Sweet Little Temptation

BEVERLY

I still remember the smell of the hospital that night.

Antiseptic. Cold air. Death.

It clung to my skin long after they covered my father’s body with a white sheet.

I was sixteen years old, sitting alone in a plastic chair with trembling hands and swollen eyes while nurses walked past me like I was invisible. Nobody knew what to say to a girl who had just lost her only parent. Honestly, I didn’t think there was anything to say.

My father was gone.

Just like that.

One moment he had been smiling weakly at me from the hospital bed, telling me everything would be fine.

The next, machines were screaming.

Then silence.

I remember staring at the floor because I couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t accept that the man who raised me alone, who burned pancakes every Sunday morning and sang terribly while driving, was suddenly… nothing.

Gone.

People always talk about grief like it arrives dramatically. Like thunder. Like some huge explosion inside your chest.

But mine came quietly.

It settled into my bones and stayed there.

After the funeral, the house became unbearable.

Too quiet.

Too empty.

Everywhere I looked reminded me of him. His reading glasses on the kitchen counter. His old sweater hanging behind the bedroom door. The mug he always used sitting untouched in the sink because I couldn’t bring myself to wash it.

I stopped sleeping properly after that.

Stopped eating too.

Nobody checked on me much. We didn’t have close relatives, and the few family members we did have suddenly disappeared once they realized my father hadn’t left behind money.

I learned very quickly how alone I was.

Three weeks after his death, I came home from school to find an envelope sitting on the table.

No stamp.

No name.

Just mine written across the front in neat black handwriting.

Beverly.

I remember staring at it for almost ten minutes before opening it.

Inside was cash.

More money than I had seen in months.

And a note.

For your school fees.

That was all it said.

No signature.

No explanation.

I thought maybe there had been a mistake at first. Maybe someone accidentally dropped it off at the wrong house. But then another envelope came the next week.

And another after that.

Sometimes it was money.

Sometimes groceries would magically appear outside the front door.

Once, my broken laptop got replaced without me ever telling anyone it was damaged.

Another time, I mentioned needing textbooks during one of my late-night breakdowns over the phone with a friend, and the books arrived two days later.

At first, it terrified me.

Because how was someone watching me that closely?

Then one night, my phone rang.

Unknown number.

I almost didn’t answer.

“Hello?”

Silence.

I remember gripping the phone tighter. “Who is this?”

A man’s voice finally spoke, low and calm.

“Did you receive the money?”

I froze.

“You sent it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Another pause.

Then, “Your father asked me to take care of you.”

Something inside me cracked hearing that.

Because nobody had said my father’s name since the funeral.

Not gently, anyway.

I swallowed hard. “Who are you?”

“An old friend.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s enough for now.”

I should have hung up.

Any sane person probably would have.

But there was something about his voice that made me stay.

It was warm without trying to be. Controlled. Mature. The kind of voice that made you feel safe even when you didn’t understand why.

And for the first time since my father died, I didn’t feel alone.

That became our routine after that.

He would call late at night.

Never video calls.

Never during the day.

Sometimes we talked for hours. Sometimes only minutes.

He asked about school.

About whether I was eating properly.

About my grades.

Whenever I sounded upset, he somehow knew immediately.

“You’ve been crying.”

It wasn’t a question.

I wiped my face quickly even though he couldn’t see me. “No, I haven’t.”

“You’re lying.”

“You can tell that over the phone?”

“Yes.”

I hated how much I liked hearing that.

Over time, he became part of my life without me realizing it.

I started waiting for his calls.

Checking my phone constantly at night.

Smiling at messages I reread too many times.

He never flirted with me. Never crossed any lines. If anything, he kept an almost frustrating amount of distance between us.

But that somehow made it worse.

Because mystery is dangerous.

And loneliness makes you attach yourself to the smallest acts of kindness.

Especially when you’re sixteen and grieving.

Especially when the person on the other end of the phone makes you feel seen.

I didn’t know what he looked like.

Didn’t know how old he really was.

All I had was a voice, a few carefully worded messages, and the strange comfort of knowing someone out there cared whether I survived another day.

“You should sleep earlier,” he would say whenever I stayed awake studying too long.

“You sound exhausted.”

“And you sound bossy.”

A quiet chuckle.

God, I loved hearing him laugh.

Sometimes I would lie awake afterward imagining his face.

