Rose walks through the door looking like she just finished a degree and a wild few months abroad. Stuart the butler is waiting like always, arms folded behind his back. She drops her bag and tells him the bad news—Mom and Dad are gone and the will splits everything fifty-fifty, him included. She cracks a grin and says they should just roll with it, share the place, no more work for him. He bristles like she slapped him, and she backpedals fast: fine, fine, he can keep waiting on her if he wants. Next day she strolls into the laundry room and catches him scrubbing her panties in a sink of suds. Stuart holds a bright-pink thong between two fingers, whistles, and tells her the color and the cut are doing a hell of a job. She snatches it out of his hand and backs away. Later, at the dining table, she’s ready to eat when he sneaks up, jams a napkin into her collar like she’s six. She jerks her head, snaps that she’s not a kid anymore. He says sorry, then lets the napkin slip into her lap while his hand lingers between her thighs. She knocks his wrist away, face hot. After a long shower she steps out naked, water still dripping, only to find him standing there holding a towel like a well-trained servant—or a voyeur. She tells him he’s officially a creep. Stuart sighs, lays his cards out: he’s been hard for her since she grew up. She’s disgusted, threatens to walk, but balks at the idea of losing the house. He shrugs, says he’ll sign everything over and disappear—just once, skin to skin, and the place is all hers. They strike a quiet, filthy bargain right there on the bathroom tiles.
Rose walks through the door looking like she just finished a degree and a wild few months abroad. Stuart the butler is waiting like always, arms folded behind his back. She drops her bag and tells him the bad news—Mom and Dad are gone and the will splits everything fifty-fifty, him included. She cracks a grin and says they should just roll with it, share the place, no more work for him. He bristles like she slapped him, and she backpedals fast: fine, fine, he can keep waiting on her if he wants. Next day she strolls into the laundry room and catches him scrubbing her panties in a sink of suds. Stuart holds a bright-pink thong between two fingers, whistles, and tells her the color and the cut are doing a hell of a job. She snatches it out of his hand and backs away. Later, at the dining table, she’s ready to eat when he sneaks up, jams a napkin into her collar like she’s six. She jerks her head, snaps that she’s not a kid anymore. He says sorry, then lets the napkin slip into her lap while his hand lingers between her thighs. She knocks his wrist away, face hot. After a long shower she steps out naked, water still dripping, only to find him standing there holding a towel like a well-trained servant—or a voyeur. She tells him he’s officially a creep. Stuart sighs, lays his cards out: he’s been hard for her since she grew up. She’s disgusted, threatens to walk, but balks at the idea of losing the house. He shrugs, says he’ll sign everything over and disappear—just once, skin to skin, and the place is all hers. They strike a quiet, filthy bargain right there on the bathroom tiles.