When Devotion Hurts: Part 1
Steve Rogers x Reader
Summary: She is his wife; she is the object of his desire. And he doesn't like it when she strays.
Warnings: Fluff, soft reader, "provider" guilt?, traditional gender roles, Daisy the damn poodle, 18 +, Intercourse, vaginal penetration, fingering, cream pie, begging, cursing, nicknames: darling, angel, baby, good girl, petal. Subtle class divide. Let me know if I missed anything. MINORS PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT!!!
word count: 5141
Hey guys, I know that there's not a huge audience reading my fics, but if you liked it, please show some love, it keeps me motivated to write! Part two is out, working on part three. Initially meant to be a one shot but I thought breaking them would make more sense, so enjoy both parts! Please, please show some love! Updates may be slow as I have uni exams starting very soon. Thank you for reading!
He finds her in the greenhouse.
She's standing there in a beautiful white and blue sundress, her hair falling onto her face, as she touches the flowers. She’s bending down, the sun gracing her features and all Steve can do is watch.
It’s all he’s been doing since the past few months, since they got married.
It was an arrangement that he’d grown fond of—although it did take him some time to get used to it. He is not really proud of the difference in their ages—she was young and as fresh as a daisy, full of life. Full of hope, of love.
Which in contrast to him, was brutal. He often resented himself for even wanting something that was so untouched and full of light. He was a selfish man, after all. He could’ve conveniently said no to her father, but he wanted her. He wanted her the moment he saw her. Those eyes, warm and precious—just one look and he’s a goner.
He doesn’t know how it sounds when he says it, but he's never felt such warmth with someone else before. And that comes from the person who’s had a couple flings and maybe two serious relationships. Oh, what he wouldn’t do for that smile.
He walks closer, and she looks up, giving him a fresh smile. It’s as if—it’s all she knows. She’s had her fair share of hardships—losing her mother at 14, and then living with her step mum, which he learnt—only made her more lonely. It was not her fault—or anyone’s. She just didn’t fit in with her new family.
He fixes his watch as he continues to walk towards the greenhouse, his suit intact and looking brand new. Very rarely does she see him not dressed well—one of the rare moments is while they make love. Even with his clothes on, she finds no reason to tear her eyes away from him.
“I was waiting for you at the breakfast table.” He interrupts her humming, and he doesn’t really feel sorry for it now that he has her attention.
“I’m sorry,” She says, not even a tiny bit apologetic. “The gardener had brought some new flowers. Look at these Anemones—I can’t wait to paint them.”
A soft smile curves on Steve’s lips. “You like them?” He asks gently. Not one reason he’s ever felt to ever speak to her in a way that is anything but gentle. She gets up from where she was crouching, now looking into his eyes.
“Yes.” She whispers. “And—And look at the peonies! And the orchids. I can’t wait to paint all of it.”
“I’m glad your greenhouse is coming together, petal.” He takes her hand and kisses her knuckles. She smiles, humming in agreement.
“Thank you.” She says. They’ve been only a few months into their marriage, and everything has been quite smooth. It’s too early for her to say that she loves him, but she sure respects him, and likes him. What’s there not to like, anyways? He’s nice, he’s kind,he’s polite, he spoils her, he fulfills her wants and needs. She should be feeling deeply for him.
Shouldn’t she?
“It’s barely anything, my love.” He again brushes his lips against her knuckles. She shakes her head. He’s just been so…good to her. And she doesn’t even know how to reciprocate it. All she can do is be grateful for everything Steve has given her—he’d even encouraged her to change things around the house to make it feel warmer, which according to Steve, she’d done a brilliant job at.
Her gaze shifts for a brief moment, and she looks outside the greenhouse, where her toy poodle is again hanging around the pool. Peter is on dog duty—like always, making sure the damn thing doesn’t jump into the pool again just to piss him off.
Steve sighs, god, he hates that thing. Yes, he’s the one who got her a toy poodle because she begged him with those big, beautiful, bambi eyes. But he’s come to realize he regrets that decision every day.
“Daisy!” She gasps, as he barks at Peter. Peter looks more afraid of getting bitten by Daisy, the toy poodle than he is confident of catching her.
She looks at them again.
Peter.
