Chapter 4: The Secret Recording
Isabella’s knuckles hovered inches from Sofia’s door, her fingers curled into a fist that carried the weight of a thousand mom-lectures. Privacy, respect, boundaries—all the usual suspects lined up in her mind, ready to be deployed. But then she hesitated. Was this really the hill to die on? Sofia was nineteen, not nine. Hormones happened. Awkwardness happened. And honestly, confronting her now would mean admitting she’d been snooping in the first place.
She let her hand drop with a quiet sigh, rolling her shoulders to ease the tension. Better to let it go. Chalk it up to bad timing and worse living arrangements. She turned on her heel, already mentally drafting a grocery list to distract herself.
Then she heard it—a soft, breathy sound, muffled but unmistakable. Not the TV. Not a sniffle. Something… else. Isabella froze, her pulse kicking up a notch.
Her ear pressed against the door before she could stop herself. Another whimper, followed by the rustle of fabric. Was Sofia crying? Or—no. No, no, no. That wasn’t crying. That was—
"Shit," she muttered under her breath. That noise was a moan.
A very specific kind of moan. Isabella's stomach dropped like she'd missed a step on the stairs. "Oh god," she whispered, pressing her forehead against the doorframe. This was so far beyond awkward it circled back to hilarious.
Her eyes darted around the hallway like a trapped animal, landing on the cold air return vent near the floor. The old house had plenty of quirks—doors that stuck, windows that rattled, and vents that doubled as peepholes if you were desperate enough.
She knelt with a grunt, her knees popping like bubble wrap. The vent cover was held by two rusted screws that looked like they hadn't been touched since the Reagan administration. "Damn it," she muttered, digging in her pocket for a coin.
The quarter slipped twice before catching the screw's groove. "Come on you little—" A metallic squeak cut her off as the first screw turned. Dust rained down, tickling her nose. She sneezed violently, barely muffling it in her sleeve.
The second screw came easier, clinking against the hardwood as it fell. The vent cover wobbled in her hands, revealing a dark tunnel just big enough to fit a face—if you didn't mind eating decades of dust bunnies.
Isabella hesitated, her conscience doing battle with her curiosity. "This is so messed up," she whispered. Then she leaned in anyway.
The angle was terrible—mostly floorboards and the underside of Sofia's dresser. But if she craned her neck just right...
There. The edge of Sofia's bed came into view, illuminated by the eerie blue glow of her phone. The girl herself was propped against the headboard, cheeks flushed pink.
Sofia's free hand moved under the silk nightgown, fingers working in slow circles. Isabella's stomach did a backflip. "Oh," she breathed, fogging up the vent.
A soft whimper escaped Sofia's lips as she swiped left on her phone. Then right. Then left again, faster this time. The motion under the nightgown sped up to match.
Isabella's pulse pounded in her ears. She should leave. She really should. But morbid fascination rooted her in place as Sofia's breath hitched.
The phone screen tilted just enough for Isabella to catch a glimpse—tanned skin, water droplets, Marco's smirk in the shower. "Oh, fuck no," Isabella mouthed, recoiling so fast she smacked her head on the vent.
Sofia froze. "Hello? Marco?" Her voice was equal parts nervous and annoyed.
Isabella held her breath, silently replacing the vent cover. The screws rolled under her fingers as she fumbled to reattach it.
One in. Two in.
Isabella scrambled to her feet, heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The vent cover wobbled precariously as she shoved it back into place with trembling fingers. She had to get out of there—now—before Sofia realized someone had been watching her most private moment.
From behind Sofia's door came a soft, breathy moan. Isabella froze, her stomach twisting into knots. That wasn't just some random fantasy—that was her daughter getting off to Marco. Her Marco. Their Marco.
She tiptoed backward into the hallway wall, her pulse roaring in her ears. The image of Sofia's flushed face and Marco's naked body burned behind her eyelids. This wasn't just awkward—this was a whole new level of family dysfunction she wasn't prepared to handle.
The kitchen beckoned like a sanctuary. But Isabella froze in place against the wall.
