. “What do you mean? Everything I do is careful, calculated.”

“Exactly,” she points out. “After everything you’ve worked for, after all we’ve been through, you want to throw it away on an affair with your ex-boyfriend’s father?”

I rush to explain, my words tumbling out. "It's different with Alexander. He respects me. He's not Cameron."

My mother’s face contorts with a deep frown, her fingers wrapping tightly around the porcelain handle of her teacup. "Lila," she begins, her voice heavy with concern, "it's not just about who he is or isn't. This is about more than respect."

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, gripping the edge of the table. "Mom, you're blowing this out of proportion."

She takes a moment, sipping her tea, the silence between us stretching. Finally, she says, "Do you remember when you were fifteen, and we had that neighbor, Mr. Thompson?"

I nod slowly, recalling the older man who always looked at me a little too intently, his attention making my skin crawl.

"Remember how he tried to help us out? Offering money, gifts, favors? All because he felt he had a certain power over us?" Mom’s eyes are hard now, her voice firm.

"That was different. That was... predatory." I argue, the old memories making me shudder.

"Yes, it was. But Lila, relationships built on uneven footing always have an element of power play. And more often than not, it's the younger, less experienced person who gets hurt." She meets my gaze, trying to convey the depth of her concern. "With Alexander, there's his family, his status, his connection to Cameron. All of that could be used against you."

I open my mouth to object, but she holds up a hand to stop me.

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