Creep up the stairs to see what the noise is (father fucking Briana)

The stairs are a minefield of creaks and groans, each one a potential betrayal. I move slowly, testing each step with the ball of my foot before committing my weight, my hand sliding along the banister for balance. The wood is cool and smooth beneath my palm, and I'm acutely aware of every sound my body makes—the soft rustle of my shirt, the whisper of my breath, the thunderous pounding of my heart that I'm certain must be audible from every corner of the house.

The sounds from upstairs continue, growing clearer as I ascend. The wet, rhythmic slurping has given way to something else now—a low, steady thumping, like a fist against a padded headboard, accompanied by a higher, breathy counterpoint that rises and falls in time with the beat. It's a rhythm I recognize, a primal cadence that needs no translation. I've heard it in dorm rooms and apartments, through thin walls and closed doors. I've made that sound myself, in this very house, in my own bed, with the girl who is now—

No.

I stop halfway up the stairs, my hand gripping the banister so hard my knuckles go white. The word echoes in my skull, a desperate denial, a prayer to a god I don't believe in. No, no, no, this isn't happening. This can't be happening. She wouldn't. He wouldn't. They wouldn't.

But the sounds don't stop. They don't even falter. The thumping continues, steady and deliberate, and beneath it I can hear a voice—her voice—rising in a series of small, breathless gasps that might be words or might be nothing but animal sounds, stripped of meaning, reduced to pure sensation.

Please, she says, and the word is so clear, so unmistakably her, that I feel something inside me crack. Please, oh god, please—

My father's voice answers, low and rough, but I can't make out the words. Just the tone. The tone is enough. It's the voice he uses when he's closing a deal, when he's won an argument, when he's standing over the wreckage of someone else's ambitions and surveying the damage with quiet satisfaction. It's the voice of a man who always gets what he wants.

And what he wants, apparently, is my girlfriend.

I force myself to keep climbing. I don't know why. Some part of me—the part that's still thinking, still rational, still capable of making decisions—is screaming at me to turn around, to go back downstairs, to pretend I never heard anything. To drink myself into oblivion and wake up tomorrow with a hangover and a girlfriend who swears nothing happened, and maybe if I try hard enough, I can believe her.

But I don't turn around. I can't. The need to know is stronger than the need to protect myself. I've always been this way—compelled to pick at scabs, to probe at wounds, to confirm my worst fears rather than live with the uncertainty. It's a flaw, I know. It's the same flaw that made me check Briana's phone that one time, scrolling through her messages looking for evidence of something I couldn't name, finding nothing but feeling no relief.

I reach the top of the stairs and pause, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps. The hallway stretches before me, dark and familiar. My bedroom is at the far end, the door still open from when I left it. The bathroom is on the right, the linen closet on the left. And at the end of the hall, opposite my room, is the master suite—my father's domain, a space I've entered maybe a dozen times in my entire life, always with permission, always with the sense that I was trespassing on sacred ground.

The door is ajar.

A sliver of warm light spills through the crack, cutting a golden wedge across the dark hallway floor. The sounds are louder now, no longer muffled by distance. I can hear everything—the creak of the bed frame, the slap of skin against skin, the wet, obscene sounds of bodies moving together. And I can hear her voice, clearer than before, rising and falling in a rhythm that matches the thumping.

Yes, she's saying. Yes, yes, yes, oh god, yes—

I move toward the door. My feet are silent on the carpet, my body moving on autopilot, my mind a blank white void of shock and dread. I'm not thinking anymore. I'm just moving, drawn toward the light like a moth to a flame, knowing it will destroy me and unable to stop.

The hallway seems to stretch forever, each step an eternity. I can see the door getting closer, the sliver of light widening, the sounds growing louder and more distinct. I can smell something now—a faint, musky scent that I recognize but can't quite place. It's the smell of sex, of sweat, of bodies in heat. It's the smell of my father's bedroom, and it's the smell of Briana, and the two are mingled together in a way that makes my stomach clench.

I reach the door.

My hand hovers over the wood, trembling. I can feel the warmth of the light on my face, hear the sounds of their bodies moving together on the other side. I should knock. I should burst in. I should do something other than stand here like a coward, listening to my girlfriend get fucked by my father.