Sofia's breath hitched, followed by the unmistakable rustle of fabric. The pace quickened—Isabella could hear it even through the walls. "Oh god," she whispered, her fingers digging into the drywall behind her.
The sounds intensified. Soft whimpers became breathy moans, each one laced with a desperate longing that made Isabella's skin crawl. A rhythmic slapping joined the chorus—wet, insistent, impossible to ignore.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
Isabella's stomach churned. She knew that sound. Knew exactly what it meant. "No no no," she muttered, pressing her hands over her ears.
"Marco..." Sofia's voice was barely a whisper, but it cut through the house like a knife. Isabella squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to disappear.
Slap. Slap. SLAP.
The rhythm grew frantic, the bedsprings creaking in protest. Isabella could practically feel the heat radiating from Sofia's room, could imagine the sweat-slicked skin, the tangled sheets—
"Oh, Marco..." Sofia's voice climbed higher, tight with need. Isabella's hands clenched into fists, her nails biting into her palms.
SLAP. SLAP. SLAP. SLAP.
Each impact echoed like a gunshot in the silent house. Isabella's breath came in short, panicked bursts. She had to leave. Now. Before—
"Marco... I want..." Sofia's words dissolved into a sharp gasp. The slaps reached a fever pitch, relentless and demanding.
SLAP. SLAP. SLAP. SLAP. SLAP.
Isabella's legs trembled. The air felt thick, suffocating. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
"Oh God, Marco—" Sofia's voice broke on a strangled cry. The bedframe slammed against the wall one final time.
Then—silence.
A shuddering, breathless silence.
Isabella stood frozen, her entire body rigid. The echo of those wet slaps and desperate moans rang in her ears.
She turned and fled, slamming into a hard, wet body.
The impact knocked the breath from her lungs. Her hands flew up instinctively, palms flattening against warm, damp skin that flexed under her touch. A sharp gasp escaped her lips as she registered the heat radiating from him.
Isabella jerked back, blinking water from her lashes. Marco loomed over her, shirtless and glistening, a towel slung dangerously low on his hips. Droplets clung to his dark lashes, making his hazel eyes appear almost golden in the dim hallway light. The scent of his body wash—something woodsy and expensive—filled her nose.
"Jesus, Isabella!" Marco's deep voice rumbled through the narrow space. He ran a hand through his damp hair, making the muscles in his chest ripple. "The hell you doing creeping around out here?" The towel slipped another inch, revealing the sharp V of his hips.
Her gaze dropped before she could stop it, taking in the water trails cutting through his defined abs. "I wasn't—" Her voice cracked. She forced her eyes back up to his smirking face. "Just getting water."
"Uh huh." Marco leaned one arm against the wall, caging her in. His bicep flexed near her ear. "At midnight? In the dark?" His breath smelled faintly of the whiskey he'd had after dinner.
Isabella swallowed hard, pressing back against the wall. "Couldn't sleep." The lie tasted bitter. Her fingers twitched at her sides, still tingling from where they'd touched his skin.
Marco's smirk widened. He shifted his weight, making the towel slip again. "Admiring the view?" His voice dropped to a teasing whisper. "Can't blame you. I do look good wet."
"Don't flatter yourself," she snapped, but her cheeks burned. The hallway felt suddenly airless, too warm. She could count each droplet sliding down his collarbone.
He leaned closer, his nose nearly brushing hers. "You sure? Your face is all red." His fingers grazed her cheek—light, testing. "And hot."
Isabella jerked away like she'd been burned. "I'm fine." Her voice came out too sharp. "Just tired. Long day." She edged sideways, desperate for escape. "Goodnight, Marco."
He let her pass, but not before his fingers trailed down her arm. "Sweet dreams, Isabella." The words curled around her like smoke.
She fled to the kitchen, knees weak. The fridge hummed loudly in the silent house. She yanked it open, letting the cold air wash over her flushed face.
The whiskey bottle called to her from the counter. She poured two fingers, then three, not bothering with ice. The burn down her throat matched the heat still prickling her skin.
From upstairs came the creak of the attic stairs. Then silence. She sagged against the counter, the glass trembling in her hand.
