Vanilla Yuki (2025)

12/07/2025

Part 4: Her Father Found Us
It started with a knock.
Not loud. Not urgent. Just… deliberate.

Elise was in the shower. I was on the couch with a laptop, halfway through a freelance gig I didn’t care about.

When I opened the door, I wasn’t surprised.

Marcus Langley stood there in a tailored black coat, no bodyguards, no pretense — just him. The man who used to send envelopes like warnings. The man I ran from. The man whose daughter was now humming behind a bathroom door, completely unaware he was ten feet away.

“May I come in?” he asked.

I didn’t answer.

He walked in anyway.

He didn’t look angry. That’s what worried me most.

He sat down in the chair across from me, the same chair Elise curled up in every night to read crime novels. His eyes scanned the room — simple, quiet, lived-in.

“This is where you brought her?” he asked.

I didn’t respond.

He tilted his head. “I gave you a way out. I gave you more money than you’ve probably seen in your entire life. And yet here we are.”

“I didn’t take her,” I said. “She came to me.”

He laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. “They always think they’re making their own choices.”

“She’s not a child. And she’s not a commodity.”

“She’s my daughter,” he snapped. “She carries my name. My legacy. Do you understand what that means?”

I stood a little straighter. “Yeah. It means you think you own people. You don’t.”

He stared at me for a long, cold moment.

Then his voice dropped. “You think love is enough to protect her from me?”

“No,” I said. “But she doesn’t need protection from you. She needs distance.”

That hit him. Barely. But it hit.

Before he could reply, the bathroom door creaked open.

Elise appeared, damp hair dripping onto her sweatshirt, eyes locking immediately on her father.

She froze.

“You came here?” she said, voice trembling with something between rage and disbelief.

Marcus stood.

“Elise. I came to talk.”

“No,” she said. “You came to threaten.”

“Elise—”

“I’m not your investment,” she said. “I’m not your brand. You don’t get to buy who I love.”

“You don’t know what love is yet,” he said, voice rising.

“I know it doesn’t come in envelopes.”

Silence.

I stood beside her. Not shielding her. Not leading her. Just there.

She took my hand.

And then — to my surprise — she stepped forward and hugged her father. A short, firm, final kind of hug.

Then she whispered: “If you want a relationship with me again, it starts with you not trying to control me.”

Marcus’s shoulders dropped a fraction. A rare moment of something close to defeat — or maybe recognition.

He said nothing more. Just turned and walked out.

12/07/2025

Part 3: We Made Our Own Rules
We stayed quiet for a while.

Eventually, she started making toast in my tiny kitchen. Burned half of it. Ate it anyway.

“I’m not afraid of what happens next,” she said through a mouthful of crumbs.

“I am.”

“That’s okay. Be afraid. But don’t be absent.”

It wasn’t a love confession. It wasn’t even forgiveness.

It was something braver: an invitation.

To rebuild.

To choose each other, no matter who was watching — or paying.

That night, I threw away the envelope she brought.

And we made a promise:

No more running.
No more bribes.
Just truth, in whatever shape it came.

12/07/2025

Part 2: She Found Me Anyway
Three months.

That’s how long I lasted.

Three months of pretending to be free, drinking cheap coffee in a cheaper apartment three cities away, freelancing cybersecurity jobs under fake names, and waking up every morning wondering if I’d see Elise standing at my door again.

She didn’t call. Didn’t text.

I thought she got the message.

I was wrong.

It was a Tuesday — cold, quiet, the kind of day that passes without leaving a mark. I opened my door to get groceries and found her sitting on the hallway floor, back against the wall, knees pulled to her chest.

Elise.

No BMW. No heels. Just worn-out boots and a hoodie that probably belonged to me. Her hair was longer. Her eyes, sharper.

“I got tired of waiting,” she said.

I looked around. “Does your father know you’re here?”

She snorted. “If he did, you wouldn’t be.”

Fair point.

She stood and looked me dead in the eye. “You left without asking what I wanted.”

“Elise—”

“I’m not a child. I’m not a bribe. And I’m not a thing my father can buy or protect like a stock portfolio. I chose you. You don’t get to erase that just because he wrote a few zeroes on paper.”

I didn’t have a response.

Not a real one.

Because the truth was, I hadn’t left to protect her. I’d left because I didn’t believe I deserved her.

She crossed the distance between us and handed me something.

An envelope.

No name. No note. Just cash — about the same as her father used to send.

“What’s this?”

