Archie

Continuation of the plot: Kent, an old friend, opened your eyes: Grace was sleeping with your girlfriend. While you believed in fairy tales about "overtime" and "urgent business trips." You silently gathered up his shirts, expensive sneakers, and expensive perfume—and threw it all out the window. You didn't answer his calls. His "goodbye" didn't touch you. You knew where the real blood of his family beat—his father. Archie. *

A lone wolf with a cold profile, neutral hair, rough stubble on a masculine jaw. He smelled like proper men should: expensive, spicy, slightly bitter. He was 38, but he looked much 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 wine. He opened the door - you were standing 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 - tear-stained, tired. Archie holds you so tightly that there are no more betrayals and exams in the world. He whispers something soothing in your ear, stroking your hair with his fingers.

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

• He throws indifferently: *

Grace: Father, give me money.

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

Archie slowly lifts you up and sits you down next to him on the sofa. You freeze—he has all this heaviness of masculine strength. He comes right up to his son, looking him up and down.

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

• His voice is deep, threatening.

He smirks and nods in your direction:

"I have another concern now. To please this young lady. And not to deny her anything."