The announcement at the estate reading dumbstruck Isabella. Her estranged ex-husband, now deceased, left the entire estate to his newest wife, Donna, a lawyer and executor of his estate. Worse, during their father’s illness, Donna had a falling out with the family who is now forced to move into Isabella’s humble abode. The college athlete, her husband’s first born from his first wife (also deceased), the college cheerleader, Isabella’s daughter, and the computer college grad, also hers.

Chapter 7: The Price of Relief

The massage recliner hummed to life, its warm leather pressing into Isabella’s back as the rollers began their slow, methodical work. Donna circled her like a shark in calm waters, heels clicking softly against the marble floor. "Relax, Isabella," she murmured, voice dripping with false concern. "You’re wound so tight—it’s bad for your skin." The scent of lavender oil mixed with something sharper, something chemical, clinging to the air.

Donna’s thumb brushed Isabella’s navel, the touch light enough to deny but deliberate enough to make her stomach clench. The rollers dug deeper into her lower back, forcing a gasp from her lips. "Marco isn’t tense," Donna mused, lips curling. "Not at all. I bet he’s loose as a goose." The words landed like a slap, and Isabella jerked, but the recliner held her in place.

"Leave him out of this," Isabella hissed, cheeks burning. The heat spread down her neck, betraying her. Donna’s laugh was low, amused, as she pressed down on Isabella’s shoulder, grinding her deeper into the kneading rollers. "Oh, but he’s the whole point, isn’t he?" Her breath was warm against Isabella’s ear. "I noticed your cheeks are flushed. Have you seen him? All of him?"

The rollers hit a knot near her spine, sharp and punishing. Isabella bit back a groan, nails digging into the armrests. "I don’t know what you’re talking about." Donna’s fingers trailed up her neck, slow, possessive. "Liar," she whispered. "You’ve seen him. That body, those muscles… hard to miss, right?" The recliner’s rhythm intensified, pounding into her like a heartbeat.

"Stop it, Donna." Isabella’s voice cracked. Donna leaned in, lips brushing her ear. "Imagine those hands on you. Not just a quick squeeze on the shoulder—really on you." She pressed down hard, grinding Isabella’s shoulder into the roller. A strangled noise escaped Isabella’s throat, her robe slipping open another inch. "You’re disgusting," she spat.

Donna chuckled, the sound dark and knowing. "Am I? Or am I just saying what you’re thinking?" Her thumb traced Isabella’s collarbone, lingering. "He’s a beautiful boy. And he needs someone to guide him." The rollers shifted lower, working her glutes with relentless pressure.

Isabella clenched her fists. "He doesn’t need you."

"Doesn’t he?" Donna’s voice dropped to a purr. "He’s lost, Isabella. Confused. He needs someone strong." The recliner vibrated suddenly, the new sensation wringing a gasp from Isabella. Donna’s hand slid to her hip, possessive. "Think about it. College for all three of them. A future they could never dream of." She pressed down again, forcing Isabella into the humming machine. "All you have to do is say yes."

Isabella groaned, her body arching against the conflicting sensations—pleasure, pain, revulsion. The air was thick with jasmine and musk, suffocating. "I… I don’t know," she whispered, the words barely audible over the recliner’s relentless hum

Donna’s fingers tightened on her hip, nails biting through the silk. "Don’t lie to yourself, Isabella. You want to see him up close—feel that heat radiating off him." The rollers pulsed against her spine, matching the rhythm of her shallow breaths. "The way he fills a room just by standing there."

Isabella’s fingers clenched and unclenched. "Dammit, Donna." Her voice cracked.

Donna’s laugh was low, throaty. "Oh, don’t pretend you haven’t noticed." The recliner shifted, pressing deeper between her shoulder blades. "He’s got that youthful energy," Donna murmured, lips brushing her ear. "So much raw power, ready to be unleashed." Her hand slid lower, fingertips tracing the curve of Isabella’s waist. "I bet his skin is tight—smooth, like a ripe peach."

A shiver ran down Isabella’s spine. "Stop it," she gasped, but the words lacked conviction. The rollers worked their magic, loosening her muscles—and her inhibitions. Donna’s thigh pressed against hers, warm and insistent. "Imagine running your hands over those shoulders," she whispered. "Feeling the muscles bunch and flex beneath your fingers." Isabella’s breath hitched. "He’s built like a god, Isabella. A young, virile god."