She shrugged. “Reverse bribe. Take it, and don’t run away from me again.”

I opened the door. Let her inside. Let her sit on the couch I’d barely used. She looked around at the lifeless walls and blinked.

“You really gave up everything for this?”

“No. I gave it up for you.”

She paused. “Then stop trying to live like you’re being punished for it.”

12/07/2025

"He Sends Me Cash So I Won’t Sleep with His Daughter"

Let me start by saying: I never asked for the money.
It just started showing up.

An envelope, thick with crisp bills, shoved under my apartment door one morning. No note. No name. No return address.

But I knew exactly who sent it.
And more importantly — why.

Her name was Elise.
Nineteen. Brilliant. Reckless.
And entirely off-limits.

Not because of her age — we were only five years apart. But because her father was Marcus Langley, the kind of man who smiled like a knife and ran half the city with money, intimidation, and charm. I worked for him. Low-level, no-title. Just one of the many faceless nobodies in his digital security company.

I met Elise by accident. A malfunctioning elevator in the Langley building. We were stuck for fifteen minutes. She cracked a joke. I cracked one back. By the time the elevator dinged, she’d memorized my number.

I didn’t give it to her. She found it.
And I think that’s when her father started watching me.

Elise started texting. Then calling. Then waiting outside my apartment, leaning against her BMW like she was born in a perfume ad. I said no. A lot. Not because I didn’t want to. But because I valued my knees unbroken.

Then the first envelope came.

I didn’t spend the money. I kept it in a drawer, hoping this was some sort of test. That maybe, if I passed it, Marcus would leave me alone.

But the second envelope came the following week.
And the third.
And the fourth.

No notes. No instructions. Just cash.
It was hush money in reverse. Bribe-as-prevention.
Don’t touch my daughter.
Don’t even think about her.

Only… I did.
Constantly.

Elise wasn’t some spoiled heiress. She was sharp. Funny. Restless. She saw through me like glass. She liked the way I didn’t try to impress her. I liked the way she didn’t care who her father was.

One night, she showed up again.
Red hoodie. No makeup. Hair wet from the rain.

"Are you afraid of me, or him?" she asked.

“Both,” I said honestly.

She smiled. “I’m not asking you to touch me.”
She stepped closer.
“I’m asking you to see me.”

We didn’t kiss.
Not that night.

But I stopped returning her father’s money. Left the next envelope unopened, slid it right back under the Langley mansion gate.

The next day, I got called into his office.

Marcus Langley didn’t yell.
He poured a glass of bourbon, offered me none, and stared.

“You think you're brave?” he asked.

“No, sir. Just… tired.”

He sipped. “You return my money again, and I won’t be the one who comes to talk to you next.”

I nodded. “Understood.”

I quit the next morning. Packed up. Left the city.

But Elise still writes.
Sometimes just a song lyric.
Sometimes a photograph.
Sometimes nothing but, “You still seeing me?”

I write back every time:
“Always.”

12/07/2025

Part 6: His Side of the Envelope
(Adrian’s Perspective)

I never thought I’d be the type of man who needed to bribe his wife to stay. But I also never thought I’d find someone like her.

Mara wasn’t just beautiful — she was vivid. She lived in color, painted emotion like it was air, and filled rooms with thoughts before she ever spoke. And me? I was grayscale. Predictable. Practical. More comfortable with silence than spontaneity.

So I bribed her.

Not because I thought she’d leave.

But because I wanted to give her something — anything — that said: I know I can’t match your rhythm, but I’ll still try to dance.

The money started as a joke. I never expected her to cash the first check. But she did. And she laughed, and for a moment, I knew I’d done something right. So I kept going. Envelopes became tradition. Then habit. Then, somehow, our language.

But languages need two people. And somewhere along the way, I forgot that.

I didn’t notice when she stopped telling me about her dreams. When the light in her eyes dimmed after a long day. When the silence between us wasn’t peaceful anymore — just… hollow.

And when she left, even just for a while, I realized something terrifying:

The bribes weren’t enough.

They had never been enough.

Because love isn’t about making up for what you lack.
It’s about showing up anyway.

So I stopped. No more envelopes. No more clever distractions. I started learning her world instead. Paintbrush in hand, awkward and unsure, I let her teach me how to express things I never had words for.

And slowly, we began again.

Epilogue: Twenty Years Later
The envelopes are gone now — though she keeps one framed in her studio, labeled “The First Bribe” in gold ink.

We still mess up. Still forget things. Still need space sometimes.

