Sweet Little Temptation

BEVERLY Having a crush on an older, more capable man had completely ruined dating for me. No guy my age ever measured up. Not when I knew what it felt like to be cared for by someone who remembered every little thing about me. Someone who listened when I spoke. Someone whose voice alone could calm me down after the worst days of my life. Still, I had tried. Which was exactly how I ended up dating Dylan. Or rather… about to break up with Dylan. I planned to spend the night at his apartment, which was why I showed up unannounced with an overnight bag hanging from my shoulder and a bottle of cheap wine in my hand. Thank God I did. Otherwise, I never would have caught him in the act. The moment I stepped into his apartment, something felt wrong. There were heels near the couch. Not mine. A woman’s laugh echoed softly from somewhere deeper inside the apartment, followed by Dylan’s voice—low and flirtatious in a way I had never heard directed at me. My stomach

BEVERLY I woke up entangled in my duvet with no idea about how and when I actually fell asleep. There is no need for me to actually hide out in my room. He must have definitely disappeared again ,just as usual. Getting off my warm and extremely comfortable bed,I went into the bathroom to shower, turning on my Bluetooth speaker and cranking up the volume to the highest level, a daily ritual. My taste in music had always been chaotic. Korean, Chinese, Japanese, Thai, French, English—it didn’t matter where it came from, as long as it made me feel something. My playlist was a mess of languages and moods, songs that had no business existing together but somehow did. Soft ballads sat next to loud rap. Love songs sat next to heartbreak anthems. Nothing matched, but everything fit. The newest BTS playlist started my morning, and I stepped into the shower, letting the hot water hit my skin and slowly pull me back into myself. The tension from last night still lingered somewhere in my b

BEVERLY By the time I finally set my brushes down, the blazing sun had begun its slow, lazy descent, painting the horizon in bruised shades of purple and burnt orange. My lower back ached from leaning over the easel for hours, and my fingers were stiff, but the restless, chaotic energy that had been buzzing under my skin since last night was finally gone, transferred entirely onto the canvas. I stepped back to look at my work. The painting was heavy. Dark. A towering, abstract silhouette of a man emerging from a storm of deep crimson and midnight black, highlighted by sharp, jagged slashes of shimmering gold. It looked dangerous, beautiful, and completely unhinged. It looked exactly like Damian. "Get a grip, Beverly," I muttered aloud to the empty balcony, wiping a stray streak of black acrylic off my thumb. Slipping off my headphones, the heavy bass of the music died out, replaced by the profound, stifling silence of the estate. The mansion during the late afternoon felt like a

BEVERLY I lay in bed, curled into a tight, pathetic ball, not even trying to move an inch. I was terrified that if I so much as shifted a millimeter, the invisible hand twisting my insides would tighten its grip. But no matter how hard I tried to stay completely still, I could still feel the sharp, daggering pain pulsating through my pelvis. Oh, the absolute joy of being female. A dull, rhythmic throb settled into my lower back, making me squeeze my eyes shut and press the pillow even harder against my stomach. I was officially trapped in my own personal purgatory, silently cursing Mother Nature and wondering what crime I had committed in a past life to deserve this monthly torment. Suddenly, a soft, deliberate knock sounded at my door. I blinked, my eyes snapping toward the dark wood. Before I could even wonder if I had imagined it, a deeply familiar, low voice drifted through the panel. "Are you awake?" It was Damian. How nice. I let out a weak, breathless puff of air

BEVERLY The adrenaline from the confrontation with Dylan faded quickly, leaving behind a strange, empty quiet that the professor’s monotonous lecture completely failed to fill. Up at the podium, Dr. Amadi was droning on about chromosomal mapping and genetic linkage, his laser pointer dancing across a complex slide of DNA sequencing. Under normal circumstances, I would have been typing furious, detailed notes. I was a top student; I had fought like hell for this placement. But today, my fingers remained completely frozen over my keyboard. My eyes were fixed on the screen, but I wasn't seeing base pairs or double helices. Instead, my mind was trapped in the dark, high-ceilinged corridors of Damian’s mansion. Specifically, that heavy, biometric-locked door on the third floor. The playroom. A sudden, sharp shiver ran down my spine, completely unrelated to the lingering dull ache in my pelvis. Ever since I had stumbled upon that room—ever since I had seen the dark leather, the polish