Isabella took a deep breath, but the scent of lavender mixed with Donna’s perfume made her dizzy. "And those legs," Donna continued, voice husky. "Powerful thighs, honed from years of sports." Her hand slid further down, grazing Isabella’s thigh through the silk. "Rock-hard. Begging to be touched." Isabella squeezed her eyes shut, but the images flooded in anyway—Marco’s body, strong and golden. The rollers pounded against her lower back, relentless.

Donna’s lips brushed her neck, sending sparks down her spine. "Think about the way he moves," she murmured. "That effortless grace. That animal magnetism." Her fingers traced the outline of Isabella’s breast, slow, deliberate. "A force of nature, waiting to be tamed." Isabella moaned, the sound ripped from her throat. "No," she breathed, but her body arched into the touch.

"And that mouth," Donna whispered, thumb circling her nipple through the silk. "Full, sensual lips—begging to be kissed." The robe slipped further, baring skin. "I bet he tastes like sunshine and sin."

"Imagine him naked," Donna purred. "Every inch sculpted to perfection." Her fingers slid beneath the robe, warm against bare flesh. "A masterpiece."

The recliner vibrated again, wringing a cry from Isabella’s lips.

"And that cock," Donna breathed, voice thick with lust. "Thick. Hard. Throbbing with need." Her fingers dug into Isabella’s thigh. "Ready to explode inside you." Isabella’s hips jerked involuntarily. "Stop," she pleaded, but Donna ignored her, fingers sliding between her legs. "Think about the pleasure, Isabella," she murmured. "Raw. Primal." The touch sent a shockwave through her. "He’ll take you places you’ve never been."

Isabella cried out, back arching off the recliner. The world narrowed to Donna’s voice, Donna’s hands, the relentless pressure building inside her. "Say yes," Donna whispered, triumphant. "Just say yes." The words hung in the air, heavy with promise—and damnation. Isabella’s lips parted. The room spun. Somewhere, a clock ticked, counting down the seconds until her surrender.

Isabella's breath came in shallow gasps as the image burned behind her eyelids—Marco, naked and glistening, his powerful body moving over hers. The fantasy was so vivid she could almost feel the heat of his skin, the weight of him pressing her into the recliner. Her thighs clenched involuntarily.

"No!" The word tore from her throat, raw and desperate, echoing off the spa's tiled walls. Her back arched as pleasure detonated through her—sharp, shameful, utterly beyond her control. The silk robe clung to her damp skin as she collapsed back against the recliner, trembling. "No," she whispered, pressing a hand to her flushed face.

Donna's smirk was a knife twisting in her gut. "Interesting," she purred, withdrawing her fingers with deliberate slowness. She examined her manicure like she'd just discovered a fascinating new species. "So you're not completely immune after all."

Isabella shoved herself upright, yanking the robe closed with shaking hands. "Get away from me," she spat, voice cracking. She swung her legs over the side of the recliner, bare feet slapping against cold marble. "I'm leaving."

A low chuckle. "Running away?" Donna didn't move from her perch, swirling her champagne lazily. "That's not very brave, Isabella." The glass clinked as she set it down. "Think of your kids."

Isabella's hand froze on the doorknob. Tony's lopsided grin flashed in her mind—the way his eyes lit up when he talked about engineering school. Sofia's college social networking that whispered promises of advancement. Marco's quiet determination as he lifted weights in their cramped backyard. College. Security. A future without crushing debt.

She turned slowly. "Fine." The word tasted like bile. "I'll help you. But on my terms."

Donna's eyebrow arched. "Oh?" She crossed her legs, silk whispering. "Do tell."

Isabella forced her chin up. "I'll... push Marco towards you." Her stomach roiled. "But he makes the final call. No coercion. No manipulation." She swallowed hard. "And if he says no, that's it."

Donna tapped a fingernail against her glass. "And why would you do that?" Her gaze sharpened. "What's really in it for you, Isabella?"

"The tuition." The lie came easily. Too easily. Isabella clenched her fists in the robe. "And to... remove the temptation. He's too young. He's, my son. It's wrong."

Donna's laughter rang out, sharp as broken glass. "You're a terrible liar." She leaned forward, cleavage straining against silk. "But I don't care about your pathetic little guilt complex." Her smile turned predatory. "As long as I get what I want."