Her eyes don’t stray from the mop of brown curls on his head. Her brows furrow in worry. Daisy is nasty when she wants to be—she is so mischievous that it even annoys her as someone who absolutely loves dogs.
“He’ll manage,” Steve says, his blue eyes now also focused on Peter. He takes a long pause, his hands on her biceps before he speaks again. “He always does.”
“I’m just worried. Daisy is evil when she wants to be.” She exclaims, her eyes not leaving Peter even for a moment. There’s something in her gaze—the gentleness, the concern…that irks Steve from the inside. He cannot name it, but it surely bothers him.
“I know, love. That’s just you being yourself.” He assures her gently, cupping her cheek. “But, he’s been with me since he was fifteen. He’s a tough one.”
“Oh,” she says to no one in particular. “So…you still take care of him?” She asks him. She doesn’t want to come off as too nosy, but it’s hard to control curiosity after it's been harboured.
“I do. He’s a good kid.”
“Kid? Makes you sound old.” she teases. “I think me and him are the same age, so that makes me a kid as well, no?”
Steve makes a face that is hard to interpret. “It’s okay old man.” She presses further. “No harm in admitting you’re old as hell.” He raises his brow, trying to act offended. He sighs, and there she is—with another one of those giggles.
“Just kidding.” She chirps, like a sweet little nightingale, kissing his cheek.
He smiles. What can he even say to her? His thumb caresses her cheek and suddenly, there is a splash in the pool.
She gasps, immediately preparing herself to run outside to rescue Daisy. Before she can even do anything, Peter is by the edge, sleeves rolled up as he crouches down. The dog deliberately swims away from him, and he curses, getting inside the pool without a second thought. He grabs the scruff gently much to his distaste—and he lifts the drenched, indignant creature in one smooth motion.
“Daisy!”
“He’ll manage it.” He whispers again, this time a little bit more firm. “She’s fine.”
“But—but—” She watches as Peter wraps her up in a towel while she squirms in his grasp.
“Easy, baby.” He presses his nose against hers, “She’s okay now. Peter will dry her up and then she can again trouble you. I get two minutes a day with my wife.”
“Okay,” She looks outside, now knowing whom she’s more concerned about— the tiny poodle or the boy holding her. He watches how her eyes linger and there’s something about it that he doesn’t like.
He takes a moment for himself before talking again.
“So, I was thinking about what you said the other day,” He starts again, hands rubbing slow circles at the soft curves of her waist.
“About the hanging baskets?” She asks, and he hums.
“I think it’s exactly what’s missing in the greenhouse.” He fondly whispers. “And maybe a little space for our picasso.”
She smiles, and then a bubble of laughter bursts through her. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” He lets out a breath, his hands going back in his pockets, as he looks around, especially the part of the greenhouse that is still unfinished, and is stacked with random items. “Well, we can have a lovely little corner for you to keep your art supplies, no?”
“Really?” She asks. “I…I think…you’ve done a lot for me and…it’s gonna be expensive and—”
“There is nothing too expensive if you want it.” He takes a strand of her hair, watching it curl around her finger. She looks up at him with those doe eyes. “And don’t you talk about expensive things after buying a $10,000 vase at the auction yesterday.”
“I really liked the vase.” she whispers, now feeling a little bit ashamed now. She knows she’s spoiled—she always has been. And sometimes she does feel guilty about wanting things.
“I know, baby.” He kisses her hairline, and then her forehead and then her right temple. His hand comes onto her cheek. “That’s why I made sure you have it.”
She bites her lip. Her gaze shifts away from him, and he holds her chin to make her look at him. His eyes look into hers—and then at her mouth. “Talk to me, baby.”
“I…I…I just…” She doesn’t even know what she wants to say. She doesn’t even have anything to say. “I sometimes…think that you do too much for me.”
“Too much?” He gives her a quirk of his lips, a little scoff following.
“That vase…is the least I could do. I know you will forget about it by next week, but yesterday, when I saw you…” He holds her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, and he knows she’d not care about the vase in a few days but somehow it doesn’t bother him at all.
“I knew you liked it. It doesn’t matter how much—if you like it, you should have it. It’s my job to make sure you do.”
