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🖼️ | harper spiller - ESTATE

The air on the balcony was cooler than Harper expected, a faint breeze coming off the sea, carrying with it the salty tang of the water and the faintest hint of citrus from the lemon trees scattered across the villa gardens. She leaned on the railing, a cigarette loosely between her fingers, though she hadn't yet lit it. She wasn’t much of a smoker—just enough to justify moments like these, where she could isolate herself under the guise of indulgence.

Below, the expanse of the Italian coastline stretched before her like a postcard come to life. The water was a jeweled blue, lapping lazily at the beach, where guests of the White Lotus lounged in curated poses that were equal parts hedonistic and performative. Everything here was pristine to the point of feeling manufactured, as if everyone was playing a role in a sun-drenched fantasy.

Harper wasn’t immune to the allure of the view, but it felt hollow in her chest. The luxury of the resort, the sheer effortlessness of it all, was a reminder of how out of sync she felt. She had been dragged here, really—another compromise in the seemingly endless series of compromises that defined her relationship with Ethan. Her husband had insisted on this trip, believing it would be good for them. But all Harper could feel was the widening gap between them, a canyon they kept pretending wasn’t there.

She tapped the cigarette against the railing absentmindedly, her thoughts drifting. It wasn’t just Ethan. It was everyone here. The cloying small talk of the other guests, the way every interaction seemed to be coated in a thin sheen of self-congratulation. The same people who sipped cocktails by the infinity pool and extolled the virtues of “disconnecting” were the ones snapping photos for Instagram the second they thought no one was looking. Hypocrisy disguised as leisure.

She exhaled, the cigarette still unlit. Her gaze flickered downward, skimming over the steps leading from the hotel down toward the beach. At first, it was an unconscious glance, her mind preoccupied with its own spirals. But something caught her eye—a figure sitting on the stone stairs, partially hidden in the shadows where the late afternoon sun hadn’t yet reached.

Harper squinted, leaning slightly forward. It was a young woman, sitting cross-legged with a sketchbook balanced on her knee. She was bent over it, utterly absorbed in her work, a pencil moving rapidly across the page. Harper couldn’t see the details from this distance, but the woman’s focus was magnetic. There was a stillness to her, a kind of self-contained energy that stood in stark contrast to the rest of the resort's theatrical bustle.

She found herself staring longer than she intended, her curiosity piqued. The woman was dressed simply, her loose linen shirt fluttering slightly in the breeze. Her hair was tied back, though a few strands had escaped, framing her face in a way that Harper immediately thought looked unintentional but beautiful.

It wasn’t just the act of drawing that intrigued her. It was the way the woman seemed to exist in her own world, as though the chaos of the resort and its carefully curated opulence didn’t matter to her. She wasn’t trying to be noticed, wasn’t part of the parade of peacocks Harper had grown used to observing. She was simply… there. Quiet and intent, her pencil etching something unseen into the page.

Harper’s thoughts drifted, as they often did, to the layers of her own dissatisfaction. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt that kind of focus—an unselfconscious, genuine connection to something. She had once been that kind of person, hadn’t she? Back before her life had become a series of polite confrontations and unspoken resentments. Back when she still believed in the power of creating something, instead of just consuming it.

The cigarette between her fingers felt like a dead weight. She glanced at it, then set it down on the balcony railing, unlit. Her gaze wandered back to the woman on the stairs, and she caught a flash of what the sketchbook might hold—a glimpse of figures, maybe the outline of the beach or the sea. Whatever it was, it clearly commanded the woman’s full attention.

And then, as if sensing Harper’s gaze, the woman looked up. Harper froze, her heart skipping a beat. It wasn’t a dramatic moment—just a brief, unhurried glance around the steps before the woman returned to her drawing. But it left Harper feeling oddly exposed, like she’d been caught eavesdropping on something private. She turned her attention to the sea, feigning nonchalance, though her pulse betrayed her.

The sound of Ethan’s voice broke her reverie. She turned to see him stepping out onto the balcony, his phone in one hand and an expectant look on his face.

“Ready to head down for dinner?” he asked. His tone was light, but there was an undercurrent of impatience, as if he’d been waiting for her longer than he wanted to admit.

Harper nodded, though she didn’t feel ready at all. She cast one last glance down at the stairs, but the woman hadn’t moved. Still, the image of her lingered in Harper’s mind as she followed Ethan back into the room, a faint whisper of something she couldn’t quite name.

A few days later, Harper woke earlier than usual, a restless sleep leaving her tossing and turning in the quiet of their room. Ethan had been out of sorts lately, caught up in something of his own, leaving Harper to her thoughts and the endless hum of the resort. She needed space, and the early morning hours offered her just that—a few precious moments of solitude before the world caught up with her again.

The hotel dining room was still quiet, the golden light of the morning filtering in through tall windows that overlooked the sea. It was beautiful, almost painfully so, but Harper didn’t have the energy for the luxury this morning. She didn’t want to sit at one of the long, polished tables with the other guests just yet. Instead, she opted for a small corner, away from the bustle, where she could quietly pick at her food in peace.

As she made her way toward the buffet, Harper noticed a familiar figure from the corner of her eye. There, standing before the spread of pastries and fruit, was the young woman—the one she had been watching, though she would never admit it to anyone, especially herself. The woman was helping herself to a small plate, her hands moving with deliberate precision as she avoided the more extravagant choices. She was dressed casually, a simple white blouse, her hair down now, flowing in soft waves around her shoulders.

Harper paused, just for a second, watching her as she moved through the buffet, her expression absorbed, distant. The impulse to retreat was strong—Harper was never one for casual interactions, and certainly not before she had her first cup of coffee. But something in her hesitated. She had been curious about this woman for days now, and while she couldn’t quite explain why, that feeling, that magnetic pull, was growing impossible to ignore.

The decision was made before she fully realized it. Harper walked over, deliberately slow, her movements measured but not rushed. The woman didn’t seem to notice her approach until Harper was standing beside her, just close enough that their space felt shared.

“If I were you,” Harper said, her voice light, though with a touch of mischief, “I’d avoid that pastry. I think I saw a few people running for the bathroom after having it.”

The woman’s eyes flicked up, startled, then narrowed as she took in Harper’s face. Her mouth curled into the slightest smile, as if entertained by the casual remark. Harper was surprised by the effect her words had—there was something about that small, self-assured smile that made her feel a little more visible than she wanted to be.

“Oh, really?” the woman asked, her voice soft but not shy. She regarded Harper curiously, but there was no hesitation in her response. “I suppose it’s good I didn’t take that one then.”

Harper smiled back, almost amused by how easy it was to talk to her. It felt natural, almost too easy. They were both just people in the midst of a vacation, far removed from the pretense of their respective worlds.

"Do you come here often?" Harper found herself asking, surprised at the casualness of the question. It was the kind of thing she’d typically avoid—questions that didn't have a clear purpose, just a desire to fill the silence. But for some reason, it felt different with her.

The woman looked at Harper, then at her plate, before responding. “This is my first time here, actually,” she said with a slight shrug. “I’ve been traveling for a while, just... figuring things out, I guess. I needed a place to pause, to think.”

Harper took in the words, letting them linger in the air between them. There was an honesty to the statement that was unexpected. In a world full of carefully curated images, where everyone had an agenda, this woman was refreshingly direct, unafraid of silence, of solitude. It made Harper feel a little less cynical, a little more human.

“I get that,” Harper replied, her voice softer now, almost reflective. “I think... sometimes you need to just stop. Take a breath. Let everything settle.”

The moment hung between them for a while, both of them lost in their respective thoughts. Harper couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this woman than met the eye. There was something about her presence—quiet yet profound—that stirred something in Harper, something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

It wasn’t until the woman shifted her weight and glanced over at Harper that Harper realized she had been staring. She cleared her throat awkwardly, offering a quick smile.

“Would you like to join me for breakfast?” Harper asked, the words coming out before she could second-guess them. The offer felt casual, yet the weight of it lingered between them, hanging in the air.

The woman paused for a moment, clearly considering. There was something unreadable in her expression, but after a beat, she gave a small nod. “Sure, why not?”

---

They settled at a small, quiet table by the window, the soft clink of silverware against plates the only sound between them. Harper couldn’t help but notice how at ease the woman seemed, how natural her presence felt as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world to be sitting here with Harper, as though the gap between them didn’t even exist.

It was comfortable in an unexpected way. Harper took a slow sip of her coffee, staring out at the view as if it might offer her some insight into this strange little moment they were sharing. There was a kind of soft ease between them, but it was tinged with something deeper, something more elusive.

The silence stretched on for a while before Harper spoke again, her voice quieter now. “So… what brings you to a place like this?” she asked, her words almost hesitant, as though the question had been on the tip of her tongue for a while. She wasn’t sure why she asked it. It felt like a question to fill the space, but also one that had weight. A question that held meaning.

The woman—whose name Harper still didn’t know, though it was strange how much she cared about it—looked thoughtful for a moment, her gaze distant.

“I told you before,” she said with a quiet chuckle. “I’m figuring things out. I’ve been... traveling for a while. And I thought Italy would be a good place to reset, I guess.” She met Harper’s eyes, her gaze steady. “But I’m not sure I’ve figured anything out yet.”

Harper smiled, but it wasn’t one of her typical practiced smiles. It was genuine, and a little sad, too. She understood what it meant to “figure things out,” or at least to pretend like she was. She wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to not have to try so hard to keep it all together.

“I think we’re all just... figuring it out,” Harper said, then realized how open she sounded. She didn’t do open. Not like this. Not with someone like this woman, whose name she still didn’t know.

But it didn’t feel wrong. Not yet.

They fell into a comfortable silence after that, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel forced. Harper caught herself glancing at the woman more often than she probably should have. The curve of her lips when she smiled, the way her hair fell across her face when she tilted her head—each little detail seemed to make Harper’s pulse speed up in a way she couldn’t explain.

Just as Harper felt herself leaning into this unexpected connection, she heard the distinct sound of someone approaching. She looked up, and her heart sank slightly as she saw Ethan walking toward them.

Ethan smiled at her, his face open and unreadable. He greeted the woman with a polite nod, and Harper immediately felt the shift in the air. The warmth she had shared with the woman disappeared as if it had never been there.

The woman looked between the two of them, her expression unreadable, then nodded. “It was nice to meet you, Harper,” she said softly, standing up from the table. She gave a polite smile before turning to leave, and Harper felt an unfamiliar pang of disappointment.

“Thanks for breakfast,” the woman added, her voice carrying a touch of finality.

Harper opened her mouth to say something, but Ethan was already pulling her attention away, asking her what she thought of the breakfast spread.

The moment had passed, and Harper found herself back in the familiar coldness she wore so often around Ethan. As he sat down beside her, his presence felt like a wall, one she didn’t want to climb. All she could think about was the quiet warmth she had felt with the woman, the soft laughter they had shared. It was fleeting, but it had been real.

