Chapter 5 My Neighbor's trophy wife

"Welcome to the neighborhood, dear," my mother said with a practiced smile. "What a blessing to have such a beautiful couple here at last. Truly, the former tenants are no loss." Her words, sweet as honey, masked the bitterness beneath.

For Lisa and Susan had already sown their whispers. They despised the woman, despised the way she moved, adorned in garments they deemed too scant, too shameless. I had overheard their bickering, their envy sharp as knives, fixated on the proud curve of her figure and the ease with which she gathered the eyes of every husband on the street.

Even my father, I noticed, could not resist a stolen glance. I caught it, and smiled to myself.

I was eighteen then, confident, untamed, former captain of the school lacrosse team, with a body carved for strength and victory.

My new neighbors were quite the spectacle, and it was no wonder they drew such attention. A Black man of sixty had married a white woman scarcely twenty-six, a model by trade, and retired her into a life of ease.

Old John, as the neighborhood called him, had cast aside his first wife not long ago. Rumor had it that their parting came with a handsome settlement, six million dollars, a house, and cars, secured by a prenuptial agreement. His sons were already managing the family company, and so life, for John, was comfortable indeed.

And so, he chose for himself a new bride: Eva.

She was striking, effortlessly beautiful, her figure the sort that turned heads without effort. It seemed her husband encouraged her bold attire, for she wore it with unashamed grace.

The housewarming they hosted was, according to Lisa, less about welcome and more about spectacle. Her husband, Mark, with a bitter laugh, added that "the old man only wished to brandish his old cock proudly".

She moved with grace through their newly furnished mansion, and somehow its beauty seemed to reflect her own. The housewarming was nothing short of splendid.

I kept mostly to myself, finding the other youths dull company. Instead, I lingered among the fathers, their words of praise showering me as one after another clapped my shoulder in congratulations for my scholarship to MIT. My grin grew with each gesture, my pride swelling.

I knew my father was proud as well, and my mother? She was already planning a celebration of her own.

And then oh, damn, she was walking toward me.

"Hello, Tom?" she asked brightly, her hand extended in greeting.

She came toward me with an air of effortless confidence, the light catching on her golden hair as though it sought her out alone.

"Hello, Tom?" she repeated, her voice lilting, warm yet commanding. She extended her hand, delicate but assured.

I took it, steadying my breath, and returned her smile. Her grip was firmer than I expected, her gaze direct, holding me there as if she meant to measure me in that single moment.

Around us, the laughter and clinking of glasses carried on, yet for an instant it felt as though the room itself had quieted.

I see you are quite well-liked in this neighborhood," she remarked, her smile carrying both warmth and curiosity. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine," I replied, inclining my head slightly as I released her hand. "Welcome to the neighborhood. I imagine everyone is eager to know you."

Her eyes glimmered with amusement. "Eager, perhaps, but not always kind. I can already feel the whispers in the air."

I dared a smile. "They whisper about everyone. It only means you've caught their attention."

"Is that so?" she said softly, her gaze steady, as though searching for something beneath my words. "Then tell me, Tom, what sort of attention do you give?"

Her question lingered between us, delicate yet disarming, until the hum of voices around us returned to claim the moment.

She held my gaze a heartbeat longer than courtesy required, her smile softening but never faltering.

"You carry yourself differently than the others," she said, her tone almost conspiratorial. "Confident, though not in a way that shouts. It's... intriguing."

I felt my grin tug wider, though I kept my voice even. "Careful, Mrs. Eva, someone might think you're flattering me."

Her eyes glimmered, and she leaned in just slightly, enough that the scent of her perfume reached me, warm, intoxicating. "Perhaps I am," she murmured. "But tell me, Tom... do you really mind?"

The laughter and music of the gathering swirled around us, but in that moment it was little more than a haze. All I could feel was the pull of her words, the deliberate weight of her attention, and the dangerous curiosity it sparked in me.

Her eyes didn't waver. If anything, the smile at her lips deepened, carrying a mischief that left little room for innocence.

"Do I mind?" I echoed, forcing a steady breath.

She tilted her head, the light catching her hair as she studied me. "No... I think you like being noticed. Perhaps even desired."

The word lingered between us, sharp and deliberate. My chest tightened, though I matched her gaze. "And if that were true?"

Her laugh was low, rich, almost sultry. "Then perhaps this neighborhood will be more interesting than I imagined."

For a moment, the distance between us seemed fragile, as though a single step, or a single choice, might shatter it entirely.

I searched her face for some trace of jest, but there was none. Only that smile, cool, dangerous, inviting.

She lifted her glass, sipping slowly, her eyes never leaving mine. "It seems," she said softly, "you understand far more than you let on. I like that."

The room around us swelled with laughter and chatter, yet it all blurred into background noise. Her words hung in the air, daring me to answer, daring me to step further, or not at all.

I returned her gaze with a steady smile, though my pulse betrayed me. "Then I suppose," I said at last, "we'll both have to see how interesting things become."

Her smile curved, sharper now, and with that she turned away, leaving me suspended in the heat of a moment unfinished.

A few minutes later, my mother drew me aside, her voice sharp with reproach. She warned me against standing too close to Eva, as though proximity itself were dangerous. I said nothing, only lingered at the edges and watched as the party slowly unraveled. One by one the neighbors departed, their laughter fading into the night.

John had drunk far too much; he slumped against the couch, nearly insensible. We were the last guests remaining, preparing to leave, when my mother noticed Eva watching her husband with a bewildered expression.

"Why don't you stay and help her, Tom?" my mother suggested. "It would be cruel to let her put the place back together on her own."

I caught the hesitation in her eyes, she disliked the thought of me remaining, though her reasoning seemed sound. It was nine o'clock, and our home was only a short walk down the street. In a gated community with guards on watch, there was little cause for concern.

And so, reluctantly, she agreed to leave me there.

The door shut behind my parents, their voices trailing off into the quiet night. Silence settled in the vast house, broken only by the faint hum of music still playing and John's uneven breathing from the couch.

Eva exhaled, her shoulders sinking as though the performance of the evening had finally ended. She glanced at me, her eyes softer now, stripped of the polished charm she'd worn all night.

"Thank you for staying," she said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "He's heavier than he looks, and I'd never manage alone."

I nodded, moving toward John. Together we shifted his weight, her hand brushing against mine in the process, a small, fleeting touch that carried more awareness than it should have. We settled him back into a more comfortable position, his snores deepening as though to mark his absence from the room.

Eva straightened, catching her breath, and with a faint smile turned to me. "Well," she murmured, "it seems the night isn't over just yet."

She was standing close, far too close. Her perfume lingered in the air, warm and intoxicating, and when I met her gaze, there was no mistaking the heat in her eyes.

"Thank you," she whispered, though her voice carried more than gratitude.

Before I could respond, her hand slipped to my chest, fingers splaying lightly across the fabric of my shirt. The touch was soft, but it burned through me like a spark to dry wood.

I froze, torn between sense and the pull of her nearness. She tilted her head, lips curving into the faintest, daring smile. "You don't have to go just yet, do you?"

Her thumb traced the line of my collar, slow and deliberate. The silence pressed in on us, John's snoring, the only witness.