Isabella stepped closer, close enough to smell Donna's cloying perfume. "One more thing." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "You hurt him? Use him and toss him aside?" She bared her teeth. "I'll ruin you. I'll tell every society bitch at your country club exactly what you are."

For a heartbeat, Donna's mask slipped—just a flicker of unease in those cold eyes. Then she laughed, tossing her hair. "Don't threaten me, darling." She stood, towering in her heels. "You're not exactly in a position to make demands."

Isabella held her gaze. "Try me." She turned on her heel, robe flaring behind her. "I'm all they've got."

As mask of fury covered Isabella's face. "Now, where are my clothes?" she demanded, her voice bouncing off the sterile white walls like a gunshot. The spa music—some pan-flute crap—kept playing like nothing was wrong.

Donna didn't even look up. She just gestured lazily toward a small closet with her champagne flute. "Help yourself, darling." A slow sip. "Though, I must say, that robe becomes you." The silk clung to Isabella's curves, the deep crimson making her olive skin glow—which only pissed her off more.

Isabella ignored the jab and yanked open the closet door hard enough to make the hinges whine. Her clothes were folded with military precision on a shelf, smelling faintly of lavender and defeat. She grabbed them, the familiar cotton of her bra rough against her fingertips after all that slick silk. "You had them washed?" she snapped, shaking out her jeans like they might bite her.

"Drycleaned, faster. Don't forget your purse," Donna called out, stretching the words like taffy. Her eyes flicked to the recliner where Isabella's battered crossbody sat. "Wouldn't want to leave without your... bargaining chips." The smirk was audible.

Isabella snatched her purse so hard the strap groaned. She didn't trust herself to speak—just turned her back and stared at herself in the mirror. "I'm keeping your damn robe."

Isabella yanked the silk tighter around her waist as Donna's laughter taunted her. The fabric slithered against her bare skin like a second conscience, whispering about all the ways she'd just compromised herself. She fumbled with her bra clasp, the cheap plastic digging into her back as she struggled to fasten it one-handed.

"Need help with that?" Donna called from her reclined position, swirling champagne with infuriating calm.

Isabella flipped her off without turning around. "Go to hell. Don't think I won't leave like this."

She grabbed the robe's sash and knotted it with a vicious yank. The silk whispered against her bare thighs as she turned toward the door. "Consider this my 'fuck you' tax," she spat over her shoulder, the words bouncing off the marble walls.

Donna's laughter followed her, rich and throaty. "Suit yourself, darling." The champagne flute clinked as she set it down. "Though I doubt that scrap of fabric will make much of a dent in your... financial woes." A pause. "Besides, it suits you better than you'd like to admit."

Isabella's fingers twitched toward the doorknob. "Just so we're clear," she said without turning, "this doesn't change anything. I'm only helping you for my kids. You're still a manipulative bitch."

"Oh, Isabella." Donna sighed dramatically. "Must you always be so predictable?" Silk rustled as she shifted. "I was hoping we could move past name-calling into something more... mutually beneficial."

"Don't hold your breath." The door slammed behind her with satisfying finality.

The hallway stretched before her, all soft lighting and piped-in pan flute music that made her teeth ache. She marched forward, bare feet slapping against cool tile. Every step sent the robe's hem fluttering against her thighs—a constant reminder of what she'd just agreed to.

The receptionist's serene smile faltered when she saw Isabella storming toward her in nothing but the stolen robe. "Ms. Rossi, is everything—"

"Peachy." Isabella shoved through the glass doors before the woman could finish.

Sunlight hit like a slap after the spa's dim interior. She blinked against the glare, suddenly hyperaware of how exposed she was—no shoes, no proper clothes, just this damn silk clinging to every curve. A valet gaped at her from beside a Tesla. "Problem?" she snapped.

The kid shook his head fast, cheeks flushing.

Her Civic waited where she'd left it, its chipped paint and dented bumper looking pathetic beside the rows of luxury cars. The asphalt burned her feet as she hurried toward it. Keys jangled in her shaking hands—three tries before she got the damn door open.

The car's interior smelled like stale coffee and sun-baked vinyl. She collapsed into the driver's seat, the robe gaping dangerously as she yanked the door shut. "Dammit," she whispered, pressing her forehead to the steering wheel. The leather was hot against her skin.