The invitation sat on the dresser, crisp and accusing—a reminder of the life Greg had not achieved. It was for the christening of Luis's third child. Luis was more than a friend; he was a kumpare, a bond forged in the fires of college failures and adult triumphs. Greg was already the godfather to Luis's eldest. Now, once again, he was being asked to stand as a witness to someone else's new life.
He told himself he was happy for them, but the familiar, cold sting of envy was hard to swallow. Luis had three children to carry his name. Greg and Mayette had none. They had spent years trying, navigating a quiet grief that lived in the empty spaces of their home.
"I'm so sorry I can't go with you, Hon," Mayette said, her voice soft as she entered the bedroom. Greg was fumbling with his shirt buttons, his mind elsewhere. "Please, give my gift to the baby."
As a teacher, Mayette lived by her schedule, and today there was no one to cover her classes.
"It's fine," Greg replied, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. "One of us is enough to represent the family."
At thirty-five, Mayette possessed a timeless beauty that seemed to defy the stress of her profession. Greg, only a year her senior, felt worn down beside her. The promotion at the office had come with a heavy price: long hours, endless paperwork, and a permanent tension that lived in his shoulders. He needed this day off, even if it meant facing the sharp reminder of his own childlessness.
"Try to enjoy yourself," Mayette urged, reaching up to fix the button he had missed. "You look like you're carrying the world on your back."
Greg forced a smile. "Don't wait up. The celebrations might go late."
The christening was a blur of incense and stained glass at the grand cathedral, followed by a reception at Luis's sprawling estate. The house was a monument to inherited wealth—wide hallways, soaring ceilings, effortless prestige. By the time Greg arrived, the party was already in full swing.
"Greg! You made it," Kyla, Luis's wife, greeted him with a warm embrace. "Where's Mayette?"
"Work, unfortunately. She's heartbroken to miss it."
"Well, I'm sending you home with a basket of food. She has to try my new recipe," Kyla insisted, pulling him toward the heart of the house. "Luis has been looking for you. Come."
As they crossed the sun-drenched hallway, a figure emerged from one of the side rooms.
"Selene," Kyla called out. "Come here and greet your Ninong."
Selene approached with a quiet, measured grace. She was eighteen now—taller, composed, and no longer the girl Greg remembered. There was a newfound composure in her stride, a presence that commanded the space around her. She took his hand in a traditional gesture of respect, her head bowed just long enough for a strange, unreadable tension to flicker between them.
Greg offered a tight smile. "You've grown, Selene."
When she looked up, there was no adolescent shyness in her eyes. Instead, there was a startling awareness—a steady, knowing gaze that unsettled him.
"She's been obsessed with her dance classes," Kyla added with a fond sigh. "Better at that than her books, I'm afraid."
"At least she's found her passion," Greg replied, his voice sounding distant even to himself.
As the afternoon wore on, the party split into traditional circles. The men retreated to a wood-paneled study where the liquor flowed as freely as the stories from their youth. Greg downed another glass of Scotch, the burn in his throat a welcome distraction from the weight in his chest. Eventually, the noise became too much. He excused himself, citing a need for fresh air and smoke.
The alcohol had begun to fog his thoughts. The sprawling layout of the mansion, usually familiar, became a labyrinth. He passed groups of teenagers whispering in the shadows and asked a passing maid for the way to the garden. She pointed toward the end of a long, dimly lit corridor. His steps were heavy; he knew then he wouldn't be driving himself home.
He reached the door at the end of the hall and pushed it open, expecting the cool night air. Instead, he stepped into a pocket of absolute stillness.
It was a storage room, smelling of dust and old wood. He fumbled for a light switch, but his hand found only an empty wall. He was about to retreat when he heard it—a soft, rhythmic sound. A hitch in a breath.
He stood frozen as his eyes adjusted. In the corner, amidst a graveyard of antique furniture, a faint sliver of light from a high window illuminated a scene meant for no one else.
It was Selene.
She was on her knees on a low cot, her back to the door, lost in a private, feverish trance. Her head was buried in a pillow to muffle her cries, her body arching in a desperate search for a release she couldn't quite grasp. "Aaahh..." she whimpered, the sound raw and heavy with a longing that hit Greg like a physical blow.
His throat went dry. Every moral instinct told him to turn away, to flee back to the safety of the party. But then, through the haze of her own pleasure, a name tumbled from her lips.
"Greg… Ninong…"
The shock was electric. The girl he had seen as innocent was calling for him in her most private moment. The envy and exhaustion that had plagued him all day vanished, replaced by a predatory, overwhelming heat. He didn't think at all. He simply stepped back, locked the door with a quiet click, and moved into the shadows toward her.
"Shhh," he whispered as she jolted, her eyes snapping open in terror. He pulled back the thin curtain of her hair, his face appearing in the dim light. "I won't tell a soul. It's our secret."
Selene's fear was a fragile thing, quickly consumed by the very hunger she had been trying to satisfy alone. She had experimented before—a boy from class named Clarence—but this was different. This was the man who had occupied her thoughts, the forbidden figure of authority she had watched from afar.
"Do you want my help?" he asked, his voice a low growl.
"P-po?" She gasped, but she didn't move away.
The mattress groaned under his weight as he sat beside her. The air between them was thick, charged with the kind of electricity that precedes a storm. Greg leaned in, his tongue tracing the line of her throat, and the last of his restraint shattered.
What followed was a descent into a madness neither was prepared for. He was a man of large appetites and heavy build, a stark contrast to her lithe, youthful frame. He tasted her like a man dying of thirst, ignoring the voice in his head that screamed of betrayal.
"Ninong, it hurts..." she cried out as he moved to claim her, her eyes welling with tears of shock.
"It only hurts at first," he promised, his voice devoid of his usual gentleness. He was blinded now, driven by a primal need to bridge the gap between his hollow life and her vibrant youth.
As the party continued just a few hallways away—as the maids carried more liquor to the masters and the children played in the grass—Greg tore through the boundaries of his life. The bed creaked with a violent rhythm, the sound masked by the heavy curtains and the thick walls of the estate.
When it was over, he lay back on the narrow cot, his breath ragged, the silence of the room suddenly deafening. The alcohol had cleared, leaving only the cold reality of what he had done. He looked at Selene; her hair was a mess, her gaze distant and dazed.
"Selene?" he whispered, a sudden, sharp fear piercing his chest.
She turned to him, her expression shifting from shock to something darker, more possessive. She draped a leg over him, her voice a soft, haunting echo in the dark.
"I want more, Ninong. Don't stop."
Greg left the room fifteen minutes later, straightening his tie and smoothing his hair. He walked back into the party, a ghost among the living. He sat across from Luis, shared a final drink, and made his excuses, his mind a frantic loop of the scandal he now carried.
When he finally reached his own home, he didn't go to Mayette for comfort. He went to her to exorcise the image of Selene. He took his wife with a ferocity that startled her, using her body as a canvas for the guilt and lust he couldn't name.
"Why are you so intense tonight?" Mayette gasped, her voice full of a confused pleasure.
Greg didn't answer. He couldn't. He just closed his eyes and saw Selene in the dark, her voice whispering the one thing that would undo him.
I want more.