Chapter 2: Rules, Rituals, and Unspoken Hunger

"Just say it." Rachel Wells didn’t even look up, her voice as cool and low as ever. "How much money do you want?"

She didn’t even look up, but I caught the way her fingers tightened on the keyboard, the only sign she might actually care. I watched her closely, trying to read the emotion in the set of her jaw.

My anxious heart slowly settled down.

Even though I have a reputation as a spoiled, rich kid, my aunt Rachel Wells is known for her education and integrity—a star in the cutthroat business world, as bright and open as the sun and moon.

The local paper once did a full spread on her: RACHEL WELLS, THE RISING STAR OF MIDWESTERN FINANCE. I remember seeing her photo taped to the fridge, right next to my report cards. She has that way about her, a presence that draws respect from boardrooms and PTA meetings alike. Sometimes I wonder if she learned to smile for the cameras before she learned to smile for herself.

Raised on old-fashioned values, she’s even more conservative and proper than most, upholding rules and rituals. When my parents died, she was entrusted to raise me, watching me grow up.

The first day she took me home from the hospital, she tucked me in so tight I could barely move, her perfume lingering on the pillow long after she left the room. "We keep our promises here, Alex," she’d said softly.

Outsiders say she’s more than just an aunt by blood—she’s closer than family.

People at church potlucks and neighborhood block parties always whisper, "That’s the Wells boy. Rachel’s practically his mom, isn’t she?"

How could Rachel, this paragon of virtue, obsessed only with her career, possibly be the depraved woman lusting after her nephew that the comments described?

It just didn’t compute. She’s the one who makes me eat broccoli and finish college applications—how could I believe anything else?

I must have been seeing things.

Seeing me still standing there, Rachel lifted her slender eyelids and glanced at the open office door. "Aren’t you going to chase after her?"

Her tone was casual, but I saw the faintest pinch between her brows. Her eyes flicked to the clock, just for a second, betraying a flash of discomfort—like she’d rather be anywhere but refereeing my love life.

I sighed. "Forget it. I can’t catch up."

Because of that barrage interruption, my girlfriend had already gone far.