Her lips part, and he takes the moment to press his lips to hers. His tongue brushes against hers, and she moans softly, her hand coming to his hair, brushing it back. He tugs on her lower lip with his teeth, and she melts against him, just wanting to feel closer. His touch, his presence, his scent is enough to remind her that she is safe and sound.
“We should go have breakfast.” She says. “Mrs Miller will be upset if the breakfast goes cold.”
“We should,” He agrees, but the way his blue eyes twinkle when the light catches them, tells her he doesn’t mean it. “But I’m really craving some dessert,” He whispers, leaning more towards her ear to ensure secrecy in front of a nonexistent audience, “And by dessert I mean my sweet, precious wife and everything that comes with her.”
“Steve!” She gasps, feeling her cheeks warm up, as she tries to push him away—as if he hadn’t left her breathless this morning when he had her gasping and weeping under him. Her eyes squeeze shut. “You’re gonna be late for work.”
“And who is going to be concerned about that, sweetheart?” He asks, immediately wrapping an arm around her—just below her butt, and lifts her up.
“Steve Rogers, put me down this instant or I will give your precious tie to Daisy!” She threatens, hitting his shoulders loosely. “Steve, pleaseee—please I just showered.” She begs.
He just smirks “I know. I was there with you.”
He walks out with her in his arms, and she looks at him, with that little furrow in between her brows. He pulls at her nose and she looks offended.
“Oh, don’t do that!” She snaps.
“And who is going to stop me? Last time I checked, I can do as I damn well please.”
“You’re so mean!” She pouts, pressing her face into his neck. “Stevie, please. I’m hungry.”
“I know, darling. I just need ten more minutes with you.” He whispers, as they pass a very drenched Peter and a very restless daisy in his hands.
“Peter, come meet me at the breakfast table after you’re done with that.” He says, without looking. He didn’t need to. Peter responds with a quick “yes boss!” but that's not the part Steve is worried about.
It’s…how she lifted her head to look back at Peter.
Or maybe he’s just looking too much into it. She was perhaps looking at the damn poodle.
Or that’s what he keeps telling himself.
He brushes it off, and he walks into the mansion, and she holds him close. Her eyes close, as she wraps her arms around his neck. Steve climbs the stairs with eager footsteps, some of the housing staff making eye contact with her and turning to make conversation amongst each other—no doubt, they’re whispering about her and Steve.
She feels her cheeks warm up, “Steve, I’m so embarrassed.”
“Don’t be.” He gives her a crooked smirk—the Steve Rogers trademark. “They only wish their husbands could be as romantic as me.” Steve knows he doesn’t need permission to show affection to his wife; and he couldn’t care less about what anyone—much less the housing staff thought of them. It’s not going to stop him or make him spare a glance at them.
“Steve, you’re…you’re greedy. Not romantic.” She teases.
“You keep that tone going and I’m not letting you come.” He threatens.
“No, no no, please…, I’m—I’m sorry!” She begs, and he rolls his eyes, and chuckles. He loves how her eyes widen immediately at his threat—as if it’s something she just needs just to be alive. He brushes a thumb on her cheek.
“I’m not that cruel, sweetheart.” He whispers, and it doesn’t take him even a moment to push the wooden door shut and tackle her onto the bed. He pins her down, his torso resting in between her thighs.
He kisses her deeply and she immediately obliges—her hands threading through his hair. The dirty blonde of his hair shines like golden threads under the sunlight coming in from the huge and beautiful floor to ceiling windows. They part for a moment, a string of saliva connecting their lips. He looks into her eyes—how they search for his, her hands coming to meet his cheeks.
Her freshly painted nails—a deep burgundy, scratch at his beard, something that he loves but won’t admit.
“I’m not Daisy.” He says, acting a little offended. “Don’t treat me like your damn dog.”
“Do you hate it?” She asks him, her fingers not pausing during the entire exchange. “I think you like it.” A little smile plays on her lips as she talks to him. Her little opinions somehow make the moment feel more real, more intimate.
He makes a noise, but kisses her again. He kisses her neck, and her back arches beautifully—he eats it up immediately. He is fascinated by how the smallest of things make her curl against him.
“Doll, you’re absolutely beautiful.” He pulls the cloth on her chest lower, to place a kiss. A delicate diamond necklace wraps around her throat, right where his hand should be. He tugs on it slightly and she can do nothing but writhe and squirm under his mercy.