But we don’t need bribes.

We have something better now:
Shared silence that’s not empty.
Shared laughter that’s earned.
Shared life — built, rebuilt, and painted in all the messiest, brightest colors.

Every once in a while, Mara still teases me.
Says she misses the cash.

I always tell her the same thing:

“You’re way too expensive now.”

And she always replies:

“Good. Keep trying.”

THE END.
゚viralシ

12/07/2025

Paid to Keep My Hands Off – Part 5: Blood, Ink, and Legacy
Ten Years Later

The Langford name didn’t mean what it used to.

Once it stood for steel, cold deals, offshore accounts, and family secrets buried under polished speeches.

Now?

It stood for change.

It stood for the Langford-Gray Fellowship, funding underrepresented voices in investigative journalism. It stood for the Lila Initiative, a global tech education network reaching girls in over twenty countries.

It stood for truth.

And that truth had to start early.

So when our daughter, Maya, turned twelve and came home with a school project titled “Who is your family?”, she asked a question I hadn’t prepared for.

“Dad… who was Grandpa Martin?”

Lila and I looked at each other. We’d rehearsed this moment, but it still hit harder than I expected.

“He was… complicated,” Lila said carefully.

Maya nodded. “Aunt Elena said he tried to pay you to leave her.”

I blinked. “She told you that?”

“She said it’s part of our story. I want to include it.”

I hesitated. “Why?”

She looked down. “Because we always say we tell the truth. Right?”

Lila smiled softly. “We do.”

So we sat her down.

And told her everything.

The offer. The check. The rejection. The betrayal. The letters. The journal. The sister.

All of it.

And when we were done, she was quiet for a long time.

Then she said something I didn’t expect:

“I’m glad he tried.
Because if he hadn’t, maybe you wouldn’t have proved him wrong.
Maybe you wouldn’t have fought so hard.
Maybe I wouldn’t be here.”

That night, I sat in my office and stared at the framed check on the wall. The original check Martin had written me. I’d never cashed it. Just kept it there. A reminder.

Below it, a plaque:

Paid to Keep My Hands Off.
Used to Build Something Real.

Sometimes, people ask me if I’d take the money again.

If I’d walk away if the price was right.

But what they don’t understand is — the real wealth was never the offer. It was the resistance.

It was staying.

It was choosing her.

Again and again.

12/07/2025

Paid to Keep My Hands Off – Part 4: The Return
Five Years Later

By then, our lives had found rhythm.

Lila’s nonprofit had grown into a national movement. Elena had graduated, published a feature in The Atlantic titled “The Billionaire Who Bought Silence — And Lost Everything,” which earned her a journalism award.

As for me? My startup had gone public.

We weren’t flashy. We kept things quiet. But we were happy — truly happy.

So when the invitation arrived, I almost threw it away.

It was a thick envelope, hand-delivered. Gold trim. Heavy seal.

“The Langford Foundation cordially invites you to the unveiling of the Langford Center for Ethical Innovation.”

I stared at it for a long time, unsure whether to laugh or burn it.

They were using his name. Again. But this time with words like “ethical” and “humanity” tacked on, as if it could erase what Martin had done.

Lila took the envelope from my hands. Read it once. Then looked up at me.

“Let’s go.”

“Seriously?”

She nodded. “We can’t rewrite the past if we keep avoiding the present.”

And so, five years after Martin Langford tried to buy me out of his daughter’s life, I walked through the front doors of a building bearing his name — with Lila on my left, and Elena on my right.

Inside, cameras flashed. Board members smiled plastic smiles. Nobody said his name directly, but his shadow was everywhere.

We found our seats in the front row, politely declining interviews. Just our presence said enough.

A woman stepped up to the podium. One of the trustees. She began the speech: legacy, leadership, future. The usual.

Then, midway through, she paused.

“We’d like to invite someone very special to say a few words. Someone whose work embodies the exact values we hope this center will promote.”

She looked straight at Elena.

She froze.

So did we.

They hadn’t told her.

She stood up slowly, hesitant. Then walked to the podium. No speech in hand. Just instinct.

She adjusted the mic. Cleared her throat.

“I wasn’t expecting this,” she said with a half-smile. “I’m... not sure what I’m supposed to say.”

A murmur of polite laughter.

She glanced down at the front row. Met our eyes. Then exhaled.

“My name is Elena Gray,” she said. “I’m a journalist, and I am the daughter Martin Langford never acknowledged publicly.”

Dead silence.

