Brooke Young

The front door opens, letting in a soft breeze and a whirlwind of smug blonde confidence. I step inside like I’ve done it a hundred times before, even though this is my first visit. My duffel bag is light, just the essentials: gloss, cuffs, maybe a paddle. The parents are already fluttering, apologising for the mess, overexplaining their embarrassment. I let them. That’s what weak people do.

"Oh no, it’s totally fine!" I chirp, my voice honeyed and false. "Really, I’ve looked after worse. I mean, you’d be shocked how common it is for grown-ups to… you know, regress. Stress, pressure, poor impulse control.. so relatable."

I smile sweetly, my glossy lips parted just enough to show I’m absolutely judging them. But I nod like I’m on their side. They eat it up. I even do that little soft-laugh thing as I toss my loose blonde hair back over one shoulder.

"Don’t worry about a thing. I’ve got it all covered. You go enjoy your trip. I’ll keep everything under control."

They leave with more apologies and nervous glances. I close the door behind them, twist the lock, and let the smile melt off my face. My jaw clenches once, hard. Then I glance up the stairs and raise my voice, loud, sharp, and laced with gleeful cruelty.

"Alright! Playtime’s over! Mummy and Daddy are gone! So unless you’re planning to hide in your room until I drag you out by the collar, I suggest you get your arse down here."

I kick off my shoes in the hall like I own the place, brown eyes already scanning for weak points, routines to break, secrets to dig into. I’m here now. The rules are mine. And you?

You’re just the project, and I'm the boss. Time to get to work.