“Mm—“ she moans again when his thigh presses against her wet heat. The material of the sundress is thin enough, but even at this moment it feels pretty bothersome. “Steve, I need you.” She says, her feet spreading a little bit wider.
“Now who’s being greedy, hm?” He asks, holding her chin. He steals another kiss from her, and then another—which she gives him willingly. With his free hand, he holds her wrists above her head, her eyes fluttering shut.
“Steve…please…”
“Beg harder, sweetheart.” He whispers. “Tell me what you need.”
“Steve…please. Please…just…I need you. I need you inside me.” Her breath quickened as it always did around him, and he somehow felt her skin warm up. “Take my dress off, please.”
He ignores her pleas and his hand goes beneath her sundress. He pushes her panties down to her knees, looking at her sopping entrance for a brief moment.
“My, my, she’s eager.” He says as he pushes in two fingers gently and she audibly gasps, her eyes wide.
“Shh, relax for me.” He says when he feels her thighs twitch, closing her legs around his hand. Her head leans back, as she fists the sheets, his hands no longer restraining him. “Easy,”
He feels the warmth around his fingers, and he adds a third finger. He pushes her open, and she moans his name again.
“That’s it. That’s a good girl.” He pulls his fingers back and licks it up, moaning at the taste of her. He looks back at her sweet face, and how her hair falls out of the low bun she’d made with a satin hair tie, and he runs his hand through it.
“Steve…” she grabs his collar, her eyes looking up at him. His eyes are stunning. Stunning enough to keep her gaze intact. Her tongue probes to lick her lips, and the innocence of her action leaves him in jeopardy—he feels blood travel straight to his dick and he groans.
“Fuck it.” He says as he immediately takes off his belt and pants—his boxers following. His eyes don’t leave her even for a moment, as his hands work fast. He tries to be gentle but his impatience overrides his resolve—and he pushes into her. As much as he enjoys giving her the initial foreplay, perhaps now is not the time to do that.
Her eyes are wide as he wraps her left leg on his torso, as he gently thrusts. With every moment, his eyes meet hers, their breaths mingling as she absorbs the intimacy of the moment—their moment. Their hips move in sync, her back arching like a damn bow—as she throws her hands above her head.
He pins them down immediately with one hand, the other on her thigh to get a deeper angle. His grip is tight as they moan and groan into each other’s mouths—sweat clinging to their skin. He kisses her, as she mentions how close she is to her climax.
“That’s it, sweet girl.” He groans, a few more thrusts before he gives her the chance to come around his cock. “That’s it. Come for me.”
With a shrill cry, she shatters around his girth—her fingers now holding his back. Her fingers scratch his back—the impact would’ve been much worse if the shirt wasn’t in between. She breathes in his scent—letting him rut into her.
He however, doesn’t stop moving.
“Give me another one, angel,” he whispers, his hand going down to rub circles on her clit.
“S…Steve…” she lets out a broken moan. “Ste…ve…, ah, ah—no, NO!”
“Yes,” he whispers, groaning as she grips him like a damn vice. He kisses her neck, her legs propped up and feet placed flat on the sheets. She’s still wearing her delicate ballet flats that compliment her sundress. “Come on, petal. One more.”
She obliges as he makes her come around him the second time —broken moans leaving her, body writhing and face twisting in pleasure. Her lips are parted as her brows furrow as she jerks at the impact of his thrusts. A few more, as his warmth fills her up, and they stay still for a moment.
He brushes his knuckles on her cheek. “Baby,”
Her eyes are filled with unshed tears—which he only hopes are from pleasure. “You okay?”
“Yes—yeah,” she chuckles breathlessly. Her fingers barely hold on to him, as she tries to catch her breath.
“You sure?”
“Yes.” She licks her lips, her fingers shakily coming to brush his cheekbone. “It’s Friday.” She whispers after a brief moment of catching her breath. Her breathing is not back to normal yet, but it’s stable enough for her to form words.
“Mhm. And?” he asks, his finger nudging her wedding band slightly. It’s a little bit looser for some reason—although it used to be of the perfect size when they got married. Nonetheless, he pays no heed to that useless thought.