What the hell just happened? And why couldn't she stop picturing that damn towel slipping all the way? She drained the glass in one go.
The house seemed to hold its breath around her. Somewhere, Sofia was probably still... She cut that thought off with another pour.
Marco's smirk haunted her. His touch lingered on her skin. And that damn towel—
"Fuck," she muttered, rubbing her temples. This was a disaster. A hot, confusing, inappropriate disaster.
The whiskey burned less this time. She welcomed the numbness creeping in. Tomorrow, she'd figure this out. Tomorrow, she'd be rational.
Tonight? Tonight, she was getting very drunk.
Isabella downed another shot, the amber liquid scorching a path down her throat. She needed to forget Marco's abs, Sofia's infatuation, the whole damn mess. The whiskey bottle glinted under the kitchen lights, half-empty already. "To terrible decisions," she muttered, pouring another.
The bottle was nearly empty now, the label blurred through her bleary eyes. She swayed slightly as she stood, bracing herself against the counter. The room tilted alarmingly before righting itself. "Okay," she breathed, gripping the edge of the counter. "Maybe slow down."
A soft creak from the hallway made her jump. She spun around, heart pounding, expecting to see Marco looming again—all damp skin and that infuriating smirk.
Instead, Sofia stood in the doorway, her silk nightgown shimmering in the dim light. Her auburn hair was tousled, her cheeks still flushed from... well, Isabella didn't want to think about it. "Mom?" Sofia's voice was soft, hesitant. "Was Marco in the hall earlier?"
Isabella blinked, her brain struggling to catch up. Marco in the hall? Oh god, she'd almost forgotten. "Uh... yeah," she blurted out, without thinking. "He was."
Sofia's face lit up, her eyes sparkling with a giddy excitement that made Isabella's stomach churn. "Really?"
"Yeah," Isabella repeated, her voice a little too loud. "He was just... getting water." She cringed inwardly. Smooth, Mom. Real smooth.
Sofia didn't seem to notice. She clapped her hands together, a delighted giggle escaping her lips. "Oh my god!"
"Cheers!" Sofia exclaimed, raising an imaginary glass. She did a little shimmy, her nightgown swirling around her legs.
Isabella stared, dumbfounded, as Sofia sashayed back toward her bedroom, humming to herself. The door clicked shut, leaving Isabella alone in the kitchen with her rapidly dwindling bottle of whiskey.
"Oh, fuck me," Isabella muttered, finally realizing the implications of her careless answer. Sofia thought Marco had been lingering in the hallway... for her.
She stared at the whiskey bottle, her resolve crumbling. She lifted it to her lips, tilting it back for another long swallow.
Two more fingers of whiskey burned down her throat, chasing away the last vestiges of coherent thought. She needed to drown this whole situation in alcohol.
Isabella poured another generous shot, the amber liquid sloshing over the rim of the glass. "To denial," she mumbled, raising the glass in a mock toast. "And to forgetting I have children." She downed the whiskey in one gulp, the burn a welcome distraction from the chaos swirling in her head.
The bottle was empty now. She set it down with a clunk, blinking at the way the light refracted through the glass. The kitchen tilted again, but this time she didn't fight it.
She needed sleep. Or more whiskey. Preferably both.
Isabella staggered toward the stairs, gripping the railing for dear life. The steps seemed to stretch endlessly upward, a drunken Everest. "One foot in front of the other," she muttered.
Halfway up, she paused, swaying dangerously. A noise from above—soft, rhythmic. The attic stairs creaked under Marco's weight.
Isabella froze, her pulse kicking up. The memory of his damp skin, the way his towel had clung to his hips—
She shook her head violently. "Nope. Not thinking about that."
Another step. Another creak. The house seemed to conspire against her, every sound amplified by whiskey and exhaustion.
She made it to her bedroom door, fumbling with the knob. The room spun as she collapsed onto the bed, face-first into the pillows.
Tomorrow, she'd deal with this. Tomorrow, she'd be the responsible adult.
Tonight? Tonight, she was going to pass out and pretend none of this was happening.
The last thing Isabella heard before doing so was the giddy giggles of Sofia through the house. Giggles of mistaken hope.