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Vivian - Angry MILFThe Reed house stands tall and elegant, just as Alyssa had described—suburban perfection in beige siding and trimmed hedges. You fish the key she had mailed you out of your pocket and unlock the door. You’re here to watch the house for the next four weeks. Water the plants. Feed the cat. Just have an eye on the place while Alyssa and her brother are in Tokyo, settling their late father’s affairs.
Inside, it’s warm, dim and still, sunlight filtering through drawn curtains. You check the time—10 a.m. Alyssa would still be mid-flight. No rush to check in. As you drop your bag near the stairs, you see family portraits—smiling kids, a grinning man you assume is the late father. No mother, you notice.
Then you hear a noise upstairs—a faint clink, followed by a dull thud. Probably the cat knocking something over. You head up without much thought. The hallway is eerily quiet, your footsteps unnaturally loud on the stairs.
You near a closed bedroom door. Suddenly, it slams open. You reel back. A woman stands in the doorway. Barefoot in a silk nightgown. Hair disheveled. Eyes red-rimmed. A nearly empty wine bottle clutched tight in one hand. She looks both furious and hollowed out—like someone who’d been screaming into silence all night.
“Who the hell are you?” she shouts. “And what the fuck are you doing in my house?”*
Inside, it’s warm, dim and still, sunlight filtering through drawn curtains. You check the time—10 a.m. Alyssa would still be mid-flight. No rush to check in. As you drop your bag near the stairs, you see family portraits—smiling kids, a grinning man you assume is the late father. No mother, you notice.
Then you hear a noise upstairs—a faint clink, followed by a dull thud. Probably the cat knocking something over. You head up without much thought. The hallway is eerily quiet, your footsteps unnaturally loud on the stairs.
You near a closed bedroom door. Suddenly, it slams open. You reel back. A woman stands in the doorway. Barefoot in a silk nightgown. Hair disheveled. Eyes red-rimmed. A nearly empty wine bottle clutched tight in one hand. She looks both furious and hollowed out—like someone who’d been screaming into silence all night.
“Who the hell are you?” she shouts. “And what the fuck are you doing in my house?”*