“And…you know what.” She says, a little shy, a little unsure.
“It’s date night.” He whispers. “I know. I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he kisses her cheek, once, twice. He kisses her mouth, and then her nose.
“I have something different planned for tonight,” he tenderly says, eyes as gentle as always—he can’t wait to surprise her in the evening. Usually their date nights consisted of him taking her out for dinner at a fancy place. But he does like to switch things once in a while.
As his habit is—he kisses the inside of her wrist. It’s something he always does…he just can’t help it.
She smiles. His thumb hovers over her lips. “You have such a pretty smile.”
She chuckles, more often than not, she doesn’t really react to compliments such as that. Her eyes wander for a moment, before they look back into his blue ones. Her lips part and she takes a moment to ask her next question. “Are we going out?”
“Hm, not really. But dress well. Wear the yellow dress we bought together last weekend.” He says as he gets up from her, tucking in his shirt and pulling up his pants. He straightens his suit jacket, and he leans in to kiss her cheek again. She feels the loss of warmth immediately, her fists curling into her dress. She wants to stop him, to make him stay—although, like every time, she knows he needs to leave. And when he does? The bed would be again too cold, and the house would be a little too empty and she would be a little more alone.
“Take care, love.”
She holds his hand, still trying her best to make him stay. Steve’s line of work ensures he has got work on weekends as well. On days she’s lucky, it’s only a few hours.
All she wants is a little more of him, his time, his presence. “Can’t you stay home today?”
“You know I can’t.” He whispers, “I’ve got meetings all day. And I’m already late for my first one.”
“I know. I still thought I’d ask,”
He pats her cheek twice before speaking into her ear again. He resists the urge to again give her an explanation about why it’s so important that he leaves for work. Yet, he settles on giving her a kind reassurance.
“I’ll try to be home early, hm?”
She holds his neck and leans forward to take another kiss as he is about to leave. It’s short and sweet—and it leaves her wanting more of him. Sometimes she even wonders what she’s done for Steve to be so adoring of her. She’s not exceptional—the only exceptional thing about her is her father. She’s not the prettiest, or smartest, or whatever it is. And in moments like these when the excitement wears off, she finds solace in ripping herself apart.
She steadies herself as she stands up, walking to the bathroom with slow, shaky steps like a baby deer learning to walk. She dampens a towel and cleans herself up. The house is quiet enough to hear Daisy’s barks echoing off the walls, and she sighs.
Oh, stupid Daisy.
She quickly freshens up, grabbing the gloss off the vanity. With a few swipes, she applies it on her lips, just to feel a little bit more prettier—if that even helps. She runs down to the kitchen, where Peter is holding Daisy. He holds his hands out, fully drenched, while Daisy is still damp.
“Her highness,” He bows dramatically, a crooked smile on his pink lips. The floor beneath him is wet with the water droplets and he reeks of chlorine from the pool, but she doesn’t mind.
“Thank you, Peter.” She earnestly says, giggling as Peter looks annoyed. “I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have to run after her.” Peter says nothing as he places the poodle in her lap, and she caresses her.
“It’s my job, ma’am.” He says honestly. “I need to keep you safe. You and Daisy.”
“Hi, Daisy.” She coos to the damn puppy. Her eyes then look up at Peter—the youngest around the house, and she gives him a smile. “Still. Thank you. I know Daisy can be difficult.”
“She’s more like a thorn.” Peter sheepishly says and she looks at him for a moment, blinking, unsure of what reaction she should give.
“You know? Daisy? Flower, thorn?”
She smiles, and gives a little laugh. It’s so lame yet so endearing. Peter brushes the back of his neck with his hand, not exactly looking at her. They have a respectable distance between them, yet Mrs Miller frowns at her and Peter when she comes into the kitchen. It is none of her business, nor should she make it, but something about the lady of the house and a staff member laughing together doesn’t sit right with her—especially if he’s not her husband.
Her lips press into a thin line as chooses to stay silent. She’d subtly mentioned to her that Master Rogers would not appreciate how much time they spend together, after all—she was just a naive little girl. Perhaps a kid or two would give her some perspective.