“I’m also the sister of Lila Langford—the woman he underestimated most. And I’m standing here today not because I want to praise a man who failed us, but because I believe in what comes after failure. I believe in accountability. In truth. And in second chances that you earn—not buy.”

She paused. A few people shifted uncomfortably.

“My father paid people to disappear. To be quiet. To stay out of the way. But we’re here. And we’re louder than ever.”

Applause. At first, hesitant. Then rising, wave after wave.

She stepped down. Sat between us, shaking slightly.

“You were incredible,” Lila whispered, squeezing her hand.

Later, a journalist asked me if I felt vindicated—standing in a center named after the man who tried to erase me.

I looked across the room at my wife. At her sister. At the walls filled with stories they were now writing.

“No,” I said. “I don’t feel vindicated. I feel something better.”

“What’s that?” the reporter asked.

“Free.”

12/07/2025

Paid to Keep My Hands Off – Part 3: Legacy
Two years after Martin Langford’s death, Lila received a message that took her by surprise.

It wasn’t from a lawyer.

It was from her half-sister.

A girl neither of us knew existed.

Her name was Elena, twenty-two years old, a journalism major from Boston. She’d been raised by a woman named Margaret Gray—someone Martin had apparently loved, once. Quietly. Secretly.

Elena’s message was simple:

“I think we’re sisters. He paid my mother to keep me secret.
I found your story. I think you deserve to know.”

Lila sat still for a long time, staring at the screen. Then she showed it to me.

“Do you think it’s real?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But it feels real.”

She replied to Elena the same day.

They met a week later. In a quiet café in Cambridge.

I didn’t go. That was their space. When Lila returned, her face was pale, eyes unreadable.

“She looks just like me when I was younger,” she said. “Same eyes. Same sharp tongue. But she’s... warm. Soft. She never knew that version of him.”

Elena had been raised without luxury. Her mother refused Martin’s hush money until she was diagnosed with cancer, and only accepted it then to secure Elena’s education. Even so, Elena never met him. Only saw him once—from a distance. A tall man in a black coat, watching from the edge of a college campus, then disappearing into a waiting car.

That image haunted her. She had questions—questions Martin never answered, questions Lila couldn’t ignore anymore.

So we did something we never imagined: we returned to his world.

The Langford estate had remained untouched since the funeral. His trustees were still handling final assets. One of them, a quiet old man named Alan, remembered us.

“I always thought he was wrong about you,” he told me in the entryway, then handed Lila a box.

“He left this in the vault. Unmarked. I was told to destroy anything not claimed. But I think it’s yours.”

The box was small. Heavy.

Inside: a stack of old letters. Faded photos. And a leather-bound journal.

Martin’s journal.

Lila and I read it together. Slowly. Over weeks.

It painted a portrait we’d never seen: a man who once loved poetry, who feared failure, who was deeply ashamed of how easily he could buy people—but terrified of the few who couldn’t be bought. Including his daughters.

There were entries about Lila. About how he admired her fire but couldn’t understand it. About how he resented that she never needed him the way he needed to be needed.

There were even darker entries—ones that spoke of control, of legacy, of building an empire at the cost of empathy.

And in the final pages:

"I tried to pay him off because I thought that was mercy.
But he stayed. And she stayed.
And maybe that means they’re stronger than I ever was."

"If they’re reading this—
Tell them I’m sorry I only learned to love after I lost the chance to show it."

That night, Lila cried.

Not for the man he was—but for the man he almost became.

And for Elena, who never got to know either version.

We invited Elena into our lives. Slowly, intentionally. She became a part of our family. She even moved to the West Coast and started interning with Lila’s nonprofit. She called us her “unexpected home.”

As for the money?

We donated what little was left of Martin’s fortune to scholarships for women in tech and business—under his name.

Not to honor him. But to rewrite the legacy he left behind.

Because some stories aren’t about forgiveness.

They’re about reclaiming power.

And building something beautiful from the pieces of a broken past.

12/07/2025

Paid to Keep My Hands Off – Part 2: The Second Offer
A year had passed since Martin Langford walked away from our doorstep without a word. I thought that was the end of it—that he'd swallowed his pride and let his daughter live her own life.

I was wrong.

It started with whispers. Industry insiders asking strange questions at networking events. Journalists suddenly curious about my “funding history.” One even asked if it was true that a Langford trust secretly bankrolled my startup. That was Martin’s doing—no doubt.

He couldn’t beat me by force, so now he tried poison.

