I knew they were right. That’s the problem.
All the way home from practice, their words sat in my chest like a stone. Power dynamics. Balance. If you wanted to leave, could you? I didn’t like that I had to think about that question.
When I pulled into the drive, the house looked warm and steady against the dark. The windows glowed. It felt safe. That’s what made it dangerous.
Inside, I kicked off my shoes and headed straight for the kitchen. I needed something normal. Something grounding. I pulled vegetables from the fridge, rinsed them under cool water, and let the mundane rhythm of chopping and seasoning steady my thoughts.
I knew this was a bad idea. Not him. Not Us, but the way it started. The way money was braided through it. The way I was still technically being paid by the man I was sleeping with. That sentence alone should send me running.
Instead, I sautéd garlic.
When he came in, I didn’t look at him right away. I could feel him there.
“You’re quiet,” he observed.
“I was thinking.”
“About.”
I turned, wooden spoon in hand.
“About us.”
He stilled slightly, giving me his full attention.
“Go on.” His steadiness made it harder, not easier.
“The girls are worried,” I said carefully. “About the . . . power imbalance.”
His jaw tightened just slightly. “They believe you are incapable of making decisions.”
With a huff, I put my hands on my hips. “No. They think you have more leverage than I do.”
“I do.” The bluntness of that makes me flinch, but he was not one to beat around the bush.
“You have money,” I continued. “I don’t. You own the house. You’re paying me. That’s not equal footing.”
He watched me like he was evaluating a contract clause.
“It is not a competition, Ma Belle,” he said finally. He reached for me and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
“That’s not the point.”
He stepped closer, slow and deliberate. “You required support,” he said evenly. “I provided it.”
“That’s exactly the problem.”
“Explain.”
“If something goes wrong, you're fine. I’m . . . not.”
Silence stretched between us. The stove sizzled softly behind me.
He reached out and turned the burner down before answering. “You believe I would withdraw support if we disagreed.”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “That’s the thing.”
His expression shifted. “You think I am transactional.”
