7. Marcus
MARCUS
I close my laptop with a sense of satisfaction. The last contract review is done, sent off to my attorney. Work can wait until Monday.
The villa is quiet around me, just the faint sounds of movement from somewhere deeper inside. Maisie got home from Westbridge about an hour ago. I've been tracking her movements through the app on my phone all day—a habit I can't break and she doesn't want me to.
The past two weeks have settled into a rhythm that feels remarkably natural. She attends her classes, works on assignments in the library or at the villa. I handle my business dealings from the home office. We exist in each other's orbit, always aware of where the other is.
I push back from my desk and head toward the sounds coming from the kitchen.
The sight that greets me sends possessive satisfaction straight through my chest. Maisie stands at the stove, her back to me, wearing black leggings and one of my button-down shirts.
The fabric hangs loose on her smaller frame, sleeves rolled up to her elbows.
Her brunette hair is pulled into a messy knot at the base of her neck, a few strands escaping to frame her face.
She's comfortable here. In my space, wearing my clothes, making herself at home.
Mine.
I approach quietly, wrapping my arms around her waist from behind.
She startles slightly, then relaxes back against my chest. "Sneaking up on me."
"What are you making?" I look over her shoulder at the stove where pasta boils in one pot and bacon sizzles in a pan.
"Attempting pasta carbonara. Emphasis on attempting."
I scan the ingredients laid out on the counter—eggs, parmesan cheese, black pepper. "You're doing fine."
"Says the man who probably has a private chef on speed dial."
"I know how to cook." I press a kiss to the side of her neck. "Let me help."
We work together, my hands guiding hers through the trickier steps. Combining the hot pasta with the egg mixture without scrambling it requires timing. I take over that part while she handles the bacon and cheese.
The domestic intimacy of it settles something in my chest. This is what I want—not just the intense physical connection, but these quiet moments of partnership.
"How were classes?" I ask as we work.
"Long. Professor Johnson assigned a fifteen-page paper due next week." She makes a face. "I'm dreading it."
"What's the topic?"
"Victorian literature and gender roles. I'm thinking of focusing on Jane Eyre."
I file that information away. If she needs books or resources, I'll make sure she has them.
"How was work?" She glances up at me.
"Productive. Finished the contract negotiations I've been working on all week."
She knows better than to ask for details about my business dealings. I keep that part of my life deliberately vague—not because I don't trust her, but because the less she knows about certain transactions, the better.
We finish cooking and plate the food. The carbonara looks restaurant-quality, creamy and perfectly seasoned. I pour wine for both of us and we settle at the dining table.
The windows show the darkening evening sky, the villa's outdoor lights beginning to glow. Friday night stretches ahead of us with no obligations.
Maisie's phone buzzes on the kitchen counter where she left it. Once, twice, three times in quick succession.
I notice her shoulders tense slightly. "Your mother again?"
She nods without looking toward the phone. "She calls at least five times a day. I've stopped even checking."
I've seen the call logs on the tracking app. Dorothy is relentless.
"She's not going to give up easily."
Maisie's expression hardens in a way that shows how much she's changed in just two weeks. More certain, more confident. "I don't care. She doesn't get to control me anymore."
The conviction in her voice is absolute.
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. The carbonara is excellent, rich and satisfying. Maisie takes small bites, savoring each one.
"This turned out really good," she says.
"You're a natural."
She smiles, pleased by the compliment. "I never cooked much before. Dorothy always... she controlled the kitchen. Criticized everything I tried to make."
Another small revelation about her mother's controlling nature. They come in pieces, scattered throughout our conversations.
After dinner, we settle on the couch in the living room. Maisie curls against my side, fitting perfectly under my arm. I hand her a glass of wine and keep one for myself.
The atmosphere feels intimate and safe. Private in a way that encourages confidences.
Maisie takes a sip of wine, then speaks quietly. "I never told you the extent of how bad it was with her."
I stay silent, letting her find the words.
"The control and monitoring was just... surface level." Her fingers trace patterns on my thigh absently. "Dorothy's emotional abuse went beyond that. It was manipulation, gaslighting, conditional love."
My jaw tightens but I keep my expression neutral, not wanting to interrupt.