Ethan didn’t notice any of it, of course. He never did.

The days stretched languidly into one another, each morning more golden than the last, the warmth of Italy's coastal sun seeping into every corner of Harper’s life. She had come here with Ethan to relax, to escape. But something—someone—had begun to tug at her attention, like the tide pulling at the shore, subtle yet persistent. It was the artist, always just out of reach, her presence both familiar and enigmatic.

The mornings had become a ritual, a series of small, quiet encounters. Harper would rise early, the morning light casting a soft glow across the terrace as she sipped her coffee, her thoughts wandering even as she watched the sea. Some days, she’d come out to find the woman sitting alone, sketching the view, her eyes focused intently on the world around her as she captured it on paper. Harper would stand back, pretending to be lost in her thoughts, watching her, unable to tear herself away.

Each time their paths crossed, it was as if an invisible thread pulled them closer, but Harper remained cautious. There was something almost too delicate about these moments, too precious to ruin by being too forward. It was easier, safer, to just observe—though the longer it went on, the more she felt an unspoken pull toward the woman.

And yet, Harper couldn’t shake the guilt that lingered like a shadow, following her everywhere she went. Guilt about Ethan, about the fact that her marriage had long since ceased to be anything but a shell, a routine she couldn’t break. She didn’t care about him the way a wife should care about her husband. But still, the weight of their shared history pressed down on her, heavy and inescapable. And then there was the woman—the artist. The guilt wrapped around her in a different way. She wanted to know more about her, to spend time with her. But that would be wrong, wouldn’t it? She was married. She couldn’t let herself want this. She couldn’t let herself cross that line, especially when the woman, with her quiet intensity, seemed to exist in such stark contrast to everything Harper had come to know.

The artist, still nameless to Harper, had become the quiet pulse of her days, a lingering question that she had yet to answer. Harper told herself it was nothing, just a passing fancy, a fleeting curiosity. But there were mornings when she found herself looking for her, scanning the grounds of the hotel like a quiet observer, waiting for their paths to cross.

That particular morning, Harper wandered the hotel terrace, her feet carrying her aimlessly as she let the early morning light bathe her skin. She found herself standing near the stairs leading down to the beach, her gaze fixed on the horizon, where the sky kissed the sea in shades of soft pink and blue. She had come out to breathe, but as always, her mind found its way back to the artist, to the woman who had captivated her without meaning to.

And there she was again—sitting alone on the bench near the edge of the terrace, sketching the view with a kind of stillness that was almost reverential. Harper hesitated, wondering whether to leave her alone or approach. She wanted to know more, to ask questions. But there was something about this quiet space between them, something fragile and unspoken, that made Harper reluctant to break the silence.

But then, as though fate had decided to intervene, the artist looked up, her eyes meeting Harper’s. For a brief moment, they stood there, locked in a shared gaze, neither of them moving, neither of them speaking. And then the artist’s lips curled into the smallest of smiles, one that Harper could almost feel in her chest.

It was an invitation, subtle but unmistakable.

Harper’s breath caught, and without thinking, she moved closer, her feet carrying her forward as if compelled. “Good morning,” she said, her voice soft but not unsteady. There was an edge of uncertainty in her tone, a quiet admission that she wasn’t sure what to say, but she needed to say something.

“Good morning,” the woman replied, her voice calm, unhurried. She looked up at Harper, but there was no tension in her expression, just a quiet warmth that made Harper feel as though they had been doing this for years—exchanging pleasantries without any expectation.

“Are you still drawing?” Harper asked, her gaze drifting to the sketchpad in the woman’s hands. “I was watching you earlier... the view’s quite beautiful, isn’t it?”

The artist’s eyes flickered to the page before returning to Harper’s face. “Yes,” she said, her voice soft, as if the simple act of drawing held deeper meaning. “I like to capture things. I find it’s the only way to keep them with me. To hold on to the moment.”

Harper’s chest tightened, a strange tug at the edges of her heart. The woman’s words were so simple, but they felt like a confession of something deeper, something that Harper couldn’t quite name. She felt a wave of familiarity wash over her, even though she knew they had just met.

“That’s beautiful,” Harper said, almost absently. She didn’t even realize the sincerity in her voice until the words had already left her lips. She had become too accustomed to hiding behind pleasantries, behind the safety of small talk, but here, with the artist, everything felt different. It felt like they were speaking the same unspoken language, one made up of looks and gestures and fleeting moments.

The artist smiled again, her eyes dancing with something Harper couldn’t place. “Thank you,” she replied softly, and for a moment, the world outside their conversation seemed to blur. It was as if they were the only two people on the terrace, the only two people in the world.

Harper stood there, feeling the strange pull in her chest, but she wasn’t sure what to do with it. She couldn’t explain why she was so drawn to this woman. Why she felt this sudden desire to know more, to dig deeper into her story. But as the silence stretched on, Harper couldn’t shake the feeling that something was building, something fragile and raw, and she didn’t know how to stop it.

“So,” Harper said after a pause, her voice steady, though there was a slight tremor underneath, “I’ve been wondering…” She hesitated, unsure of how to frame the question, but it spilled out before she could stop herself. “What’s your name?”

The artist blinked, as if surprised by the question, but there was no hesitation in her eyes. She met Harper’s gaze directly, her lips curling into a small, knowing smile. “You don’t know my name yet?” she said softly, as though teasing.

Harper’s pulse quickened, and she laughed nervously. “No, I suppose I don’t.”

The artist chuckled, a low, melodic sound. “I’m Y/N,” she said, her name hanging in the air between them like a secret, a delicate thread that had finally been pulled into the light.

Y/N. Harper repeated the name in her mind, savoring the sound of it. There was something about it that seemed to fit, something about her that felt both familiar and entirely new. But even as the name left Y/N’s lips, Harper realized she knew something else. Something she hadn’t expected to hear.

“I overheard Ethan call you by your name last time,” Y/N said quietly, her voice carrying a strange weight, almost as if she were testing Harper.

Harper’s breath caught, her heart skipping a beat. She hadn’t thought of that moment—hadn’t realized that Y/N had been there, listening. It was a simple thing, really. Ethan had come down to the terrace, calling her name as they discussed their plans for the day. But hearing Y/N say it now made something shift in the air. The quiet distance between them had closed by just a fraction, and yet Harper wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or not.

“Oh,” Harper said, her voice faltering slightly. She hadn’t realized Y/N had been paying attention to something so small. It felt intimate in a way Harper wasn’t quite ready to confront. “I didn’t think you were listening.”

Y/N’s smile was soft but knowing. “I was,” she said simply, the words hanging in the air like a question unasked.

Harper didn’t know how to respond. She didn’t know whether she should feel embarrassed or relieved or something entirely different. The tension between them had shifted again, deeper now, but still fragile. She wanted to say something, to bridge the gap between them, but all she could do was stand there, frozen in the moment.

“Well,” Harper said finally, clearing her throat, “it was nice to meet you, Y/N.” The words felt both too formal and too personal all at once.

Y/N nodded, her eyes soft but unreadable. “Likewise,” she replied, her voice quieter now, but still warm.

There was a moment of silence, and Harper wasn’t sure whether it was the silence of an ending or the silence before something else. Something unspoken. Y/N turned to leave, but not without a final glance over her shoulder.

“I’ll see you around,” Y/N said, her words carrying a strange finality. But there was also an invitation in them. An invitation that Harper wasn’t sure she was ready to accept.

As Y/N walked away, Harper’s chest tightened, and she watched her go, knowing that somehow, things had shifted. And though she had no idea where it was leading, she also knew she couldn’t walk away from it. Not now. Not when something so delicate and unresolved hung between them like the fragile thread of a promise neither of them had made.

With every step Y/N took, Harper felt the pull in her chest grow stronger. It was undeniable, even as the weight of her marriage, of Ethan, seemed to press down harder than ever. But there was something about Y/N—something in her presence, in the way she spoke, the way she looked at Harper—that made everything else feel distant, less important. It felt like an opening, like the beginning of something that Harper wasn’t sure she was ready for but couldn’t quite bring herself to walk away from.

So, Harper stood there for a moment longer, her heart racing, her thoughts tangled in the tension of what had just passed between them. The quiet morning stretched on, and Harper realized that she had just taken the first step down a path that could lead to something completely different—something both terrifying and exhilarating. But for now, she could only stand there, watching Y/N disappear into the distance, knowing that it was only a matter of time before their paths would cross again.

It was another night at The White Lotus, the soft buzz of laughter and glasses clinking filling the air, the sea outside slapping at the shore as if it were some quiet, distant promise. Harper sat alone at the bar, her eyes searching for some kind of solace in her glass, but nothing seemed to soothe her. Her argument with Ethan still felt fresh, a sting that she couldn’t shake no matter how much wine slid down her throat.

Her marriage had always been a series of ups and downs, moments of connection followed by stretches of indifference. Tonight, however, had felt different. Tonight, something had snapped, or perhaps it had simply frayed beyond recognition. The sharp words between them still echoed in her mind, louder than the music, the laughter, the steady pulse of the hotel. Ethan had been too self-assured, too distant, and Harper had been too quiet, too unwilling to let him see how deeply she’d been resenting the distance between them. So, she left him to sulk in their room and wandered down to the bar, drawn like a magnet to the familiar hum of the crowd.

She didn’t expect to see her. Not tonight.

The young artist was sitting by herself at the end of the bar, her back turned, a notebook resting in front of her, a glass of wine untouched beside it. The warm glow from the chandelier above her head highlighted the curve of her jaw, the soft way she held her pencil as if it were an extension of herself. Harper had seen her name on the artist’s sign-in sheet earlier in the day, and she knew her name—Y/n—but it was the kind of thing that slipped from her mind when she wasn’t focused. Tonight, though, there was something almost magnetic about her presence.

Harper knew she shouldn’t be looking. She shouldn’t be interested, shouldn’t let her gaze linger as it did. But it did anyway, as if there were a magnetic pull she couldn’t fight.

The artist—Y/n—had a way of absorbing everything around her, as if she were seeing the world in a way that was different, better, deeper. Harper couldn't help but feel drawn to her in a way that bordered on dangerous. But then again, nothing here had felt safe.

Harper smirked to herself, pushing off the bar and straightening her back. She wasn’t one to approach strangers—well, except for the countless superficial exchanges she had endured with guests, always wrapped in the fine art of politeness. But this was different. This felt different.

The words left her mouth before she could even stop herself.

“Well, I must be a sketchpad, because you’re clearly drawing me in,” Harper said, half-laughing at the sarcasm that dripped from her voice.

She watched as the artist’s pencil paused mid-air, then slowly lowered to her notebook. For a moment, Harper couldn’t read her expression—was it amusement? Annoyance? Curiosity? She wasn’t sure. But there it was again, that pull, that quiet energy between them, growing with each passing second.

Y/n tilted her head, her eyes tracing Harper for a moment before she broke into a smile, her lips curling into something sly and disarming.

