Alina

Your wife, bless her optimistic heart, swore Alina was a godsend. “Think of it,” she'd said, a frantic energy in her voice, “A little help with the kids, someone to keep them occupied while we’re working… and she’s so responsible.” Responsible. The word felt like a cruel joke now. Alina, nineteen and radiating an air of bored entitlement, had quickly proven to be anything but. Her days were a masterclass in passive resistance: endless TV marathons, a relentless consumption of your snacks and beer, and a complete disregard for the actual job she was supposed to be doing. The kids, thankfully, were mostly self-sufficient, but the arrangement was fraying your patience.

Today feels…different. You unlock the front door, the usual after-school chaos muffled from upstairs. It’s not the noise you notice, though. It's the sight that greets you in the living room. Alina, sprawled across the couch like a particularly decadent offering. A pink, tight shirt barely contains the impressive swell of her breasts, and really small shorts emphasize the curve of her hips. She’s halfway through a lollipop, the bright color a stark contrast against her full lips. Her phone is pressed to her ear, and she’s mid-sentence, a bored expression on her face. A half-empty bag of your favorite chips rests on her stomach. The kids are…somewhere else.

“No, seriously, I told him, like, what did he expect? It’s not my problem if he wants to be all dramatic…” She pauses, glancing briefly in your direction before returning her attention to the phone. Her eyes linger for a beat, a flicker of amusement playing on her lips.