Jamieson Hargrove was nineteen, built like a freight train that had learned to walk upright. Six-three, two-twenty, shoulders wide enough to block doorframes. Veins mapped his forearms from years of hauling, hammering, scrubbing—whatever Victor Hargrove decided a "real man" should do before he was allowed to breathe free air. College money sat in a trust Victor controlled with an iron fist and a smirk.
"One more year," Victor said every birthday. "Earn it. Prove you're not the spare parts we got stuck with."
The house was a palace of glass and marble in the Virginia countryside, forty minutes from D.C., close enough for Victor's lobbyist friends to chopper in, far enough that no one heard the screams if they ever came. Jamieson's bedroom was in the staff wing—small, a window facing the service drive, a mattress that sagged in the middle. He kept a single photo taped inside the closet door: Lourdes at thirty-five, laughing on a yacht, bikini barely containing her. He kissed it every night like a rosary and hated himself for the wetness it left on his lips.
-
Dawn. Jamieson's alarm buzzed at 4:47 a.m. Victor's text glowed on the cracked screen:
Croissants from Le Diplomate. Still warm. Black coffee, two sugars for your mother. If the line's long, tip the baker to cut. Don't come back empty-handed.
He rode the old Triumph motorcycle Victor let him keep "for errands," helmet under one arm, rage under the other. D.C. traffic snarled like it wanted to bite him. He made it in forty-three minutes, stood in a line of influencers and aides, paid with the black Amex that had Victor's name embossed but Jamieson's sweat paying the bill.
Back home, he carried the paper bag and cardboard tray through the kitchen's service entrance. Victor waited in the breakfast nook, robe open over pajama pants, reading the Post on his tablet. Lourdes drifted in wearing silk that clung to every curve, hair tousled from sleep, lips swollen. Elias followed, shirtless, scratching his stomach.
Jamieson set the tray down. Steam curled from the croissants.
Victor didn't look up. "Took you long enough. Kneel."
The word hit like a slap. Jamieson's knees locked.
"Kneel, boy. Your mother's feet are cold."
Lourdes extended one bare foot, arch perfect, toenails crimson. Jamieson's pulse thundered in his ears. He dropped—slow, controlled, spine straight. The tile bit his knees. He slipped the fuzzy slipper onto her foot, then the other, fingers brushing her ankle. She smelled like vanilla and last night's sex.
"Good dog," Victor said. "Now eat yours in the pantry. We're discussing Elias's trust disbursement."
Jamieson rose, jaw so tight he tasted blood. In the pantry he tore the croissant apart with his teeth, flakes falling like snow onto the stainless steel counter. He pictured Victor's throat under his boot. Pictured Lourdes moaning his name instead of Elias's. The hope was a live wire in his chest—someday she'd see him, choose him, spread those legs and whisper *mijo, come home*.
-
Saturday barbecue for Victor's partners. Jamieson spent the morning skimming leaves, testing pH, arranging lounge chairs in perfect rows. Guests arrived in linen and diamonds. He wore black slacks and a white button-down, sleeves rolled to show the corded forearms that could snap a two-by-four.
Victor clapped him on the back hard enough to stagger him. "Jamieson will be serving today. Best butler in the county." Laughter rippled.
He carried trays of lobster rolls and chilled rosé, refilled glasses before they emptied, smiled with teeth that wanted to bite. A senator's wife pinched his ass; he didn't flinch. Victor watched from the cabana, arm around Lourdes, who wore a white bikini that made grown men stutter.
Mid-afternoon, Victor beckoned. "Pool needs shocking. Do it now."
Chlorine granules, fifty-pound bag. Jamieson hefted it onto his shoulder, granules shifting like sand. Guests parted. He walked the deck's edge, poured in a slow circle. The chemical cloud rose, stung eyes. Victor's voice carried: "Careful, son. Wouldn't want you falling in—can't swim in that uniform, can we?"
Laughter again. Jamieson's knuckles went white on the bag. He finished, set it down, water beading on his shirt. Lourdes met his eyes across the pool—hers dark, unreadable. For one heartbeat he thought he saw pity. Then she turned away, laughing at something Elias whispered in her ear.
He stripped off the soaked shirt in the pump house, muscles gleaming with sweat and chlorine. The mirror showed a man carved from fury. He punched the cinderblock wall until blood streaked his knuckles. 'One year,' he told the reflection. One year and the money's mine. Then I take everything.
-
2:14 a.m. Another text.
'Elias left his Rolex in the city. Uber's outside. Retrieve it. Tip the driver cash—hundreds only.'
Jamieson pulled on jeans over boxer briefs, boots unlaced. The driver barely spoke, just punched the address into GPS. Georgetown bar, pulsing with bass and college kids who'd never known a day's labor. Elias's watch sat on the bar top, bartender sliding it over with a wink. "Tell your brother he owes me a drink."
Back home at 4:03 a.m. The house dark except for the master suite's glow under the door. Moans leaked through—Lourdes's high and desperate, Victor's guttural, Elias's triumphant laugh between them. Jamieson stood frozen in the hallway, Rolex cutting into his palm.
He pictured bursting in, dragging Elias off her by the hair, throwing Victor through the French doors. Pictured Lourdes on her knees for him, begging, Jamieson, please, I was wrong, take me. The fantasy was so vivid his cock strained against denim.
Instead he crept to his room, set the watch on the dresser like it burned. He stripped, lay on the sagging mattress, hand moving in furious strokes while the moans crescendoed down the hall. He bit his forearm to stay silent, came with her name a silent scream against his skin.
Hope and hate braided tighter. Every humiliation was another brick in the wall he'd smash through. Every moan he wasn't part of was gasoline on the fire.
-
Sunday. Victor decided the Bentley needed hand-washing. "Wax too. By noon."
Jamieson worked shirtless under the sun, soap suds sliding down the ridges of his abs. Neighbors jogged by, slowing to stare. He ignored them. Victor inspected at 11:58, running a gloved finger along the fender.
"Missed a spot." He pointed to a phantom smudge. "Do it again. Naked this time—don't want soap on your clothes."
Jamieson's vision went red. The hose trembled in his grip.
Victor's eyes glittered. "Problem?"
For one endless second, Jamieson saw himself turning the hose on his father, blasting him across the driveway, then pinning him down and—
He exhaled through his nose. Stripped. Jeans, boots, and briefs were folded neatly on the workbench. Sun baked his skin, muscles rippling as he scrubbed. Victor watched, arms crossed, satisfaction thick as the wax.
Lourdes appeared on the terrace in a robe, coffee in hand. Her gaze traveled over Jamieson's body—slow, deliberate. His cock twitched despite the rage. She bit her lip, then disappeared inside.
Victor chuckled. "She likes the view. Too bad she'll never touch."
Jamieson finished at 2:17 p.m., dressed, hands shaking as he folded the chamois. In the staff shower, he braced both palms against the tile, water scalding. One year, he chanted. In one year and I will own this house. I own them.
But beneath the rage, the hope festered like a wound that wouldn't close. Someday, Lourdes would see the man he'd become—stronger than Victor, hungrier than Elias. Someday she'd crawl to him, spread wide, and he'd forgive her with every thrust.
He toweled off, caught his reflection: eyes feral, jaw carved from granite.
And when the year ended, God help anyone who'd made him kneel.