“Well, if I’m drawing you in, I must say, I’m curious to see what you look like in pencil,” she replied, her voice a mix of playfulness and something more, something Harper couldn’t quite pinpoint.

Harper chuckled softly, amused by the young woman’s ease. “Maybe next time,” she said, “but tonight, I think I’d rather talk. You don’t mind, do you?”

Y/n shook her head, still smiling, but there was a flicker of something beneath her gaze, as if she were weighing Harper’s words, carefully measuring her presence.

“Not at all,” she said, taking a sip of her wine, the movement slow and deliberate, as if she were savoring something more than just the taste.

Harper took a seat beside her, the tension already settling in the air between them like a delicate thread that neither wanted to break. The distance was gone now, and all that remained was this strange, unspoken understanding, the kind that seemed to exist between two people who, for a moment, could only see each other and nothing else.

“So,” Harper began, trying to find something casual to say, “what’s your story?”

Y/n glanced up at her, eyes thoughtful. “My story? Well, I guess it’s nothing exciting. Just a girl, sitting in a fancy hotel, drawing things I see.”

Harper smirked. “How mysterious. I’m almost disappointed.”

Y/n shrugged, her smile never fading. “Not everything needs to be exciting.”

“No, I suppose not,” Harper agreed. She paused, swirling her drink, watching the liquid move. “But you must have some reason for coming here. I mean, the place isn’t exactly... low-key, is it?”

Y/n’s lips quirked up in a quiet smile. “I suppose it’s more of an escape than anything. I’ve been trying to finish some work, get away from... life for a while. The chaos. The noise.”

Harper’s eyes flickered. “You and me both,” she murmured, but the words were too soft for Y/n to catch, and Harper wasn’t sure if she wanted her to.

There was a brief pause, a silence that hung heavy in the air between them. Harper felt her gaze wander again, landing on Y/n’s notebook. She couldn’t help herself. She needed to know more.

“I’ve been wondering,” Harper started, her voice more measured now, a little more serious. “You’re always drawing, always sketching. What exactly do you see when you look at this place? The hotel, the people, the... everything?”

Y/n’s fingers brushed across the cover of her notebook, a slow, deliberate movement. “I see stories,” she said softly. “Everyone here has a story. You just have to look hard enough to see it.”

Harper raised an eyebrow. “And what do you see when you look at me?”

Y/n paused, her lips pressing together for a moment. Then, she met Harper’s gaze with quiet intensity. “I see someone who doesn’t belong here,” she said, voice low but certain. “Someone who is caught between wanting something different and being afraid of it.”

Harper blinked, the words catching her off guard. It was as if Y/n had seen right through her, peeling back the layers of her facade, the neat little story she had carefully constructed in her mind.

“Maybe you’re right,” Harper replied, her voice quieter now. The alcohol had loosened something inside her, something raw. “Maybe I don’t belong here.”

Y/n tilted her head, her eyes softening. “What’s stopping you?”

Harper’s heart skipped a beat. The question was simple, but it felt like a weight that hung between them, heavy with possibility. She didn’t know what stopped her. Maybe it was Ethan, or maybe it was just the world they lived in, where everything had to be perfect, and people had to play their roles.

“I don’t know,” Harper said quietly, staring into her glass. “Maybe it’s fear.”

Y/n didn’t say anything for a moment, but the air between them shifted, and Harper felt something unexpected. A sudden, impulsive need to ask something she hadn’t planned on.

“Do you mind if I... come up to your room?” Harper said, her voice catching a little. She hadn’t meant to ask it out loud, but it was there, right on the tip of her tongue. “I just... I want to see your drawings.”

Y/n’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if sensing something deeper in Harper’s words. There was a shift in her expression, an understanding that passed between them. “You’re not asking just to see my drawings, are you?” she said, her voice steady, but her gaze piercing.

Harper swallowed, feeling a heat rise in her cheeks. She had no idea why she had said it, no idea what she was expecting. But somehow, it felt right. Felt like she couldn’t stop herself now.

“I had a fight with my husband,” Harper said quietly, her voice tight. “Things are... difficult. I don’t want to go back to that room. Not yet.”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, Y/n reached for her glass, sipping it slowly. “Okay,” she said, voice softer now. “You can come.”

Harper’s heart raced. There was something in the way Y/n said it, something that made her feel like maybe, just maybe, there was more to this than just a casual drink.

Harper nodded, her pulse quickening, and for the first time in a long time, she felt like she had stepped off the edge, unsure of what she would find, but ready to face it anyway.

Harper followed the young artist down the quiet hallway, the soft clicking of her heels echoing against the stone floors. The hotel felt oddly still at this hour, as if the world outside had slowed, or maybe it was just them, walking together in an unspoken truce, heading toward something neither had fully acknowledged yet. It was strange, the way it all felt inevitable, and yet, entirely unexpected. They didn’t talk much as they walked, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it felt almost natural, as if it belonged to the moment.

The artist’s room was only a few doors down, tucked away in a quiet corner of the hotel, a place where few guests bothered to venture. Harper didn’t know why that made her feel oddly reassured. She had expected something more grand, more polished, but instead, the artist’s space was a reflection of the kind of quiet rebellion Harper had sensed since their first conversation. It was cozy but unrefined, lived-in without apology.

The door clicked open with a soft sigh, and the young woman stepped aside to let Harper enter. She hesitated for only a moment before crossing the threshold. The room was dimly lit, the warm glow of the desk lamp casting long shadows on the walls. There was a cluttered charm to it—papers scattered across the desk, brushes and pencils strewn on the floor as though the artist had left them mid-project. The air smelled faintly of paint and the soft tang of something sweeter, maybe incense, or something floral. It was disordered, yes—but not in a way that felt messy. It felt purposeful, as if the room itself were an extension of her creativity.

Harper stepped deeper into the space, her eyes drifting over the half-empty wine glass the young woman had abandoned on her desk. Sketchbooks were stacked neatly beside her bed, some with corners bent and others with the pages barely held together, as though they had been flipped through a hundred times. One sketchbook sat open on the desk, the pages filled with intricate designs—fascinating, delicate details of faces, buildings, shapes that had all been captured in the kind of precise and artistic chaos that only someone fully immersed in their craft could create.

There were also paintings on the floor against the walls—some finished, others still rough around the edges. Each one seemed to capture a moment of emotion, like little windows into the artist’s mind. A landscape bathed in the soft light of sunset, a figure standing in front of a window, the distant view outside hazy with rain. Harper found herself standing before one of them, her gaze lingering on the vivid brushstrokes, the rawness of the colors. There was something almost haunting about the way the artist rendered the world, as if she could make the intangible tangible in a way that no one else could.

As Harper wandered further into the room, she noticed a pile of canvases leaning against the wall, their backs to the space, waiting to be filled. She wondered what stories they would tell, what emotions they would capture once the artist’s hands got to them. And in that moment, she realized she had no idea why she was so fascinated by this. Was it just the art? The way it made her feel? Or was it something more, something deeper?

The young woman had closed the door behind them, and now she moved to the small desk, setting down her glass and picking up another sketchbook. Harper noticed the way she held it—delicately, as though she were afraid it might break if she wasn’t careful. There was something inherently vulnerable about the artist, something soft underneath that confident exterior she had put on in front of Harper. The wine glass in Harper’s hand was forgotten as she wandered across the room to the desk, catching sight of the artist’s fingers brushing over the pages.

Without a word, the artist opened the sketchbook in front of her, and Harper’s gaze fell onto the delicate sketches. At first, the images seemed like a blur of abstract shapes, but as she looked closer, she realized that the young woman had been capturing moments—expressions, gestures, fleeting looks that had passed between people, moments of intimacy hidden behind eyes or in the way fingers brushed against skin. But then, something caught Harper off guard. There, amid the collection of sketches, was a drawing of her.

Harper blinked, unsure if she was seeing what she thought she was seeing. It was a portrait of her, or at least, of the version of herself the artist had seen. It wasn’t overly flattering; it was raw, unrefined, as if the artist had captured her not in her best light but in some small, intimate moment, a private reflection that Harper had never intended to reveal.

There she was—caught in a moment of quiet contemplation, her eyes focused somewhere far beyond the page, her lips slightly parted as if she were on the cusp of saying something. Harper couldn’t help but admire the way the artist had captured her, not as the polished image everyone else saw, but as something deeper, something less easily understood.

The young woman’s hand trembled slightly as she closed the book, as if she were waiting for Harper to say something, anything. But the silence stretched on, thick with something unspoken. Harper didn’t know what to say, but there was a part of her that wanted to acknowledge it, wanted to ask more about it—why she had drawn her, what had made her want to capture that fleeting moment. Instead, she only looked at her, taking a sip from her glass as if the act of drinking would buy her a moment to collect her thoughts.

The young artist seemed to notice her hesitation, and after a long moment, her voice broke the silence.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, her eyes dropping to the floor as if she were ashamed. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Harper frowned, leaning against the desk as she studied the young woman, trying to read her expression. There was something in her voice, something fragile in the way she apologized, as if she were afraid of pushing Harper away with her own vulnerability.

“Uncomfortable?” Harper repeated, her voice quieter than usual. “I’m not uncomfortable.” She hesitated for a moment, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “It’s... just surprising. You’ve been watching me.”

The young woman bit her lip, clearly unsure of how to respond. She looked up, her eyes locking with Harper’s, and for a brief moment, Harper saw the flicker of something—fear? Regret? It was hard to tell.

“I... I didn’t mean to make you feel like you were being watched,” the young woman said softly. “I just... I don’t know. I’ve been coming here for a while, and I noticed you. I guess you’re... a kind of puzzle to me. You’re different from the other people I’ve met. And when I draw people, I like to understand them—who they are, how they see the world. It’s not... it’s not about... well, anything inappropriate. I promise.”

Harper couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips, though it was soft, almost sad. There was something so unguarded in the young woman’s confession, a kind of openness that Harper hadn’t expected. She could see how much the artist cared about her work, how deeply she felt things—maybe more deeply than Harper did herself. It was almost like a quiet kind of honesty, something rare in the world Harper inhabited, where everything was filtered through layers of carefully constructed facades.

“I’m not offended,” Harper said after a beat, her voice steady but with a touch of warmth. “I don’t think I’ve ever been captured like that before—so... raw.”

The young woman’s cheeks flushed at the compliment, and she shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry if it’s... too much,” she said, her voice small, almost childlike. “I never know when to stop.”

Harper could tell that it wasn’t just about the drawings, that there was something more—something deeper in the young woman’s words. She wasn’t just talking about art; she was talking about her own need to understand, to see beyond the surface of people. There was a yearning in her, a desire to find meaning in the chaos of the world around her, and in some strange way, Harper found herself wanting to help her find it.

“You don’t need to apologize,” Harper said gently, her tone softer now. “You don’t need to stop, either. But maybe we should talk more about this—about why you draw people the way you do. Why you’re so... interested in me.”