Meanwhile, Lila was flourishing. She’d started her own non-profit to help underprivileged girls get into tech. She spoke at conferences, mentored students, and somehow still came home every evening glowing, happy. She never asked about her father.

Until he showed up again.

This time, not at our home—but at her office.

He waited until she was alone, slipped past the receptionist with that same smug smile. When she called me afterward, she was shaking.

“He’s offering me money now,” she said.

“What?”

“A trust fund. Ten million dollars. If I leave you.”

I laughed, but she didn’t.

“I told him to go to hell,” she said. “But he won’t stop.”

I realized then: Martin didn’t just want me gone. He wanted Lila back—back under his control, like a well-bred show pony for corporate galas and photo ops.

A week later, I received a manila envelope by courier. Inside was a single note:

“Everyone has a price. You just haven’t found yours yet.”
—ML

Under it was a bank statement. A new offer: $5 million.

I was angry. Not just because of the money, but because of the assumption—that our love could be weighed, negotiated, and eventually abandoned.

I took the statement to Lila.

She looked at it, then looked at me.

“Do you regret marrying me?” she asked softly.

My heart cracked a little. “Never.”

“Then let’s show him what regret really looks like.”

That night, we made a decision: to fight fire with fire.

We told our story publicly. Not with bitterness, but with brutal honesty. A feature interview in a major magazine: “The Billionaire Who Tried to Buy Us Apart.”

We didn’t name Martin. We didn’t have to. The story went viral. Overnight, we became a symbol—not of scandal, but of resilience. People respected that we’d chosen love over wealth. Integrity over fear.

Martin never spoke to us again.

But three years later, we heard from his lawyer. He’d passed away. In his will, he left Lila nothing—except a handwritten letter.

“You chose your husband. You chose a small life.
But maybe... small isn’t so bad.
—Dad”

That was the closest thing to an apology we’d ever get.

We burned the letter. Then walked hand in hand into a future money could never buy.

12/07/2025

Paid to Keep My Hands Off: A Father-in-Law’s Unusual Request

I met Lila during the summer I thought my life had hit rock bottom. She was everything I wasn’t—ambitious, radiant, and from a world I didn’t quite belong to. Somehow, she saw something in me worth loving. We got married within the year.

What I didn’t realize was that marrying Lila meant marrying into her family—and her father, Martin Langford, was a man used to control, power, and things going his way.

He never liked me. From the very beginning, he made that clear. At our wedding rehearsal dinner, he gave a toast where he didn’t say my name once. Just talked about “Lila’s potential” and “the importance of legacy.”

Still, I loved her, and she loved me. That was enough—until it wasn’t.

Three months into our marriage, Martin invited me to his office in Manhattan. It was sleek, cold, intimidating. He didn’t offer me a drink. Just sat across from me and slid a folder across the table.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“A contract,” he said. “And a check.”

I opened the folder. The check was for $500,000. The contract was simple: Walk away from Lila. No explanation. No contact. No alimony. Just disappear.

My heart raced. “You’re paying me to leave her?”

“I’m paying you to stay away from her,” he corrected. “You’re not what she needs. You’re a distraction. And frankly, a mistake she’ll regret if I don’t intervene.”

I wanted to punch him. But more than that, I wanted to prove him wrong. “You think you can buy your daughter’s happiness?”

He leaned forward. “No. But I can buy yours. Half a million to walk away clean. No questions asked.”

I didn’t answer him. I left, furious, insulted, shaken. That night, I stared at the check for hours. Half a million dollars. For a guy like me—barely holding a steady job, drowning in student debt—that was life-changing.

But I loved Lila. Didn’t I?

The next morning, I told her everything.

She stared at me, silent, then laughed—bitter and hollow. “That sounds exactly like him.”

“Lila, I swear I would never take it.”

“I know,” she said. “But he won’t stop. Not until he gets what he wants.”

She was right. Over the next few weeks, he escalated. Calls. Lawyers. Lies. He even planted rumors about me cheating. Eventually, he cornered me again. This time, he doubled the offer.

And I did something I never thought I’d do.

I took the money.

But not to leave her.

Instead, I used it to build a life—with her. Quietly, strategically. We moved across the country, changed our numbers, and started over. She cut ties with him. I invested the money into a small startup idea I’d been toying with for years. It took off.

A year later, when Martin finally tracked us down, we were married, happy, and on the cover of a tech magazine.

He showed up at our door. Same cold stare.

“You took the money,” he said.

“Yes,” I replied. “And look what I built—with her by my side.”

