Facing His Bully

Colleen opens the front door, stepping slightly to the side with a calm, inviting smile. She wears a crisp cream silk blouse tucked into a navy pencil skirt, her hazel eyes assessing Ero instantly.

"Ah, Eros Apostasia," she says smoothly, gesturing toward her dimly lit study down the hall. "Claire mentioned you might drop by. Come in. I think it's best we discuss whatever issue has come up between you two in private—away from any extra drama. Please, sit."

She closes the heavy oak door behind him, crossing her arms lightly as she waits for him to speak.

I step inside, my heart already hammering in my chest. The house smells like lavender and old money. "Hi, Ms. Binder, thank you for seeing me today," I say, my voice smaller than I'd like it to be.

Colleen moves gracefully around her mahogany desk, pulling out a plush leather chair for me before taking her own seat opposite mine. She crosses her legs elegantly, her movements precise and controlled. As she settles, her hand instinctively rises to touch the small silver lock pendant resting against her collarbone—a subtle tell that she is shifting into a more analytical mindset.

"Please, call me Colleen," she corrects me softly, though her tone maintains its polished edge. A faint, practiced smile touches her lips, one that doesn't quite reach her watchful eyes. "Ms. Binder sounds so terribly formal, and we aren't here to conduct a board meeting, are we? We are here to find a resolution."

She leans forward slightly, resting her forearms on the desk.

"Okay, Colleen, to be direct," I begin, gripping the armrests of my chair, "your daughter, Allison, is bullying me."

At the mention of the word 'bullying,' Colleen's expression doesn't crumble into anger; instead, it stiffens into something much colder and more calculating. Her head tilts slightly to the side, her gaze narrowing just enough to let me know she is scrutinizing every syllable I utter. The pleasant facade remains, but there is an undeniable shift in the air—the atmosphere becomes heavier, more authoritative.

"Bullying?" She repeats the word slowly, testing its weight. She reaches for a fountain pen on her desk, turning it idly between her fingers rather than writing. Her voice remains smooth, almost melodic, but there is a sharp undertone beneath it. "That is a very serious accusation to level against my daughter, Eros. Allison has always been—"

"She slaps my bottom every chance she gets," I interrupt, my face burning. "And she tells me that if she ever gets me alone, she's going to put me in a pair of panties and spank my bottom."

For a moment, silence hangs thick in the room. Colleen does not flinch, nor does she laugh. Instead, her grip on the fountain pen tightens until her knuckles turn white. The sheer absurdity and impropriety of the claim seems to strike a chord of deep discomfort within her, clashing violently with her desire to maintain a civilized, dignified environment. Her eyes flash with a momentary spark of genuine irritation, her protective instinct warring with her need for decorum.

"I see," she says, her voice dropping an octave. It is no longer warm; it is clipped, professional, and dangerously calm. She sets the pen down with a deliberate click against the wood of the desk. She leans back, creating a sliver of distance between us, as if trying to process the vulgarity of the situation through a filter of logic. "That is quite inappropriate."

"It's really embarrassing," I continue, my voice wavering slightly. "And then all of her friends—they giggle and say they can't wait to watch. And to help."

As I describe the involvement of her friends, Colleen's composure finally fractures, though only slightly. A visible twitch appears at the corner of her mouth, and she closes her eyes for a brief second, inhaling deeply as if to physically push down a wave of profound concern. To someone like Colleen, who prizes social standing and dignity above all else, the idea of such immature behavior being orchestrated by her daughter is nothing short of a troubling situation.

When she opens her eyes again, they are piercing. She looks less like a welcoming hostess and more like a judge delivering a verdict. She leans forward once more, this time invading my personal space just enough to command my absolute attention.

"This is highly irregular," she says, her voice low and vibrating with suppressed frustration. She taps her finger rhythmically against the desk, her mind clearly racing through damage control protocols. "And entirely unacceptable."

Just then, Allison and her friends—Mariah, Kennedy, and Blair—come through the front door, their giggles echoing down the hallway. They all grin with identical glee when they see me, and blushing deeply, I sink further into my chair in front of Colleen.

Colleen's head snaps toward the doorway at the sound of the intrusion. Her eyes narrow into slits as the girls spill into the hallway, their laughter cutting through the quiet sanctity of her study like broken glass. The sight of them—Mariah, Kennedy, and Blair—all wearing those same predatory grins, makes her stomach churn with a mixture of embarrassment and fury.

She watches me sink into my chair, noting my blush, and her protective instincts flare. This isn't just a disagreement anymore; it is a spectacle, and it is happening in her home.

Colleen looks at me, her expression apologetic but resolute.

"Well, Ero," she says, her voice steady and calm, carrying an undertone of measured authority, "you've wandered into the lionesses' den willingly. I can see you've already made quite an impression."

To be continued in chapter 2...