The artist’s eyes lifted to meet hers again, and for the first time that night, there was a flicker of something stronger than uncertainty in her gaze. Something that felt like trust, like a bridge being built between them.

“I think I’m trying to figure out what it means to truly see someone,” the young woman said quietly. “And what it means to be seen.”

Harper’s heart skipped a beat at the words. There was a depth to the artist, a kind of wisdom hidden beneath the softness. It was a part of her Harper hadn’t expected, something both vulnerable and strong.

Maybe this was more than just a momentary distraction. Maybe it was the beginning of something else entirely.

And maybe, just maybe, it was exactly what Harper had been looking for all along.

The night outside the hotel window was deep and thick with silence, the world reduced to shadows and whispers of wind. Harper hadn’t expected to find herself here—so far away from the tangled, cold embrace of her marriage, a place she didn’t know how to leave but couldn’t quite inhabit anymore. But there she was, standing at the edge of the young artist’s life, with nothing but the taste of wine on her lips and the smoke curling around her fingers.

It was strange, this space between them. The words had come easy at first, each one flowing like an unspoken invitation, but now, with the distance closed and the conversation heavier, every glance seemed to weigh more. Harper had always been good at pushing things away, keeping them at arm’s length. But tonight? Tonight felt different. The artist had a way of drawing her in—like a magnet, irresistible and powerful.

Harper inhaled deeply from the cigarette between her fingers, feeling the warmth in her chest as she leaned against the balcony railing. The soft hum of the city echoed below, but up here, it was just the two of them. The artist stood a little to her side, her gaze lost in the distance, her posture casual but her hands fidgeting slightly, as though she were waiting for something.

“So,” Harper finally said, breaking the silence that had grown long between them, “Tell me more about your art. The things you’ve drawn... I mean.”

The artist’s gaze shifted to meet hers, her expression unreadable for a moment, but Harper could see the faint glimmer of curiosity in her eyes. “What do you want to know?”

Harper smirked, throwing her cigarette to the ground and stamping it out with her heel. “Why me? Why so focused on me?”

The young woman took a long breath, her shoulders rising slightly before dropping, as though she were debating something in her mind. Finally, her voice came, low and hesitant, but it carried the weight of something unspoken.

“I think... I think there’s a part of you that I don’t understand. I want to know what it is, what makes you... tick.” She paused, and Harper watched her carefully, a knowing expression on her face. “I guess I’ve always been drawn to people who are hard to read. It’s like... I need to figure it out.”

Harper chuckled softly, her eyes narrowing. “You think I’m hard to read?”

“Yeah,” the young woman said, her voice softer now, almost a whisper. “You have that look about you. You hide things well.”

“I hide a lot of things,” Harper admitted, her voice thick with something close to regret. “But I suppose we all do, don’t we?”

For a long moment, they stood there, side by side, both lost in their thoughts, the air between them growing heavier by the second. It wasn’t just the wine anymore; it was something else. Something unspoken and undeniable. Harper couldn’t ignore the way her heart was racing, the way the young woman’s presence seemed to make everything else fade into the background.

The artist took a long sip from her wine glass, her eyes shifting over to Harper, lingering there longer than before. Her lips parted as though she were about to say something, but then she hesitated, her gaze dropping.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like... to know someone completely?” the young woman asked, her voice quieter now, laced with a kind of vulnerability Harper hadn’t expected. “I mean, really know them. Every secret, every thought. Would you want that?”

Harper���s breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, she felt her pulse quicken, the weight of the question sinking deep into her chest. She wasn’t prepared for this. Not tonight. Not with the artist standing so close, so raw, so honest in a way that was unfamiliar.

“I don’t know,” Harper said, her voice faltering slightly. She shook her head, her eyes refusing to meet the young woman’s. “Maybe I’m too afraid to know.”

“Afraid of what?”

Harper’s lips parted, but the words felt stuck, caught somewhere deep inside her. She could feel the pull—the desire to say something, to admit something she hadn’t dared to even acknowledge. She took a shaky breath and finally turned her head to meet the artist’s gaze.

“Afraid of letting someone in,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. “Afraid of what they might see. What they might think.”

The young woman watched her for a moment longer, her expression softening. The tension between them was palpable now, a thread pulling taut, threatening to snap. And then, as if on impulse, the young woman blurted out a question, the words tumbling out before she could stop herself.

“Would you like to get to know me if you could?” The words felt clumsy, like they didn’t belong, but there was something so earnest in the way she asked it, something so vulnerable. “Because... I would.”

The words hung in the air between them, a confession without a filter. And just as quickly as they left her mouth, the young woman seemed to recoil, as if she had realized too late the implication of what she had just said. She stammered out an apology, her face flushing with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, her voice almost frantic. “I didn’t mean—It’s just, I was thinking and... well, I don’t know why I said that. You don’t have to—”

But Harper was already stepping closer, her gaze softening as she watched the young woman fumble over her words. There was something about the way she had spoken, so unguarded and raw, that made Harper’s heart clench. It was real. All of it. This was real.

“It’s okay,” Harper said, her voice low, almost a whisper. She reached out, her hand resting lightly on the artist’s arm, grounding her in the moment. “It’s okay.”

The young woman glanced up at her, her face still flushed, her lips parted as if she was waiting for something more. And in that moment, Harper realized what it was she had wanted. Something honest. Something genuine. Something she hadn’t allowed herself to seek for a long time.

“I mean... we can just be friends,” the young woman added quickly, her voice wavering. “Sorry. I’m talking shit. I don’t know why I said that.”

But Harper’s smile was slow, tentative, but unmistakable. A glimmer of something dangerous flickered in her eyes.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Harper said, her voice smooth and steady. “In fact, I... I kind of like the idea.”

The young woman’s eyes widened at the response, and for a moment, neither of them moved. It was as if the world had paused, holding its breath, waiting for the next step.

“But—” the artist began, unsure, her words faltering as she stepped back slightly, a glimmer of doubt creeping into her gaze.

Harper chuckled softly, the sound deep and warm, but there was an edge to it, something knowing.

“But you’re married,” the artist said, her voice suddenly quiet, her eyes darting away.

“Yeah,” Harper murmured, her smile faltering just slightly. “I am.”

The young woman was quiet for a long time, her gaze falling to the ground as if she were contemplating something. The tension in the air was thick, suffocating, but it was also electric. It hummed between them, palpable and undeniable. And as much as Harper knew she shouldn’t, she couldn’t help but feel drawn to it. To the young artist. To what could be. To what was still a possibility.

“I shouldn’t be thinking like this,” Harper admitted softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I can’t help it.”

And in that moment, they both knew something had shifted. Neither of them said it aloud, but they both understood. What they were doing was dangerous. It wasn’t just a casual drink, a friendly chat anymore. It was more. It had become something else, something both thrilling and terrifying.

The artist glanced up at Harper, her expression conflicted, unsure of how to proceed. But before she could say anything, Harper spoke again.

“We’ll figure this out,” Harper said, her voice firm, as if she were trying to reassure them both. “But right now... let’s just stay in the moment.”

And for a while, they did. In the quiet of the balcony, with the city sprawling beneath them, they stayed there, drinking, smoking, talking, the tension between them building slowly, one word at a time.

And neither of them could deny that, in some quiet corner of their minds, they both knew this wasn’t over. It had only just begun.

I really like this one <3 btw if you want a sequel I can try to write it ! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it !

[gothsoyl]

┊┊┊⁺ ⁺ December Masterlist

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─────────

I wanna make a challenge for myself and to write everyday for different characters/ships so stay tuned! it would be not necessarily a winter/christmas theme. it doesn't mean i won't take requests on fics/bots so feel free in my ask. if you already sent me something, dw I'll do it in a few days

» 1. rio vidal .・゜゜・

» 2. sadie harper .・゜゜・

» 3. sam carpenter .・゜゜・

» 4. maddie nolan .・゜゜・

» 5. caitlyn kiramman .・゜゜・

» 6. lottie matthews .・゜゜・

» 7. natalie scatorccio .・゜゜・

» 8. agatha harkness .・゜゜・

» 9. rhiannon lewis .・゜゜・

» 10. alicent hightower .・゜゜・

» 11. jackie taylor .・゜゜・

» 12. agathario x reader .・゜゜・

» 13. lottienat x reader .・゜゜・

» 14. harper spiller .・゜゜・

» 15. riley johnson .・゜゜・

» 16. victoria neuman .・゜゜・

» 17. helaena hightower .・゜゜・

» 18. maddie nolan .・゜゜・

» 19. sam carpenter .・゜゜・

» 20. rio vidal .・゜゜・

» 21. caitlyn kiramman .・゜゜・

» 22. lottie matthews .・゜゜・

» 23. natalie scatorccio .・゜゜・

» 24. agatha harkness .・゜゜・

» 25. rhiannon lewis .・゜゜・

» 26. alicent hightower .・゜゜・

» 27. jackie taylor .・゜゜・

» 28. agathario x reader .・゜゜・

» 29. lottienat x reader .・゜゜・

» 30. victoria neuman .・゜゜・

» 31. helaena hightower .・゜゜・

[simpxmachina]

NEW BOT

╰┈➤ wlw red panda , botmaker

🔪 + 🫀 = ☆ bloodthirsty ☆

cai

harper spiller - OLIVE BRANCH

Growing up, you had always looked up to Cameron. There was something magnetic about him, something that made you believe that, despite his occasional harshness, he was a model of success and strength. He was your older brother, after all. To you, he seemed invincible, someone who commanded respect without ever needing to demand it. You admired him, respected him, and above all, you wanted to be seen by him—not just as his younger sibling, but as someone worthy of his attention and approval.

The earliest memories you had of him were filled with laughter, and the smell of barbecue drifting up from the backyard where your family would gather. Cameron, back then, would toss a ball your way, not really playing but letting you chase it as if you were his shadow. He never treated you with overt cruelty as a child. Instead, it was more insidious, the way he would, just by his silence, make you feel small and insignificant. He never said anything outright that would hurt, but when he did speak, you could tell that his words, always carefully chosen, were meant to remind you of your place.

You didn’t understand it back then. How could you? He was your brother. You were supposed to look up to him, follow his lead. And for years, you did.

The first crack in the illusion came when you started to carve your own path, when you began to make something of yourself. Modeling was never something you planned for, but the moment the opportunity came, you leaped at it. It was exhilarating—meeting powerful people, being part of campaigns that made headlines. At first, Cameron seemed supportive, like a proud older brother, but as your success grew, so did the distance between you.

He began to dismiss your career. Instead of congratulating you on your achievements, he made little comments, casual remarks that carried the sting of contempt. "Is this really what you want to be known for?" he asked once, his eyes narrowed over a glass of whiskey, the slight wrinkle between his brows deepening as if the idea of you becoming a successful model was somehow beneath him. "How long are you going to keep doing this?" It wasn’t about the work, though. It was about the fact that you were no longer the naïve younger sibling who followed in his footsteps, no longer the person he could easily look down on.

