Chapter 3: Power, Dreams, and Disillusionment

You wiped his body after his shower, but he seized your soft hand, pressing it against himself. He was bolder now, his grip tighter, as if you were a lifeline in a sea of rules and restrictions. The steam from the bathroom clung to your skin, mixing with the electricity in the air.

He begged you to stay with him that night, to keep him company. His voice had lost its boyish whine, replaced by the gravel of longing. You read the plea in his eyes, the desperation of a caged animal searching for an escape.

You pulled your hand away, feigning aloofness. “Mrs. Caldwell forbids the staff from seducing the boss. You should focus on your studies.” You said it with a smirk, your eyes flicking toward the closed door as if Mrs. Caldwell might appear at any moment. It was your armor, your shield in a house full of invisible landmines.

Since being caught by Mrs. Walker in bed with a maid, the boss had abstained for quite some time. You could almost hear the ticking of the clock, marking every day of his forced celibacy. You wondered if he kept track, too, counting each night as a deprivation.

Never having tasted pleasure was one thing, but having it and then being deprived—his longing grew even stronger. It was like a kid denied dessert after getting a taste; the craving only deepened. He eyed you as if you were the last slice of cake at a family reunion.

Your refusal only fueled his desire. Full of youthful vigor, he pulled you into his arms. His grip was insistent, a storm bottled up too long. You felt a shiver run through you—not fear, but the thrill of power, knowing you could make him beg with just a word or a glance.

This time, you played it smart: you gave him just enough to whet his appetite, then withdrew before he was fully satisfied. You learned to dance at the edge, letting him think he was in control, keeping him hungry enough to return but never sated enough to forget you. It was a balancing act worthy of any Southern belle or reality TV villain.

The boss became dependent on you; he had to coax you. You watched him jump through hoops—bringing you flowers pilfered from the garden, slipping you extra slices of pie, offering whispered promises if only you’d stay the night. You almost pitied him, but not quite.

Whenever there was good food or entertainment, he thought of you. He studied hard, just as you asked. You felt his gaze on you during family dinners, the way he smiled at you when he brought home a good grade. The house buzzed with his good behavior, and you basked in the reflected glow.

Everyone in the house knew you were the favored maid at the boss’s side, and treated you with respect. Other staff began to greet you with cautious deference, stepping aside in the hallway, offering you first pick of pastries at breakfast. In the unspoken hierarchy, you were no longer just another pair of hands.

When Mrs. Caldwell asked the family tutor about the boss’s studies, she got the answer she wanted and was well pleased with you. You could see the pride in her posture as she listened to reports—her son was finally shaping up, and you were her secret weapon. Your allowance increased, your room brightened with fresh flowers.

For a while, you almost felt there was no difference between you and the legitimate wife. You played the part so well, you almost believed it yourself—waking up in the master’s bed, reading the paper over his shoulder, watching him nod off during Sunday football. The illusion was warm and heavy, like an old quilt.

But one day, the boss went to a strip club with his cousins and discovered a whole new world. The scandal hit the household like a tornado warning—whispers in the kitchen, tense phone calls, Mrs. Caldwell’s voice rising above the clatter of dinner prep. You pictured the neon glow and sticky barstools, the kind of place where dreams and dignity go to die.

Men—too much satisfaction is a problem, but too little is just as bad. You wondered if it was the same everywhere—if every privileged boy needed to push at boundaries, to rebel just enough to feel alive.

You pressed your brow in frustration, spent a little money, and had a trusted staff member report this to Mr. Caldwell. You made the call in a hushed voice, passing along the rumor as delicately as possible. It was a gamble, but you knew the rules: sometimes you had to stir the pot to keep your spot at the table.

The boss was punished and put on house arrest. The news spread fast, and the house felt quieter. You heard the click of locks, saw the patrols tighten. The Caldwell reputation was at stake, and no one took that lightly.

When you went to see him, you found him biting his lip, tears in his eyes—not from remorse, but from resentment at his lack of freedom. He looked every bit the sulking teenager, pacing his room like a caged lion. You sat with him, letting the silence settle, waiting for him to speak.

He said he wanted to become capable, to have his own house, to be surrounded by a loving wife and beautiful women, to come and go as he pleased, to visit strip clubs whenever he wished. His words spilled out in a rush, an unfiltered wish list scribbled in adolescent ink. You almost laughed at the honesty of it, the sheer American ambition and entitlement woven together.

You couldn’t help but laugh aloud. You doubled over, the sound ringing through the room. He blinked, offended, but you couldn’t stop—the absurdity was too much, the dream so narrow and familiar it stung.

You laughed at his childishness—other men aspired to travel the world and achieve great things, but his dream of independence was all about wives, girlfriends, and strip clubs. You imagined him with a bumper sticker reading "My Other Car is a Midlife Crisis," the kind of guy who peaked at prom. The laughter faded, leaving you hollow.

Yet as you laughed, your heart grew cold. A chill set in, the knowledge that your whole future depended on the whims of this man-child. It made your skin crawl, your dreams wither.

So this was your dream: to be the legitimate wife of such a man. You saw yourself in the role—apron, pearls, empty smile—trapped forever. The thought made your stomach twist.

Even more absurd, you had worked so hard for it, yet it remained forever out of reach. You realized you’d been playing the lottery with your heart, and the numbers just weren’t coming up. You’d been climbing a ladder propped against the wrong house. You weren’t just heartbroken—you were free, in a way, from the illusion itself.