My father passed away when I was still a child. A decade later, my mother remarried, a German man with a life far removed from mine. She had planned to take me with her when she left, but everything changed the moment she learned the truth about who I was. Without hesitation, she told me it would be better if I stayed behind, alone and left to face the world on my own.
I cried and begged her. I said I couldn't stay on my own; I was only thirteen years old. I was too young to stay alone…
Then she told me she would leave me with the boy next door. His mother was often away traveling abroad, so he had learned to live on his own, strong, capable, and not fragile like me. She said I needed to learn from him, to grow strong just like he had. Even though Win and I had grown up together, I still didn't want to stay with him. But my mother didn't care. At that moment, all she cared about was finding a way to be with her new husband without any distractions.
Then one morning, she finally handed me off to him, the boy I grew up with.
His name was Winston Flynn, but I called him Win. He was the late son of Flynn Holdings, one of the most powerful billionaire families in the city. He was three years older than me: strong, confident, capable, also handsome, a standout, and fearless.
The golden heir of the late Flynn Holdings billion-dollar empire built on real estate, tech, and private defense contracts. His world was one of power behind glass walls, whispered names in boardrooms, and decisions that shaped cities.
And me? Kingsley Jenkins. I was the quiet boy next door with nothing but grief in my pockets and a suitcase that felt too light.
When I moved into their mansion, I didn't know what to expect. I'd lost a father, then a mother. What I gained was silence, luxury, and eyes always watching.
Win promised me I would be safe with him. He took me in. He became my best friend. My brother in every way but blood. My protector.
His mother accepted me like charity. My mother had once co-founded a luxury fashion brand with Win's mom, two ambitious widows turning loss into legacy. But when my mother met her new husband, she walked away from it all: from the business, from her son.
So I became his. Win chose my clothes. Chose my words. Chose who I could talk to and who I shouldn't look at twice.
In high school, he was a god. Everything tilted toward him: people, attention, rooms. And I stayed in orbit, smiling like I was grateful just to exist in his shadow.
I secretly developed feelings for him. He was the one I loved. Staying under the same roof with him was more like a blessing and also a punishment. Win was very protective, possessive, and I was only allowed to do what he asked me to do. I thought he loved me. I always listened to him. I had to. He was older, smarter, sharper. Everything about him demanded obedience, and I gave it freely.
Back then, I didn't know what was called love was pure control.
But the worst part was that everything changed in my second year of university.
It was late, close to midnight. My room was dim, the soft hum of the AC the only sound I heard. I was lying on my bed, scrolling through my phone. My other hand moved beneath the sheets, slow and desperate.
I was touching myself, thinking about Win, sweating, stroking myself to reach the climax.
With the photo on my screen, I had taken his picture a week ago. Win asleep on the living room couch, one arm slung over his eyes, his shirt undone, the softness of his expression something the world never got to see.
His lips slightly parted. His chest rose slowly. He looked peaceful, hot, and sexy while sleeping, and I took his picture.
I shouldn't have kept that photo.
But I couldn't delete it.
And just as I was lost in that forbidden fantasy, stroking to release.
The door swung open.
I froze. My blood turned to ice. I wanted to disappear at that moment.
Win stepped in like he always did. I panicked. Threw the phone aside. But the image was turning up slightly, showing. I covered myself. My whole body froze. Without knocking. Like he still owned the air in my lungs.
In one heartbeat, everything shattered.
His eyes landed on me, on the motion under the sheets, on the glowing screen.
And the unmistakable image of a man. He saw but I quickly put my phone away.
I dropped the phone like it burned. Sat up too fast, dragging my trousers up.
But it was too late.
He didn't recognize the man in the photo was him.
He didn't speak, didn't blink, didn't ask questions.
He stared, not angry, not confused. Just blank. Processing. Watching me like I was a stranger or, worse, something broken.
Then he turned and walked out. Closed the door gently behind him.
That was the night he found out I was gay.
From that moment on, everything spiraled.
He started monitoring me. Not obviously, at first. But I noticed my phone would reset itself, my chats deleted. He started showing up where I didn't expect him to. He made excuses to walk me to class, to pick me up, to stay close. Then the questions started, subtle, then sharper. Who was I texting? Who were my friends?
And then the disappearances began.
One by one, my male friends backed away. Some stopped responding altogether. I confronted one of them, desperate for answers, and he just said, "Man, I'm not getting involved in your shit. Your brother's scary as hell." That's when I knew: he was chasing them off, making sure I had no one. No other guy to lean on, to like me, to touch me.
Only one friend was left, a girl. Sweet, kind, loud. But he kept her around on purpose.
"She's safe," he once told me, staring me down like I was a ticking bomb. "She can be your friend. She's the only one who won't try to use you."
But I knew what he meant: she's the only one you'll never get hard for. And he was right.
I didn't want her. I didn't want girls. And the worst part?
I didn't want any boy either. I only wanted him.
That's when he started taking me to the doctor.
"You don't need to worry," he said one afternoon, gripping my hand too tightly as I sat in another pristine clinic lobby. "They'll help you."
"Help me with what?" I asked, my voice small, already knowing.
He looked at me like I'd asked something shameful. "With your condition. You're sick, but that's okay. We'll fix it."
Sick.
That word echoed in my mind for weeks. Every time a man smiled at me. Every time my skin burned with desire. Every time I thought of him.
You're sick.
He said no man was born to love another man.
He said the only men who did were damaged and diseased.
He said love like mine wasn't real; it was a malfunction, a chemical glitch. A virus in my brain.
But what he didn't know, what he couldn't ever find out, was that my sickness didn't begin with the idea of loving a man.
It began with loving him.
The way he looked at me when he was angry. The sound of his voice when he told me to trust him. The cruel warmth of his protection, like wrapping chains in velvet.
I loved a man who thought I was broken.
I loved him enough to stay.
I let him drag me from therapist to therapist. I let them ask invasive questions, run tests, and hand me pamphlets about "identity confusion" and "corrective behavioral therapy." I smiled through it all. Nodded. Pretended I was grateful.
But every night, I stared at that hidden photo of him on my phone. And I hurt.
Because I was rich. Educated. Polite. Quiet. Everything he needed me to be.
Everything except "normal."
He was everything.
And I was nothing but the boy he tried to fix.