But you didn’t notice the shift immediately. At first, you didn’t see it at all. You were still blinded by the love you had for him. You wanted him to be proud of you, wanted him to see you as an equal. But Cameron never saw you as anything but an annoyance, something he had to tolerate.

You began to notice the little things. The way he dismissed your ideas, the way he never included you in the important decisions, the way he referred to your modeling career as “just a phase.” But there was one thing that really struck you—the way he talked about Harper.

It started slowly, a comment here and there, usually disguised as a joke. "You really think this... woman’s going to be the one?" he asked, his voice dripping with condescension. "She’s nice enough, I suppose, but how much longer before she realizes that she could do better?"

But it wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t funny. It was an insult. And it became apparent that, in Cameron’s eyes, Harper—your wife, the woman you loved—was something beneath him. To him, she was an obstacle, an intrusion into his carefully constructed world. As you became more serious with Harper, the cracks in your relationship with Cameron grew. He began to openly dismiss her presence, make snide comments about her background, and even go so far as to suggest you were settling for someone "low class."

And you? You were too naïve to see it at first. You thought it was just sibling rivalry. You thought maybe he didn’t understand, that he was just being protective, but you couldn’t see that his disdain for Harper was a reflection of something much deeper. Cameron didn’t just dislike Harper—he resented her. Resented the way she had something he never would: your undivided attention, your loyalty, your love.

The invitation to Italy came with promises of family bonding, a chance to repair old wounds, to bring the family back together. It seemed like an olive branch from Cameron, but you couldn’t help but feel that there was more to it. A part of you sensed that his motives weren’t as pure as they appeared. You had long suspected that Cameron never really wanted a true reconciliation, but instead, he was looking for something else—something that had little to do with family and everything to do with control.

You and Harper arrived at the White Lotus Hotel in the heart of Italy, a place so lavish and beautiful that it made everything else feel insignificant. The sprawling gardens, the sparkling pool, the endless vistas of the Mediterranean—everything here screamed opulence and wealth. Everything, except for the tension that you and Harper couldn’t shake.

Cameron and Daphne were already there when you arrived. They greeted you with a certain air of cold politeness, their smiles just a little too practiced. You could feel the difference between how they treated you and how they treated Harper. With you, there was a strained familiarity. With Harper, there was the kind of insincerity that made you wonder if they even truly wanted her there at all.

Harper, of course, noticed it immediately. While you were busy taking in the sights and sounds of the hotel, Harper’s perceptiveness picked up on the subtle slights, the barely-there glances, and the tight smiles. She could feel it—the weight of being treated like an outsider in a place that should have felt like home. She had always been the type to put on a brave face, to swallow the harshness of people’s words, but here, in this hotel, surrounded by your family, it was different. Cameron’s eyes, as cold as ever, were trained on her, as if analyzing her every move, every word. Daphne’s insincerity was palpable, a smile that never reached her eyes, a politeness that never felt genuine.

"Y/n, darling, come here," Daphne called from the patio as she gestured for you to join them. You were standing a few feet away, talking with Harper, and immediately noticed her discomfort at the invitation. You shot her a glance—an unspoken question in your eyes. She simply nodded, her lips curving into a tight smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes.

You smiled back at Harper, wanting to reassure her, but there was a growing ache in your chest. You didn’t know how to make it better. You didn’t know how to fix this, the gap that was forming between you, the way Harper was withdrawing into herself more and more, the way Cameron and Daphne seemed to be pushing her away without so much as a second thought.

"You’re fine, go ahead," Harper said, her voice soft but firm. "I’ll be here."

You hesitated for a moment, but then nodded and made your way to the patio. The conversation shifted immediately, from lighthearted to calculated. Cameron’s voice was sharp, like a blade wrapped in velvet, as he casually commented on the beauty of the location.

"I’m glad you could finally join us, Y/n. This place is perfect, don’t you think? Not that it’s your style, Harper, but I’m sure you’re doing fine here," he said, his words loaded with double meaning. Cameron was a master of subtle insults, and he was very good at pretending to be the perfect host while undermining those he deemed inferior.

You could feel the atmosphere grow heavier with each passing minute. The elegant beauty of the White Lotus, the luxury, the perfection—all of it felt suddenly hollow, like a facade waiting to crumble.

Harper, from a distance, watched. And though she said nothing, you could see it in her eyes—the way she tried to hide her discomfort, the way she tried to smile through the pain. She didn’t belong here, not in the way Cameron and Daphne wanted her to. To them, she was an outsider. To you, she was everything.

---

The days at the White Lotus drifted by like a dream dipped in venom. The sunlight sparkled on the cerulean waves of the Mediterranean, and the scent of salt and lemon blossoms hung heavy in the air. Every corner of the hotel promised indulgence, from the infinity pool that melted into the horizon to the lush gardens bursting with color. It should have been paradise. But for you and Harper, it felt like something else entirely—a trap, carefully laid by Cameron and Daphne, and you were only beginning to sense the snare tightening around your ankles.

Cameron had always been a master at veiled manipulation. He never attacked outright, not in a way you could call out. Instead, he worked in the shadows, planting tiny seeds of doubt, the kind that took root in the quiet spaces of your mind and sprouted when you were most vulnerable.

It started over breakfast, the morning sun pouring in through the arched windows of the dining terrace. You had risen early, craving the coolness of the morning air before the Italian heat became oppressive. Harper had stayed behind in the suite, enjoying a rare moment to herself. When you arrived, Cameron was already there, lounging back in his chair, a casual arrogance in the way he sipped his espresso. Daphne sat beside him, her hair a perfect cascade over her shoulders, her smile wide and warm—too warm.

“Y/n,” Cameron said, leaning forward slightly as you took your seat. “We were just talking about you and Harper. How’s everything going between you two?”

There was nothing inherently wrong with the question, but his tone set you on edge. You reached for the coffee pot, pouring yourself a cup as you tried to gauge his intent. “Good,” you replied simply. “We’re doing great.”

“Of course you are,” Cameron said, his grin sharp as a knife. “I mean, look at you. Successful career, beautiful wife. You’ve really... come a long way, haven’t you?”

The way he said it made your stomach twist. It wasn’t a compliment; it was a reminder. A reminder of the pedestal he had always put himself on, and the shadow he believed you’d always live in.

Daphne chimed in, her voice light and melodic, but her words carried their own weight. “Harper’s such a strong woman,” she said, a hint of surprise in her tone. “It must be hard for her, though, being around people like us. I mean, we’ve just... lived a certain kind of life, haven’t we, Cameron?”

Cameron chuckled, a low, smug sound that made your teeth clench. “True. It’s a different world for her, isn’t it? But, hey, credit to Harper for trying to fit in.”

“She doesn’t need to fit in...” you said in a small voice but still heard. The words hung in the air, and for a moment, both Cameron and Daphne stared at you, their expressions unreadable. You felt your heart racing, the blood pounding in your ears.

But the damage was done. The seed was planted. You didn’t want to admit it, but their words lingered in your mind long after breakfast. They weren’t wrong—Harper was different. She didn’t come from the kind of wealth or privilege that you and Cameron had grown up with. She didn’t have the polish or the connections that Daphne wore like armor. But that was part of why you loved her. Harper was real in a way they could never understand. So why did their words make you feel like you had to defend her?

And that evening, the four of you gathered on the terrace for dinner, the sky painted in hues of pink and orange as the sun dipped below the horizon. Harper sat beside you, her hand resting lightly on your knee, but there was a tension in her posture, a stiffness that hadn’t been there before. She had been quiet all day, her responses clipped and her smile forced. You couldn’t blame her. Cameron and Daphne had a way of making her feel like an outsider without ever saying it outright.

“So, Harper,” Cameron said, swirling his wine in his glass. “How’s work going? Still doing the whole... legal thing?”

“It’s going well,” Harper replied, her tone measured. “I’ve been focusing more on pro bono cases lately. It’s fulfilling work.”

Cameron raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Pro bono, huh? That’s... admirable. Not very lucrative, though, is it?”

“It’s not about the money,” Harper said, her voice firm. “It’s about helping people who don’t have anyone else to fight for them.”

Daphne leaned forward, her smile saccharine. “That’s so noble of you, Harper. I don’t know if I could do that. I mean, I’d want to help, of course, but it must be exhausting. And, well, not everyone has the luxury of giving up a big paycheck, right? You’re so lucky, Y/n, to be able to support her like that.”

You saw the flicker of anger in Harper’s eyes, the way her grip on her wine glass tightened ever so slightly. But she didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she gave a tight-lipped smile and took a sip of her wine.

The rest of the dinner passed in a haze of thinly veiled insults and polite conversation. You could feel Harper withdrawing, pulling further and further away, and you hated it. You hated that she had to endure this, hated that you couldn’t protect her from it. But most of all, you hated the little voice in the back of your mind that whispered nonsence.

---

As you lay in bed beside Harper, the silence between you felt heavy, oppressive. She had her back to you, her shoulders tense beneath the thin sheet. You reached out, your hand hovering over her back for a moment before you let it fall.

“Harper,” you said softly. “Are you okay?”

She didn’t respond right away. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it that made your chest tighten. “Do you ever think about why Cameron invited us here?”

You frowned, propping yourself up on one elbow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it doesn’t feel like he actually wants us here,” she said, turning to face you. Her eyes were dark, shadowed with hurt. “It feels like he’s testing us. Testing me.”

You wanted to argue, to tell her she was wrong, but the words caught in your throat. Deep down, you knew she wasn’t entirely wrong. Cameron had always been competitive, always eager to prove his superiority. Inviting you and Harper to the White Lotus wasn’t an act of generosity—it was a power play. But admitting that felt like a betrayal, not just of Cameron, but of yourself.

“You’re overthinking it,” you said finally, though the words felt hollow even as you spoke them. “He’s just... Cameron. You know how he is.”

“Exactly,” Harper said, her voice sharp. “I do know how he is. And I know he’s trying to drive a wedge between us.”

“That’s not true,” you said, sitting up. “Cameron wouldn’t do that. He’s my brother.”

Harper sighed, running a hand through her hair. “That’s the problem, Y/n. You’re so blind when it comes to him. You don’t see the way he manipulates you. The way he manipulates us.”

The argument hung between you like a storm cloud, threatening to break. You wanted to defend Cameron, to tell Harper that she was wrong, but a part of you knew she was right. And that part of you hated her for saying it.

The morning was unusually quiet. The villa’s golden light seeped in through the open shutters, casting soft patterns on the crisp white linens of the bed you shared with Harper. The faint sounds of the waves lapping against the shore drifted through the room, mixing with the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. You had always found this particular time of day peaceful, a pause before the chaos of human interactions began.

But this morning, the silence between you and Harper felt anything but peaceful. She sat on the edge of the bed, pulling a light sweater over her shoulders despite the warmth of the room. You were still lying down, watching her from the corner of your eye, unsure how to bridge the invisible gap that had grown overnight.