I pictured broad shoulders.

Dark eyes.

Sharp hands.

A serious expression softened only slightly when speaking to me.

Every fantasy changed depending on my mood, but one thing never changed:

I always imagined him older.

Not old.

Just older.

Older enough to feel untouchable.

And maybe that should have warned me.

Because crushes are dangerous things when they grow in darkness.

Mine grew quietly over the years.

By eighteen, I was completely ruined for anyone else.

Boys my age felt childish.

Too loud. Too careless.

None of them listened the way he did.

None of them remembered small details about me.

None of them could calm me down with a single sentence.

He became my safe place without ever physically standing beside me.

And maybe that was the problem.

Because it’s easy to fall in love with a voice.

Easy to build perfection around someone you can’t see.

Sometimes I asked questions just to test him.

“What’s your favorite color?”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“Do you always avoid questions?”

“Yes.”

I rolled my eyes, smiling despite myself. “How old are you?”

“Old enough.”

“That tells me absolutely nothing.”

“It’s not supposed to.”

“You’re annoying.”

“And yet you still answer my calls.”

My cheeks burned every single time he said things like that.

One night, after a long silence between us, I finally whispered the question that had been haunting me for months.

“Why won’t you meet me?”

His breathing slowed on the other end.

Then—

“Because it’s better this way.”

“For who?”

Another silence.

“For both of us.”

I should have listened.

I really should have.

But by then, I was already too attached.

And maybe he was too.

Because despite refusing to meet me, he never left.

Not once.

When I graduated high school, flowers arrived at my doorstep with another note.

I’m proud of you.

No name.

No signature.

But I smiled so hard I cried.

By the time I got accepted into college, things changed again.

“You’ll be moving,” he said during one of our calls.

“Yeah.”

“I’ve arranged somewhere for you to stay.”

I frowned immediately. “What?”

“You can’t continue living there alone.”

“I’ll figure it out myself.”

“No,” he said firmly. “You won’t.”

I hated when he used that tone.

Mostly because part of me liked it.

“I already paid for an apartment near campus,” he continued.

“I’m not accepting that.”

“You already have.”

“What does that mean?”

“The lease was signed this morning.”

I sat upright in bed. “You can’t just control my life like that.”

A long pause.

Then quietly—

“And yet someone has to make sure you’re safe.”

I didn’t know what to say after that.

Because deep down, I knew he was right.

The apartment turned out not to be an apartment at all.

It was a mansion.

A massive estate tucked behind black gates and tall walls, far away from the noise of the city.

The first time I arrived there, I genuinely thought there had been some mistake.

The house looked unreal.

Marble floors.

Glass walls.

Expensive art.

Staff members who treated me with unsettling politeness.

And despite living there…

I still barely saw him.

That was the cruelest part.

Sometimes I caught glimpses.

A figure walking across the upstairs hallway late at night.

A man in a black suit entering his office while I stood at the bottom of the staircase.

The sound of his deep voice drifting through partially closed doors.

Always distant.

Always gone before I could properly look.

Like he was intentionally avoiding me.

But his presence was everywhere.

In the clothes appearing in my closet.

The fresh flowers left in my room.

The security guards suddenly becoming stricter whenever I left campus.

The way everyone in the house lowered their voices whenever his name came up.

I learned quickly that he was powerful.

Rich enough to make people nervous.

Controlled enough to make them obedient.

And somehow, after all these years…

I still hadn’t truly met him.

Not properly.

Not face to face.

But at night, my phone would still ring.

And his voice would still find me in the dark.

“Are you settling in okay?”

“Yes.”

“Did you eat?”

“Yes.”

“You’re lying again.”

I smiled despite myself, staring up at the ceiling of my enormous bedroom.

“Maybe a little.”

“You need to stop skipping meals, Beverly.”

The way he said my name always did something dangerous to me.

Soft.

Possessive.

Like it belonged to him.

I closed my eyes slowly.

“Will I ever actually see you?”

Silence.

Then a quieter voice than usual.

“You already do.”

And before I could ask what that meant—

The call disconnected.

Leaving me alone in the dark.

Heart racing.

Wanting a man I had never truly touched.

A man who had spent years protecting me from the shadows while refusing to step fully into the light.

A man I was beginning to realize might be far more dangerous than I ever imagined.

And somehow…

That only made me want him more.