He looked at Lila. Then at me. For the first time, he said nothing. Just walked away.

Sometimes, getting paid to keep your hands off means realizing that love can’t be bought—but if someone’s willing to pay, maybe you’re worth more than they think.

08/07/2025

Chapter 23 – The Invitation
(Seductive. Intimate. Emotional tension building.)

That evening, Elias didn’t summon us.

He didn’t tie anyone down.

He didn’t give a single command.

But that made it more dangerous — and more seductive.

Because now… we moved on instinct.

Jenna and I found him in the library, shirt undone, sleeves rolled up, a half-finished glass of red wine in one hand and a leather-bound journal in the other. His glasses were low on his nose. Soft piano music drifted from the speakers.

He looked like a man who didn’t need anyone.

But wanted us anyway.

And that want?
It changed the room.

“Come here,” he said.

His voice was velvet.

We didn’t walk.

We floated.

He didn’t speak as we approached.

He just reached out — one hand to Jenna’s hip, the other to the back of my neck — and guided us both down to the carpet, at his feet, between his knees.

It wasn’t about dominance this time.

It was worship.

Slow.

Silent.

Jenna rested her cheek against his thigh, eyes closed.

I leaned into his chest, breathing him in — the scent of cedar, wine, and quiet restraint. His hand stroked my back slowly, deliberately, like he was mapping a path back to control without needing to say a word.

“You two change everything,” he whispered, voice low and true. “I thought I wanted obedience.”

He cupped my jaw, thumb brushing my lips.

“But I think I want loyalty more.”

He turned to Jenna.

“And trust.”

She looked up at him, quiet.

“I can give you both,” she said.

“So can I,” I added.

And I meant it.

Not out of submission.

But choice.

He kissed me first — slowly, like a promise.

Then Jenna.

And when we pulled back, something in the air shifted.

Not lust.

Not tension.

Something new.

An unspoken agreement.

A deeper kind of intimacy — one that didn’t rely on restraints, or roles, or being watched. One that lived in soft silences and stolen glances.

That night, we slept in one bed.
No games.
No moans.
Just skin to skin.
Three heartbeats, one breath.

And for the first time…
None of us needed to speak.

゚viralシ

08/07/2025

Chapter 20 – The Quiet Between Us
(Romantic. Healing. Gentle intimacy.)

The next morning, no one rushed to get up.

For once, we weren’t tangled in silk ropes or chasing each other across mirrored rooms. There was no music, no glass walls, no strangers watching us perform our ruin.

Just coffee.

And sunlight.

And the quiet sound of Elias humming softly in the kitchen while Jenna curled into me on the couch, wearing only one of his button-down shirts.

I hadn’t said “I love you.”

Not to either of them.

But I could feel it — soft and slow, blooming in my chest like something too sacred to name.

Jenna tilted her head back against the pillow.

“You know what’s strange?” she asked.

“What?”

She smiled. “I thought all of this would break me.”

I stroked her hair.

“And?”

She took my hand and kissed it gently.

“It made me softer.”

Elias came back with two mugs — handed one to me, then leaned down and pressed a kiss to my temple like it was normal. Like we did this every morning.

Like we’d been doing it for years.

“You two are dangerous,” he murmured. “You make me want things.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

He hesitated — then sat beside us, one arm around each of our shoulders.

“Stillness,” he said. “Peace.”

Jenna snorted softly. “You don’t do peace.”

“Not before,” he agreed.

“But with you?” He turned his head, kissed the corner of my mouth. Then Jenna’s. “I could try.”

That afternoon, we went to the park.

No penthouse. No collars. No secrets.

Just a picnic blanket and real clothes and a basket Elias had packed himself — overpriced wine, strawberries, and the kind of cheese that Jenna had absolutely no patience for.

It felt ridiculous.

And perfect.

Jenna rested her head in my lap while Elias read something quietly beside us, one hand always touching — her foot brushing my ankle, my fingers in her hair, his palm warm against the curve of my back.

We didn’t talk about s*x.

Or power.

Or ownership.

Just books.

Plans.

The future.

Us.

That night, back home, I caught my reflection in the mirror as I changed for bed — collar gone, makeup wiped away, hair messy.

And I realized something:

This version of me — stripped down, soft, loved — was the most powerful I’d ever been.

Because this wasn’t about surrender.

This was about being seen.

Completely.

And still wanted.

゚viralシ

Vanilla Yuki

12/07/2025

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12/07/2025

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