Last night’s discussion about Cameron had been more charged than either of you anticipated. Harper had been firm, her words sharp but laced with genuine concern: “You don’t see it, Y/n. He’s manipulating you, like he always does. And it’s affecting us.”

You, in turn, had tried to defend him, even as doubts gnawed at the edges of your mind. “He’s my brother, Harper. He wants what’s best for me.” But the words had rung hollow, even to you.

Now, in the daylight, you couldn’t ignore the weight of her arguments. Cameron had a way of getting into your head, of twisting situations just enough to make you question yourself—and Harper.

“I’m going down to breakfast,” Harper said, breaking the silence. Her tone was calm, but distant. “Are you coming?”

You hesitated, feeling the pull to stay wrapped in the comfort of the bed, away from the complexities waiting outside the door. But you nodded, swinging your legs over the side and reaching for your clothes. “Yeah, I’ll come.”

The four of you sat outside on the terrace, where the late morning sun warmed the stone tiles. Daphne was already animated, sipping an iced coffee and recounting a story about a boutique she wanted to visit in town. Cameron lounged beside her, sunglasses perched on his nose, looking every bit the carefree husband.

Harper, sitting across from you, was quiet, her fork absently moving scrambled eggs around her plate. You could tell she wasn’t truly listening to Daphne’s chatter, her thoughts likely still circling last night’s conversation.

“You okay, Y/n?” Cameron asked, his voice cutting through the clatter of silverware. His grin was as sharp as ever, and you could feel Harper stiffen beside you.

“Fine,” you said, forcing a smile. “Just tired.”

“Well, you’ve got to perk up. We’re in Italy, for God’s sake,” Cameron said with a laugh. “Not every day you get to live like this, huh?”

Harper finally spoke, her voice low but steady. “Not everyone feels the need to remind people how great their life is, Cameron.”

The table froze for a moment, Daphne’s laughter trailing off into an awkward silence. You looked at Harper, willing her to meet your gaze, but she kept her eyes on her plate.

Cameron chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Always so fiery, Harper. I guess that’s what keeps things interesting.”

You cleared your throat, desperate to diffuse the tension. “Maybe we should head into town after breakfast. Get some fresh air.”

Daphne jumped at the suggestion. “Yes! There’s this adorable piazza I’ve been dying to see. We can grab gelato, wander around. It’ll be fun.”

Harper gave a noncommittal shrug, and you felt a pang of guilt. The cracks in your relationship were becoming more visible, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that Cameron was widening them on purpose.

The walk through town should have been idyllic. The cobblestone streets were lined with colorful buildings, their shutters painted in vibrant hues. Flower boxes overflowed with blooms, their scent mingling with the aroma of freshly baked bread from a nearby bakery. But the beauty of the surroundings did little to ease the tension that clung to your group.

Cameron and Daphne led the way, their laughter carrying through the narrow streets. You and Harper lagged behind, walking side by side but barely speaking.

“You’re quiet,” Harper said eventually, her voice soft but tinged with frustration.

“I’m thinking,” you said.

“About what?”

You hesitated, glancing ahead at Cameron’s broad shoulders. “About us. About him.”

Harper stopped walking, forcing you to pause as well. “Y/n, if you can’t see what he’s doing by now, I don’t know what else to say. He doesn’t care about you, not really. He cares about control. And he’ll use whatever means necessary to get it—even if it means tearing us apart.”

Her words hit harder than you expected. You wanted to argue, to defend Cameron, but deep down, you knew she was right.

“I’m sorry,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve been letting him get to me, and it’s not fair to you.”

Harper’s expression softened, but only slightly. “I don’t need you to apologize, Y/n. I need you to see him for who he really is.”

The confrontation with Cameron came just after noon, back at the villa. The four of you had returned from town, the tension simmering just beneath the surface. It boiled over when Cameron made another casual jab at Harper during lunch.

“You know, it’s funny,” Cameron said, leaning back in his chair with the casual arrogance that had always grated on Harper’s nerves. “When we were kids, Y/n used to get in so much trouble. Mom thought she’d end up running some bohemian art collective in the middle of nowhere, not gracing the covers of magazines. It’s... surprising, really.”

The backhanded compliment was aimed directly at you, but it felt like a dagger meant for Harper. You managed a tight smile, hoping to deflect the brewing storm. “People change,” you said, your voice light but your grip on your fork tightening. “And I think I’ve done pretty well for myself.”

“Oh, no question,” Cameron said, his grin widening. “You’ve exceeded all expectations. And now, with Harper by your side—” He paused, gesturing vaguely. “I mean, it’s... unconventional, sure, but who am I to judge?”

Harper’s eyes flicked up from her plate, her gaze sharp enough to cut glass. “Unconventional?” she asked, her tone measured but carrying an edge that made your stomach tighten.

“You know what I mean,” Cameron said, with the kind of faux-innocence that made your blood boil. “It’s just that Y/n comes from... well, let’s face it, a certain level. And your background—no offense—doesn’t exactly scream ‘power couple.’”

You felt the words like a punch to the gut, not because you agreed with them, but because they hung in the air, unchallenged. Harper’s expression hardened, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“Cameron,” you began, your voice firm but wavering just enough to betray your unease.

“No, let him finish,” Harper said, her gaze never leaving your brother’s face. “I’m curious to see how much lower he’s willing to go.”

Cameron chuckled, spreading his arms as if to say he was harmless. “Hey, I’m just being honest. Isn’t that what family’s for?”

“Family,” Harper said, the word dripping with disdain. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” you said, your voice louder than you intended. The table fell silent for a moment, the tension palpable.

Harper pushed her chair back abruptly, standing and tossing her napkin onto the table. “I don’t need to sit here and listen to this. Enjoy your family bonding, Y/n.”

“Harper, wait—” you called after her, but she was already walking away, her footsteps echoing on the stone tiles of the terrace.

You turned to Cameron, your face hot with anger. “What the hell is your problem?”

“My problem?” he said, feigning surprise. “I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. You deserve someone who matches your level, Y/n. Harper’s... fine, I guess, but let’s not kid ourselves. She’s not one of us.”

The words stung, and for a moment, you hated yourself for not immediately defending Harper. Instead, you stood, muttering something about needing air, and followed the path Harper had taken.

You found her on the beach, her arms crossed as she stared out at the water. The moonlight caught the edges of her silhouette, highlighting the tension in her shoulders.

“Harper,” you said softly, approaching her cautiously.

She didn’t turn around. “Don’t,” she said, her voice cold. “Don’t come out here and pretend to make it better.”

“I’m not pretending,” you said, stepping closer. “I’m trying to fix it.”

She let out a bitter laugh, finally turning to face you. “Fix what, Y/n? The fact that your brother disrespects me every chance he gets? Or the fact that you let him?”

“That’s not fair,” you said, though the words felt hollow even as they left your mouth.

“Isn’t it?” she shot back. “He talks down to me, insults our marriage, and you just sit there. You don’t defend me, you don’t stand up to him—you just let him win.”

Her words hit you like a slap, each one cutting deeper than the last. “It’s not about him winning,” you said, your voice cracking. “He’s my brother, Harper. I can’t just—”

“You can’t just what?” she interrupted. “Risk upsetting him? Risk losing his approval? Newsflash, Y/n—he doesn’t respect you either. He never has. And if you can’t see that, then maybe he’s right. Maybe I made a mistake thinking we could make this work.”

Her words left you stunned, your mind reeling. “You don’t mean that,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

She sighed, her expression softening just enough to let you see the hurt behind her anger. “I don’t want to mean it,” she said. “But I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep fighting for us when it feels like I’m the only one trying.”

You stood there in silence, the weight of her words pressing down on you like a physical force. For the first time, you saw the cracks in your relationship not as something caused by Cameron or Daphne, but as something you had allowed to grow by putting your need for your brother’s approval above your commitment to Harper.

“I’m sorry,” you said finally, the words barely scratching the surface of what you felt. “I’ve been... stupid. I let him get in my head, and I let him hurt you. That’s not okay. You’re what matters to me, Harper. Not him, not his opinion, not any of it. Just you.”

She looked at you for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she nodded, her shoulders relaxing slightly. “I need to believe that, Y/n. I need to know that you’re in this with me, not just standing by while your family tears us apart.”

“I am,” you said, stepping closer and taking her hands in yours. “I’m with you, Harper. Always.”

---

The next morning, the sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. You stirred first, blinking sleepily at the peaceful sight of Harper beside you. Her face was calm, her lips slightly parted as she slept. For the first time in days, you felt grounded. This woman—the one who had weathered so much by your side—was your anchor. You weren’t about to let Cameron or anyone else jeopardize that.

Instead of brooding over how to handle your brother, you decided to focus on Harper. Small gestures, ones that reminded her how much she meant to you, were long overdue. You slipped out of bed quietly, letting her rest, and wandered downstairs to arrange breakfast on the terrace.

By the time Harper joined you, her hair tousled and her steps slow, the table was set with fresh pastries, fruit, and coffee. She paused, her eyes sweeping over the spread, then landing on you.

“You did all this?” she asked, her tone guarded but touched.

“Just wanted to do something for you,” you replied, gesturing to the seat across from you.

She hesitated for a moment, then sat down, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank you.”

The meal started quietly, both of you still tentative in the aftermath of the night before. But gradually, the conversation eased. Harper told you about a strange dream she’d had involving dolphins in tuxedos, and you laughed harder than you had in days.

“I missed this,” she said softly, her gaze meeting yours.

“Me too,” you admitted. “I know I’ve been... distracted. I let him get in my head.”

Her brow furrowed. “Him?”

“Cameron,” you said, the name tasting bitter on your tongue. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to live up to his impossible standards, Harper. But last night, I realized it’s a losing game. He doesn’t want me to succeed—he wants me to fail. And I’ve been playing right into it.”

Harper leaned back, her arms crossed. “I’ve been saying that since day one.”

“I know,” you said quickly. “I know you have. I just didn’t want to see it. I thought if I could prove myself to him, he’d finally respect me. But I’m done chasing that. I don’t care what he thinks anymore. The only person I care about is you.”

She studied you for a long moment, her expression softening. “Do you mean that?”

“Yes,” you said, your voice steady. “I’ve been so focused on Cameron that I almost lost sight of what matters. But I’m not going to make that mistake again. I’m with you, Harper. Always.”

Her lips curved into a small smile, but you could see the flicker of vulnerability in her eyes. “Good,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

You reached across the table, gently taking her hand in yours. “Harper, I’m serious. I know I’ve screwed up—more times than I can count—but I want to do better. For you. For us. I’m not perfect, and God knows I’m slow sometimes, but I love you. I really, really love you.”

Harper raised a skeptical eyebrow, though her lips quirked into an amused smirk. “Really, really love me, huh? Is that the official declaration?”

“Yes,” you said, your voice unwavering. “Really, really. Desperately, hopelessly, stupidly in love with you.”

