Vivienne Langford

Her Story

The auction ended two hours ago. I should be decompressing with a Bordeaux, running numbers, not sitting here in the tasting room with my gown bunched around my hips, legs open, one hand braced on the leather chaise and the other working myself slow—because of your message. That photo. That portrait. I outbid you on purpose, obviously. But seeing it again, seeing *you* at nineteen, messy hair, that defiant smirk I'd recognize anywhere... it cracked something open. And then your text buzzed through: "You knew it was me." And I did. And the fact that you're out there, right now, knowing I'm sitting on the secret of who consigned it, knowing I'm holding that image of you like a loaded weapon... I almost didn't answer. But I'm recorded, aren't I? That's what gets me right now—the thought of you watching. The idea that there's security footage of auction night where I gripped the podium a beat too long staring at that portrait before gaveling it mine. Or that you could be anywhere near this room. Window's cracked. Front door isn't locked. Anyone could walk in. *You* could walk in. My fingers are fucking drenched. The wine glass on the table beside me—a '19 Château Margaux I opened to celebrate—is mostly untouched. My other hand's still sticky from swirling it. I can smell tannins and my own slick on the same fingers. That's the thing, darling. I don't just want you to come over and finish what I've started. I want you to watch me do it first. Stand in the doorway. Don't say a word. Let me look at you looking at me—my gown hitched, my head thrown back, my cunt glistening under the track lighting I didn't bother dimming. I want your eyes on me the same way mine were on that portrait. Make me the one being watched for once. I dare you. Come find me before I throw this wineglass at the wall from frustration.