"As a child, I learned early that affection came with strings attached. Nothing I did was ever good enough. She'd go days without speaking to me as punishment for minor infractions. Used guilt as a weapon constantly. Made me feel responsible for her happiness."
Rage builds in my chest, cold and controlled. I should have seen it. Should have known.
"When you married her, things improved briefly." Maisie looks up at me. "She was on better behavior with a witness in the house. And you... you became a safe presence for me. Someone who didn't require me to perform for affection. You just accepted me."
The admission hits harder than expected. I remember teenage Maisie—quiet, watchful, always trying to fade into the background. I'd assumed it was typical adolescent behavior, not a survival mechanism.
"After the divorce, everything escalated." Her voice drops. "Dorothy's control became suffocating. Monitored my phone, my friends, every activity. Made me feel guilty for wanting independence. Threatened abandonment if I didn't comply."
Her voice cracks slightly. Years of suppressed emotion surfacing.
I set my wine glass aside and pull her fully into my lap, needing her closer. "I wish I'd known. I would have fought harder for custody."
She shakes her head. "You weren't my real father. The courts wouldn't have given me to you."
"Maybe not. But I would have tried harder."
The truth of that statement settles between us. If I'd known the extent of Dorothy's abuse, I would have done everything in my power to get Maisie out of that house.
"You're safe now." I cup her face, forcing her to meet my eyes. "She can't hurt you anymore."
"I know." Maisie's smile is tremulous but genuine. "Being with you... it's the first time I've felt truly free."
The weight of that confession hits me square in the chest. Our relationship isn't just about desire or forbidden attraction. It's about her finding safety, agency, choice. And me wanting to give her all of that.
I kiss her gently, tasting wine and emotion.
When we break apart, I steer the conversation toward lighter topics. "Tell me about your plans beyond college. What do you want to do after graduation?"
Maisie hesitates, then speaks carefully. "I'm majoring in English Literature, but I've always wanted to write. Not academic writing but creative. Novels, stories."
"Are you writing anything now?"
She nods. "I've been working on a manuscript quietly. Haven't told anyone."
"What's it about?"
Her eyes light up as she describes the plot—a dark fantasy about a woman discovering her power in a world that tries to suppress her. The passion in her voice is unmistakable.
"That sounds incredible," I tell her honestly.
"It's probably terrible." She deflates slightly. "I dream of publishing someday, making a career of it, but it's scary. What if I'm not good enough?"
"You won't know unless you try." I keep my voice firm. "And I'll support you either way. After graduation, you'll have the freedom to focus on writing if that's what you want."
Maisie tears up slightly. "No one's ever believed in me like you do."
"Then everyone else is a fool."
She kisses me again, deeper this time. When she pulls back, her expression is vulnerable.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"Why did you marry my mother? You two were so... incompatible."
I consider the question, deciding to give her complete honesty. "Loneliness, mostly. And societal expectation. I was forty-two, successful, and people expected me to settle down. Dorothy was attractive, available, and seemed like a logical choice."
"But you didn't love her."
"No. I never did." The admission should feel heavier, but it's simply the truth. "The divorce was relief, not heartbreak. But I regretted leaving you in that situation. I've thought about you over the years more than was appropriate."
Maisie's breath catches. "How long?"
"You were around nineteen when I started seeing you differently. Hating myself for it." I stroke her hair. "Seeing you at twenty, grown and beautiful and looking at me with desire... it shattered my resistance."
"I felt so guilty about being attracted to you." She admits quietly. "You'd been a parental figure, sort of. But around eighteen, everything shifted. I started seeing you as a man rather than... anything else."
"When did you know you wanted this?"
"Turning twenty gave me courage. And seeing the way you looked at me when you came to Dorothy's house that night..." She trails off. "The somno fantasy was my way of giving you permission without facing potential rejection."
We're both acknowledging the depth of feeling between them. This isn't just physical or even just emotional. It's everything.
The conversation naturally shifts to physical touch. Slow kisses on the couch, my hands gentle on her face and in her hair. Maisie straddles my lap, her arms around my neck.
No rush. Just connection.
Eventually I stand, lifting her with me. She wraps her legs around my waist as I carry her to the bedroom.