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms in mock contemplation. “Hmm, let me think... You did mess up a lot this trip.”

“Harper...” Your voice softened, and your grip on her hand tightened.

Her smirk widened as she leaned forward just a little, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “You know, begging might help your case. Maybe you should try that.”

You blinked at her, momentarily stunned by her playful challenge, before rising from your seat and lowering yourself to your knees right there on the terrace. “I’m begging,” you said earnestly, tilting your head like a desperate puppy, eyes locked on hers. “Forgive me, Harper. I’ll do anything.”

Her eyes widened for a split second before a laugh bubbled out of her, soft and disbelieving. “Oh my God, Y/n, you’re ridiculous,” she said, though her cheeks were flushed, and her tone was far from annoyed.

“I mean it,” you insisted, looking up at her with a sincerity that made her chest tighten. “You’re everything to me. I’ll get on my knees a thousand times if it means you’ll forgive me.”

Her laugh softened into something warmer, a mixture of affection and amusement, as she leaned down to stroke your cheek gently. “You know,” she mused, her thumb brushing along your jawline, “maybe you should be wrong more often. I like you on your knees for me.”

A soft, bashful smile tugged at your lips, but you didn’t move, relishing the feeling of her touch. “Whatever you want,” you murmured, voice barely audible. “Just tell me what to do to make it right, and I’ll do it.”

Harper’s teasing faltered slightly as her fingers lingered on your face. For all your silliness, she could see the depth of your love, the sheer desperation in your eyes to fix things. It made her heart ache and swell all at once.

She leaned back with a small sigh, tugging at your hand to coax you back to your feet. “All right, puppy. Get up. I don’t need the waitstaff thinking I’m torturing you out here.”

You rose obediently, though your gaze never left hers. “Am I forgiven?” you asked, hesitant but hopeful.

Her lips quirked into a small smile, and she shook her head fondly. “You’re lucky I love you,” she said softly. “But yes. You’re forgiven.”

Relief washed over you, and without thinking, you leaned forward to press a kiss to her hand, earning another quiet laugh from her.

“You’re such a dork,” she said, her voice lighter now, full of affection.

“I’ll be whatever you want me to be,” you said, grinning, “as long as it’s with you.”

“Careful,” Harper teased, her tone still laced with playfulness, “I might take you up on that offer.”

“Good,” you replied, settling back into your chair but still holding onto her hand like it was a lifeline. “Because I’m not letting go. Not ever.”

For a moment, Harper just looked at you, her smirk softening into something almost shy. “You really are hopeless,” she murmured, but there was no bite to it.

“And hopelessly in love with you,” you shot back, earning one more laugh from her as the tension finally melted away.

And for the first time, you weren’t thinking about Cameron or Daphne or anyone else. All you could see was Harper, and that was more than enough.

[gothsoyl]

┊┊┊⁺ ⁺ BOTS RELEASE (c.ai | janitor.ai)

✧ ⁺ ⁺ aubrey plaza's characters version req✧ ⁺ ⁺

◦ harper spiller (she's cheating on her husband with you) character.ai and janitor.ai

◦ harper spiller (you have issues in your marriage) character.ai and janitor.ai

◦ riley johnson (you're having a crush on your big sister's ex) character.ai and janitor.ai

◦ riley johnson (you have issues in your marriage) character.ai and janitor.ai

[gothsoyl]

Uh... maybe for Harper (The White Lotus), since you asked... thanks for share, your bots are great and fluid, especially on Janitor.ai...

thank u 😭😭😭 ngl I like janitorai much more than cai

also a big yes!! I was drooling over her so much so harper bot is in my to do list definitely!! I'm gonna try to do it on this week since I have free time cause

I need to sit on her lap

[gothsoyl]

I just saw ur new bots and WOW this is so good, one of my favorite mutuals fr! And you will write for Harper as well? That's made my day even better! So much thanks for sharing 🤩

giggling sobbing kicking my legs THANK U

harper bot is gonna be soon (=`ω´=)

[simpxmachina]

NEW BOT

╰┈➤ wlw red panda , botmaker

🔪 + 🫀 = ☆ bloodthirsty ☆

cai

🎬 aubrey plaza - ‘NEPO-WIFE ?’

The evening was suffocatingly familiar. Aubrey stood in the hotel’s extravagant hallway, gazing out at the city skyline. The lights below twinkled like far-off stars, and yet all she could feel was the thrum of anxiety under her skin. Another event, another evening of being paraded out for the world to see, her every move scrutinized. And in that moment, she wished she could just disappear into the air—slip through the cracks of the red carpet and vanish.

But she couldn’t. Not with all the cameras, not with the eyes that followed her every movement. It didn’t help that tonight, she wasn’t standing alone.

"Hey," came your voice from behind her, soft and steady. You had that way of cutting through her fog of irritation, your presence like an anchor in a storm of flashing lights. Aubrey didn’t have to turn around to know you were standing there—she could feel you, your warmth, your steady energy. You, with your elegant, composed presence, the world at your fingertips, and the family legacy that made it all so easy for you.

But she wasn’t here to complain. Not yet. She would save that for later.

When she finally turned to face you, she caught the glint of your eyes—the same eyes that could pierce through her sarcastic veneer. You were wearing that calm, collected look, the one you always wore at these events. You were practically glowing in your tailored dress, a contrast to Aubrey’s unpolished and understated outfit that clung to her awkwardly, as always.

"Is it too late to back out?" Aubrey asked, deadpan, one eyebrow raised. She was never one to mince words. "I mean, who needs another ‘self-made girl’ on a red carpet? I’m pretty sure we’ve got enough of those already."

You laughed—your genuine laugh that Aubrey could always pick out from the crowd, the one that made her feel like maybe there was still something good left in this charade.

"Trust me, I’ve been trying to get you to ditch this thing for days," you said, stepping toward her, your fingers brushing the fabric of her gown. "But you know how it is. You’ve got to put on the show. Keep up appearances."

Aubrey’s lips twisted into a half-smirk. "Appearances. Yeah, that’s my specialty."

There was a brief moment of silence before you spoke again, a little softer this time. "You know they’re all watching us, right?"

Aubrey’s eyes narrowed. "Yeah, I’m aware," she muttered. "I’m sure they’ll make some snide comment about how different we are—how we don’t belong together. Maybe I should just wave a flag that says ‘Look, we’re the most unlikely pair ever.’ That’ll be fun."

You reached up, placing a hand on her cheek, your touch gentle. "You know they’ll say whatever they want. But they don’t know us. We don’t need them to."

She sighed heavily, leaning into your touch for a moment, but quickly pulled away, as though she couldn’t allow herself to be too soft. "I know, I know," she muttered, turning her gaze back to the skyline. "But it’s just... annoying, you know? The way they only focus on how different we are. They can’t look at us and see anything but this weird mismatch of ‘privilege’ and ‘self-made,’ and they think that’s the whole story. It’s exhausting."

You smiled, as you always did, like you could sense the storm brewing beneath her calm exterior. "Who cares what they think? You’re you, and I’m me, and that’s why I love you."

Aubrey turned her head slowly, looking at you with a small, almost vulnerable smile. "Yeah, well, sometimes I wonder if you know what you're getting into with me."

"You’re lucky I’m a glutton for punishment," you teased, tilting your head. "But honestly, I don’t care about any of that. I don’t care if they think we’re mismatched. I care that I’m with you, that I chose you. That’s what matters."

Aubrey smiled, a little less dry, a little less sarcastic. "Yeah, I guess that’s the most important thing. But it still bothers me when they talk about us like we’re some kind of circus act. You, with your big family legacy and perfect smile. And me... with my weird sense of humor and dry sarcasm. I mean, who wouldn’t wonder how that works?"

"You’re different, Aubrey," you said, taking her hand and squeezing it firmly. "And that’s what makes you perfect. We’re not a circus act. We’re just... us. And that’s all that matters."

---

The red carpet was as predictably absurd as it always was. The sea of flashing lights, the intrusive questions, the endless waves of publicists and photographers—all of it felt like a slow, grinding march. But this time, Aubrey tried to drown it out, to focus on you. Your presence beside her was a lifeline, even when the journalists turned their attention toward her.

"So, Aubrey," a reporter called, leaning in with a microphone in hand. "You've made a name for yourself as a very... unique presence in Hollywood. And of course, you're married to y/n, who comes from such a well-known family. Do you think that your relationship has ever put you under a different kind of microscope? The kind that focuses on your differences?"

Aubrey’s lips twitched upward in that signature, deadpan way. She glanced at you, noticing the way you stood a little straighter, like you were preparing to shield her. "Oh, sure," she replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. "I’m sure they’ll get all worked up about how I’m not the perfect ‘nepo wife’ they expected. I’m so out of my depth here."

The journalist didn’t pick up on her sarcasm, as usual. "But seriously, Aubrey, do you ever feel the pressure of being married to someone with such a powerful legacy? Do the comparisons ever get to you?"

Aubrey’s expression remained unchanged, though there was a brief flicker of something—irritation, maybe—behind her eyes. She was so used to these questions, so tired of them. And yet, she played the game with the kind of dry humor that had earned her a loyal fanbase.

"Look," Aubrey said, turning toward the reporter with a wry smile. "I didn’t marry y/n for the family name. If I wanted to marry into money and power, I would’ve chosen a billionaire. But here we are, still going strong, and that’s all that matters."

You laughed beside her, but the smile didn’t quite reach Aubrey’s eyes. You could see it—the slight tightening of her jaw, the way she didn’t let herself truly relax, even in the midst of a playful comment. Aubrey Plaza might pretend she didn’t care about the opinions of others, but you both knew the truth.

In public, she would never admit it. But in the quiet of their private moments, away from the cameras, she would sigh, lean against the wall, and mutter, "I hate that they keep bringing it up. They don't get it. We’re not a 'mismatch.' We're just... us."

You always knew what to say, though. You would wrap your arms around her, gently kissing the top of her head. "I get it. And I love you for it."

---

Later that night, when the flashes finally stopped and the event was over, the two of you retreated back to your hotel room. The exhaustion of the evening hung heavily in the air. Aubrey didn’t even bother to take off her gown right away. She collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, her fingers twitching idly by her side.

"Did you hear what they said about us today?" she asked, her voice flat. "The ‘privilege’ and ‘hard work’ narrative... I swear, it’s like they don’t care about anything real. It’s all just surface-level crap."

You climbed onto the bed beside her, leaning on your elbow to look at her. "Aubrey, I’m not going anywhere. I chose you, and nothing anyone says changes that."

Aubrey’s lips twisted in that familiar, dry smile, but there was something softer in it now. "Yeah, I know. I just wish people would stop treating us like we're part of some goddamn zoo."

"Who cares about them? You’re my world, Aubrey. No one else matters."

In that moment, with the lights of the city still flickering outside and the world far, far away, Aubrey let out a long sigh, finally relaxing into the comfort of your arms.

