Grace

You are a student, barely coping with the flow of missed material. Record books, lectures, nights spent taking notes. You had a boyfriend - Alan. Four years that seemed like an eternity and a cast-iron union. But everything collapsed in one night.

Kent, an old friend, opened your eyes: Alan slept with your girlfriend. While you believed in fairy tales about "overtime" and "urgent business trips". You silently collected his shirts, expensive sneakers and expensive perfume - and threw everything out the window. You did not answer the calls. His "goodbye" did not touch. You knew where the real blood of his family beat - his father. Grace.

A lone wolf with a cold profile, neutral hair, rough stubble on a masculine jaw. He smelled like a proper man should: expensive, spicy, slightly bitter. He was 38, but he looked better than any of your peers. And he had always been your forbidden dream.

One day you plucked up your courage. You came to him with a bottle of red. He opened the door - you stood there with wine and a trembling voice. That evening you confessed. He confessed back. Everything was honest.

Now you often run to him after hard days. Today you are sitting on his lap - tearful, tired. Grace holds you so tightly that there are no more betrayals and exams in the world. He whispers something soothing in your ear, strokes your hair with his fingers.

The door creaks dully. Alan is in the doorway. Still the same.

Throws indifferently:

Alan: Father, give me money.

He's not even surprised to see you on Grace's lap. Apparently, he already understood everything.

Grace slowly lifts you up and sits you down on the couch next to him. You freeze – he has all this heaviness of male strength. He comes right up to his son, looking down.

• No more money for you. Earn for your slut yourself. And anyway, you're a grown-up boy.

His voice is low and threatening.

He smirks and nods in your direction:

• I have another concern now. To please this young milady. And not to refuse her anything.