Chapter one: The weight of Gravity z
chapter One: The Weight of Gravity
Abigail Macron
Caleb’s voice echoed in my room, and my head became empty once again. The deep, resonant timbre of his laughter bypassed my logic, stripping away my dignity until there was nothing left but a basic, desperate need.
My fingers, acting on an excited mind of their own, found their way to my thighs, trembling as they pushed my skimpy flair skirt up. I didn't stop until the fabric was bunched around my waist, exposing the lace of my panties to the cool air of the room. I wasn't minding my environment anymore as I began to feel pleasure.
"Caleb," Caleb……. I heard myself cry, the name, a rough sob that tore from my lungs. My back arched, my spine a taut bow, imagining him hearing me, touching me, sucking me.
I imagined him leaving my father downstairs mid-sentence, abandoning their Scotch and their talk of millions to come running to me in a hurry, I imagined him unbuttoning his shirt in a hurry, taking off his pants. All these imaginations in my head as I use my fingers to caress myself.
I could almost feel the weight of his boots on the stairs, the door bursting open, and those massive, possessive hands finally claiming what I had been offering him in secret for years.
I was twenty years away from being the small, golden-haired child he used to bounce on his knee, and light-years away from the "good girl" my father proudly thought he had raised in this prestigious, gated cage of a mansion.
In my mind, the distance between us wasn't measured in years, but in the agonizing heat of what my skin was feeling.
I closed my eyes tight, the darkness behind my lids conjuring a vision of Caleb’s large, calloused hands; hands that looked like they could crush steel or cradle glass, replacing my own.
I imagined his massive frame looming over me, his shadow eclipsing the very light of the sun, making the rest of the world go dark until he was the only thing left.
I was so utterly lost in the friction and the illicit fantasy of my father’s best friend that I became stone-deaf to the actual house around me.
The low hum of their conversation—talk of "aggressive investments" and "diversified portfolios"—was merely white noise to the localized storm brewing in my own blood. My pulse was a drumbeat, my breath a series of shallow, frantic gasps. I was seconds away from the edge, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird desperate to break its wings against the cage.
Then, the sharp, metallic click of the door handle severed the tension like a guillotine blade.
The world crashed back into focus with a violence that made my stomach churn. I bolted upright, my heart stopping mid-beat as adrenaline replaced the haze of pleasure.
My hand scrambled with clumsy, humiliating urgency to pull my skirt down, my face burning with a searing heat that had nothing to do with my previous activities and everything to do with pure, unadulterated terror.
If it was my father, I was dead. There was no explanation for the state of me, no excuse for the way the room smelled of sweat and expensive perfume, and no way to hide the flush on my throat.
If David Macron saw his daughter breathless and disheveled while calling out his business partner's name, the world as I knew it would end in a heartbeat. I stood on the precipice of total ruin.
But the figure framed in the doorway wasn't my father.
It was my bestie Jasmine standing there, her hand still frozen on the brass knob, her designer shopping bags slipping slightly from her hands. Her eyes were wide, darting from my flushed chest to my trembling, slick hands, and then to the floor—as if she could still hear the ghost of the name I’d just moaned into the silence of the room.
"Abby?" she breathed, her voice an elaborate cocktail of shock and a sudden, sharp curiosity.
I couldn't even speak. I just stared at her, my lungs burning. Downstairs, the ice clinked musically in a crystal glass, and Caleb’s voice rose again, smooth and authoritative: "It’s a risky move, David, but the payoff is worth the gamble. We play the long game here."
Jasmine’s head slanted slowly. She looked at the floor, then back at me, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across her lips. She stepped inside, closing the door behind her with a soft, intentional thud.
"So," she whispered, leaning back against the doorframe. "It’s not just a silly teenage crush anymore, is it? You’re actually losing your mind over your dad’s best friend, are you in your right frame of mind? I thought those looks you gave him were just... Well, I thought you were just hungry. I didn't realize you were that hungry for this man" of all the men in the world. Your dad's right hand man.
"Jasmine, please," I gasped, finally finding my voice. "You can't tell anyone. It’s... it’s sick. This man is practically family. My father would kill me, and Caleb would... God, he'd never look at me again."
Jasmine walked toward the bed, her eyes gleaming with a mischief that made my stomach flip. She didn't look disgusted; and she looked impressed.
"Family is just a social construct, Abby. That man downstairs? He isn't an 'uncle.' He’s a god in a bespoke suit. He’s forty, he’s wealthy, and he looks at you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle he isn't allowed to touch. Do you think I haven't seen the way his jaw tightens when you walk into a room?"
I shook my head, my hands still shaking as I smoothed the stubborn wrinkles in my skirt. "He thinks of me as a kid. He probably still thinks I’m playing with dolls here. For heaven's sake he still calls me 'Kiddo'.
Jasmine leaned in close, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss.
"He calls you that because he’s terrified of what happens if he uses your real name. He’s right down there, Abby. The 'Silver Fox' is right within reach, distracted by Scotch and spreadsheets. Are you going to stay up here shaking, or are you going to go down there and give him something to really worry about?"
I looked at the door, the heavy wood that separated my sanctuary from the lion's den downstairs. I turned to my reflection in the vanity mirror. My hair was a wild, static mess, my eyes were dark and dilated, and my lips were swollen from being bitten. I didn't look like a child. I looked like a woman who had spent a lifetime starving for the one thing she was never allowed to taste.
"Go," Jasmine urged, giving me a playful shove toward the door. She reached onto my vanity, grabbed a dark red lipstick, and tossed it to me. "Fix your hair, lose that cardigan, and walk down those stairs. Remind him that you aren't wearing pigtails anymore. Show him exactly what he's been missing."
I caught the lipstick, my fingers closing tight around the cool metal. I brushed my hair until it fell nicely over my shoulders like a silken curtain. I used the deep red color across my lips, making my mouth look lush and attractive. I removed the oversized sweater I’d been hiding behind, revealing the silk camisole that clung to my curves like a second skin.
My heart was still beating but the terror was being slowly eclipsed by a cold, sharp clarity. Jasmine was inline. It was time to stop praying in the dark and start playing in the light. I stood up, straightened my spine, and prepared to face the man who haunted my every waking thought.
I walked to the door, my heels clicking softly against the wood—a countdown to a confrontation that would bring a change to everything. I opened the door and stepped out onto the landing, the heat of the house rising to meet me like a challenge. I was going down, and I was definitely not planning on coming back up alone. Caleb wanted to talk about risky moves and high payoffs? Fine. I was about to become the most dangerous investment of his life.