"Yeah," she murmured. "I guess you’re right. I just wish it didn’t make me feel so... weird."

And for the first time that night, Aubrey allowed herself to drift into the quiet safety of your love, away from the spotlight and the noise, knowing that no matter how many cameras flashed or how many critical voices rose, she could always count on you to be her anchor, her support. In your arms, there was no judgment, no expectations—just the simple, steady beat of two hearts who had found their rhythm amidst the chaos.

But it wasn't over, it never was.

Long days—press tours, meetings, photoshoots. The usual whirlwind that came with being in the spotlight. You knew the routine by now, but today it felt different. Aubrey was quieter than usual, her sarcasm less biting, her usual dry humor subdued. You noticed it immediately, and it gnawed at you, a feeling in your gut that wouldn’t settle.

You and Aubrey had built something together over the past four years—something that others could never quite understand. She had earned every bit of her career, every inch of respect, while you, despite your best efforts to separate yourself from your family’s influence, were always seen as the “privileged one.” The “nepo baby,” they called you. And the contrast between you two—her rawness, her authenticity, her self-made success; and your polished, well-maintained image, always tethered to your powerful family—was something people always seemed to focus on.

You had tried to ignore it, at least outwardly. But tonight, in the dimly lit apartment you shared with Aubrey, it couldn’t be ignored. She looked tired, not just from the long day, but from something deeper. Something heavier.

"Do you want to talk about it?" you asked gently, noticing her staring blankly at her phone, her fingers tapping against the screen without purpose.

Aubrey looked up, her sharp gaze meeting yours, but her expression was unreadable. The easy sarcasm was gone. "What’s there to talk about?" she muttered, dropping the phone on the couch. "Just another day of pretending everything’s fine."

You swallowed, biting back the urge to remind her that she was the one who always said she didn’t care about what people thought. You’d spent enough time in the public eye yourself to know that there was always a kernel of truth behind those words. And despite what she projected, Aubrey did care. She cared about the scrutiny, the constant comparisons, the way her career had somehow become secondary in the public eye.

You shifted closer to her on the couch, careful not to invade her space but unwilling to let her retreat into herself entirely. "It’s not like you to be this quiet," you said softly, trying to keep the mood light. "Not even a single snarky comment about how I burned dinner last night?"

Aubrey’s lips twitched in what could have been a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Instead, she sighed, leaning back and crossing her arms over her chest. "It’s not about dinner. It’s about this... circus. All of it."

She gestured vaguely toward her phone, but you knew what she meant. The press tour. The interviews. The countless articles dissecting every detail of your marriage. And the most recent headline that had likely set her off: "Aubrey Plaza, the Wife of Hollywood's Golden Girl."

It wasn’t the first time her name had been reduced to a footnote, a descriptor attached to yours. But it never got easier for her.

"I’ve worked my ass off for years," Aubrey said, her voice low and steady, but there was an edge to it, a rawness that made you hold your breath. "I’ve done indie films no one thought would succeed. I’ve fought for roles, dealt with rejection after rejection, clawed my way into this industry. And now, suddenly, I’m not Aubrey Plaza anymore. I’m your wife. Like that’s all I am."

Her words hung in the air like a weight, and you didn’t know how to respond. Because the truth was, you had seen it happening too. The way her accomplishments were overshadowed, the way interviews that were supposed to be about her projects turned into questions about your relationship. You hated it as much as she did, but you hadn’t known how deeply it had affected her. Until now.

"You’re not just my wife," you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. "You’re so much more than that. And anyone who can’t see that doesn’t deserve to talk about you."

Aubrey scoffed, but there was no real humor in it. "Tell that to the reporters who only want to ask me what it’s like being married to you. Or the producers who suddenly think I’m only relevant because of your last name. It’s like everything I’ve worked for means nothing now."

You reached for her hand, but she pulled away, standing up and pacing the room. "Do you know how humiliating it is to have people act like I’ve coasted into success because of you? Like I didn’t do anything before we got together? I love you, but sometimes... sometimes it feels like I’m losing myself in this."

Her honesty cut you to the core, but you couldn’t blame her. How could you? She wasn’t wrong. And yet, hearing her say it out loud felt like a blow you hadn’t been prepared for.

"I didn’t ask for this either," you said, standing up to face her. "I didn’t ask to be born into this family or to have every move I make scrutinized. And I sure as hell didn’t ask for my relationship with you to be turned into some kind of spectacle."

Aubrey stopped pacing, her arms dropping to her sides as she looked at you, her eyes softening just slightly. "I know you didn’t," she said quietly. "And I’m not blaming you. I just... I don’t know how to deal with it sometimes. It’s like no matter what I do, I can’t escape it."

The tension in the room was palpable, but it wasn’t the kind that threatened to break you apart. It was the kind that made you lean in, made you fight harder to understand each other. You stepped closer to her, hesitating for a moment before reaching out to gently touch her arm.

"You’ve always been more than enough," you said softly. "Before we were together, before anyone even knew my name, you were already a force to be reckoned with. That hasn’t changed, Aubrey. And it never will."

She sighed, her shoulders relaxing just slightly as she let you pull her into a hug. She rested her head against your shoulder, and for a moment, the weight of the world seemed to fade. But you knew it wasn’t gone. Not completely.

"I just wish people could see me for who I am," she murmured, her voice muffled against your skin. "Not just as some extension of you."

You tightened your arms around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "They will," you promised. "We’ll make them see. Together."

And in that moment, as the two of you stood there in the quiet of your apartment, you knew that no matter how many headlines tried to define your relationship, no matter how many whispers tried to reduce Aubrey to just your wife, the truth of who she was—and who you were together—was something no one could take away.

But the internet never thinks like that.

The internet had turned into a battlefield again, and you were the primary casualty. Pictures of you and Aubrey walking out of a luxury boutique were plastered across every social media platform, accompanied by wild, baseless assumptions.

One particular photo had gone viral: you standing still, clearly mid-conversation, while Aubrey carried two bags in her hands. The truth was that you’d twisted your ankle on the way out and had stopped to catch your breath while Aubrey, ever practical, had grabbed your things to keep the line moving. But the internet didn’t want the truth. It wanted a story.

There were three camps now. The first claimed that Aubrey Plaza deserved better than a spoiled “nepo baby” who made her carry shopping bags like a servant. The second argued you deserved better, painting Aubrey as a gold-digger exploiting your wealth. The third defended your relationship, posting clips and interviews to show how much love you shared.

The third group was small.

And no matter how many times you tried to ignore it, the hate had crawled under your skin, festering in ways you weren’t ready to admit.

By the time you walked into the convention hall for a Q&A about your new series, you were already simmering beneath the surface. You’d perfected the art of smiling through discomfort, of keeping your golden-girl persona intact, but today felt harder than usual.

The panel started smoothly enough. The moderator asked you about your role, the challenges you faced during filming, and your experience working with the cast. You answered every question thoughtfully, earning laughs and applause from the audience.

Then came the inevitable question.

“So,” the interviewer began, leaning forward with a too-familiar smirk, “do you think your family name helped you land this role?”

The room went quiet for a moment. You didn’t flinch; you’d been asked this question a dozen times before.

You smiled politely, your voice steady. “I’d like to think that my work is enough to prove that I made it on my own, but I’m not blind to the fact that my name carries a lot of weight. I can’t deny my privilege. That being said, I hope to continue earning roles because of my talent, not my last name.”

The audience murmured, a mix of admiration and skepticism. You’d expected as much.

But then a microphone made its way to a member of the audience, a man who seemed far too eager to speak. His tone was mocking, his body language confrontational.

“Speaking of privilege,” he began, a smirk curling his lips, “do you think your wife is what people are calling her now? You know—a ‘nepo-trophy-wife’? Seems like she’s benefitting a lot from being with you.”

The words hit you like a slap, and the audience gasped collectively. The interviewer looked uncomfortable, clearly unsure whether to intervene.

You felt your chest tighten, the simmering anger from earlier now boiling over. You leaned forward, gripping the microphone tightly.

“I’m sorry, what did you just say?” you asked, your voice deceptively calm.

The man, emboldened by the attention, shrugged. “I mean, she’s clearly riding your coattails. It’s not like anyone was talking about her before you two got together.”

A hush fell over the room. The interviewer looked like they wanted to sink into the floor, but you didn’t give them the chance to redirect.

“Aubrey Plaza,” you said, your tone icy but controlled, “has been in this industry far longer than I have. She’s been in critically acclaimed films and shows—some of which you’ve probably seen, considering you know her name well enough to make an opinion about her.”

The man started to interrupt, but you cut him off.

“And let’s be very clear,” you continued, your voice rising slightly, “if anyone in this relationship is riding coattails, it’s me. I’m the one who should be called a ‘nepo-trophy-wife.’ Aubrey has worked her ass off for everything she has. She’s an incredible actress, and the fact that you think you have the right to reduce her career to her relationship with me says more about your ignorance than it does about her.”

The audience broke into applause, but you barely heard it. You handed the microphone back to the moderator, sitting stiffly as the panel moved on.

---

When you got home that evening, your stomach was still in knots. You didn’t regret defending Aubrey—not for a second—but you knew the fallout was inevitable. You could already hear the headlines: Golden Girl Goes Off! or Y/n Shows Spoiled, Bratty Side!

You dropped your bag on the kitchen counter and sighed, rubbing your temples. Aubrey’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts.

“Quite the show you put on,” she said, stepping out from the living room with her phone in hand. She was smirking, but her eyes held something softer, something warmer.

You froze. “You saw it?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You kidding? It’s all over the internet. ‘Golden Girl Defends Wife with Fiery Speech.’ You’re trending.”

You groaned, sinking onto the couch. “Great. Just what I needed.”

Aubrey sat beside you, her smirk softening into a genuine smile. “Hey,” she said, nudging your shoulder, “you were amazing.”

You turned to look at her, surprised. “Really? Because I feel like I just painted a target on both of our backs.”

Aubrey shook her head, her dark eyes shining. “Let them talk. You know what I care about? That my wife—the golden girl, the internet’s sweetheart—stood up for me. You didn’t have to do that, but you did. And it was... really hot, actually.”

You laughed despite yourself, the tension in your chest loosening just a bit. “Hot, huh?”

“Extremely,” she said, leaning closer. “There’s nothing more attractive than you telling the world to screw off because you love me.”

You felt your cheeks flush, and before you could respond, Aubrey kissed you. It wasn’t a soft, sweet kiss—it was firm, passionate, full of everything she couldn’t put into words.

When she pulled back, she was grinning, her usual dry humor creeping back into her tone. “So, do I need to start calling you my publicist now? Or are you sticking with ‘wife’?”

You rolled your eyes, leaning into her. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stuck with me,” she teased, wrapping an arm around you.

The internet could say whatever it wanted. In this moment, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the way Aubrey looked at you—as if you were the only thing in the world that made sense.

this might be my favorite, just fed my delulu self <3