But I don't. I can't. I'm frozen, paralyzed by the weight of what I'm about to see.

And then, slowly, almost against my will, I lean forward and peer through the crack.

The room is bathed in warm lamplight, the kind of soft, golden glow that makes everything look like a painting. The bed is huge—a king-sized four-poster with crisp white sheets and a dark wood frame—and it's positioned against the far wall, directly in my line of sight. The sheets are rumpled, twisted, evidence of a struggle or a surrender or both.

And on the bed, in the center of that golden light, is Briana.

She's on her hands and knees, her back arched, her head thrown back. The tiara is still in her hair, catching the light, glinting like a crown. The red boots are still on her feet, the only other piece of her costume that remains. Everything else—the bustier, the skirt, the golden belt—is gone, discarded somewhere in the darkness behind me.

She's naked. Completely, gloriously naked, her skin flushed and gleaming with sweat, her breasts swaying with each impact, her mouth open in a perfect O of pleasure. Her eyes are closed, her face a mask of pure, unadulterated ecstasy, and she's making sounds I've never heard her make before—high, keening cries that seem to come from somewhere deep inside her, somewhere I've never been able to reach.

And behind her, his hands gripping her hips, his body moving with the same cold precision he brings to everything, is my father.

He's still wearing his dress shirt, unbuttoned now, the fabric hanging open to reveal a chest that's broader and more muscular than I expected. His pants are around his ankles, his belt unbuckled, his shoes still on. He's not naked—not fully—but he's exposed enough, and the sight of him like this, vulnerable and powerful at the same time, is somehow worse than if he'd been completely bare.

He's fucking her. There's no other word for it. He's fucking her with a steady, relentless rhythm, his hips driving forward again and again, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips hard enough to leave bruises. His face is set in an expression of intense concentration, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the point where their bodies meet.

That's it, he says, his voice low and rough. Take it. Take all of it.

Briana moans in response, a sound that's half pleasure and half surrender, and I watch her push back against him, meeting his thrusts with her own, her body moving in perfect sync with his. She's not resisting. She's not enduring. She's participating—actively, enthusiastically, with a fervor I've never seen from her before.

Please, she gasps. Please, Mr. Hartley, please—

Richard, he corrects, his voice sharp. Say my name.

Richard, she moans, and the word is like a knife in my chest. Richard, please, don't stop, please don't stop—

I can't look away. I should look away. I should turn and run and never look back. But I'm rooted to the spot, my eye pressed to the crack in the door, my breath held, my heart shattering into a thousand pieces.

This is the girl who told me she loved me. This is the girl who kissed me in the kitchen and promised me later. This is the girl who went upstairs to smooth things over, to charm my father, to fix my mistakes.

And now she's on her hands and knees in his bed, begging him not to stop.

Good girl, my father says, and the words are a punch to the gut. Such a good girl. You like that, don't you? You like being fucked by a real man.

Yes, she gasps. Yes, I love it, I love it, I love—

Her words dissolve into a scream—a high, keening wail that seems to go on forever—and I watch her body convulse, her back arching, her fingers clawing at the sheets. She's coming. She's coming on my father's cock, in my father's bed, while I stand in the hallway and watch.

And my father doesn't stop. He keeps thrusting, keeps driving into her, riding out her orgasm with the same relentless precision he brings to everything. His face is still set in that expression of intense concentration, but there's something else there now—something almost like triumph.

That's it, he says again. That's my girl.

The words hit me like a physical blow. His girl. Not mine. His.

I stumble back from the door, my hand flying to my mouth to stifle the sound that's trying to escape—a sob, a scream, something raw and animal and utterly broken. I can't breathe. I can't think. I can't do anything but stand there in the dark hallway, listening to the sounds of my father and my girlfriend, feeling the world crumble around me.

The hallway tilts. The walls close in. I reach out for something to steady myself, and my hand finds the wall, cool and solid and utterly indifferent to my pain.

I should leave. I should go back downstairs. I should get in my car and drive until the road runs out and never look back.

But I don't move.

I can't.

Because some part of me—some dark, twisted part that I didn't know existed until this moment—wants to keep watching.