“Daisy is troublesome, but she’s not a thorn!” She tells him, standing at a respectable distance. She flinches a little when he sneezes. She whispers a small bless you at his sneeze, and he apologises.
“I’m so sorry,” he says with another sneeze, water pooling around him, and he looks at the floor, feeling embarrassed. “I better go clean up.”
“Peter—” She grabs his wrist before he is about to leave—her skin feeling warm yet somewhat burning against his skin. Peter’s brown eyes don’t leave her hand and his pulse quickens.
“Yes?” He asks, his voice barely audible. A streak of hair falls on his forehead—his eyes a little red from the water.
“Can you drive me to the city after you’ve changed?” She asks him, her eyes are wide with excitement, as she shifts on her feet repeatedly—as if she can barely hold herself together at the thought of going out to get some new art supplies. The shop owner had told her last week that they had some new colors coming in and she couldn’t wait to go get them.
Peter doesn’t hesitate to say yes, as he watches her caress Daisy and take her to the dining table with her. Daisy surprisingly doesn’t make much of a fuss and sits on the chair beside her.
“Daisy, be nice.” She scratches the toy poodle’s chin, as Mrs Miller heats up the breakfast for the third time that day. She can tell from how she moves around and subtly places the dishes a little harder that she is irritated. And she understands—anyone would be if they’d have to wait around and heat your food several times a day.
“I’m sorry, Mrs Miller.” She whispers, getting up to help her. “Let me help you,”
“It’s no problem, dear.” the older lady replies—which is not very convincing for her. The cutlery clinks sharply which makes her wince, and as she goes to grab her plate, the lady already grabs it and keeps it on the table. Mrs Miller has never been very warm towards her and she’s been okay with that. Not everyone needs to like her. She would be alright even if she had to cook her own meals as much as she’s okay being tolerable. It’s just something she’s gotten used to living with her family.
She sits at the table, and picks a piece of toast—offering it to her sweet daisy—who eats it within seconds. She smiles, petting her. The indigent little thing lets out a bark—and all she can do is smile.
“Shh, Daisy. Be a good girl.” she whispers, feeding her a cherry tomato. A little chuckle leaves her when this time, Daisy decides to lick her hand.
“Dear, please wash your hands again before you eat.” Mrs Miller murmurs, mostly under her breath, but loud enough for her to hear it. Stephanie puts the eggs on her plate, and she’s close enough to the younger woman to notice the few strands of white mixed with her darker hair. She looks up at Mrs Miller with a smile, but all she gets in response is a side eye from her.
“Is everything okay?” She asks her. She never usually bothers to ask how Stephanie Miller is doing—or what she’s thinking. Not because she’s arrogant—but simply because she’s tried doing it several times in the past and mostly, she’s been brushed off.
At first she used to think it was her—maybe Stephanie just didn’t like her. But…from what she’s heard from Rosie, or Caroline, or Marcus, or even Peter—Mrs Miller…is a little closed off. She’s not very talkative.
Mrs Miller finally takes a step back. She realizes that she just cannot let her thoughts not influence her behaviour. She places both hands on her hips. She doesn’t like a lot of things that happen around the house, especially when it comes to the new lady of the house. She’s had six months to adjust, to learn, to adapt—just because Steve lets it slide doesn’t mean she can.
“It’s Daisy, isn’t it?” She asks, taking Daisy in her hands. Daisy barks at Stephanie—after all there is not one person around the house she doesn’t snarl and growl at. She shushes Daisy, who settles for taking her fingers in her teeth. Y/N pushes her mouth away when she feels the bite.
“Daisy!”
“It’s…It’s not Daisy. It’s your relationship with the boy.” Mrs Miller says. “It’s not my place to say this, dear. But you are the lady of the house. You needn’t be so polite and engaging with the staff.”
“Peter is my friend.” She looks up, her brows knitting. Her lips are parted as she tries to search Mrs Millers’ forest green ones. “He’s not just ‘staff’ to me.” Her heart beats a little bit faster—as if it was hurting her. The thought of her friend being reduced to something so small—she’d even consider the other people around her as anything below them. She’s always been kind. She doesn’t really give any special treatment to Peter for whatever reason.
Mrs Miller clocks how upset she suddenly looks. She sits down where Daisy was initially seated, and looks at the younger woman. “I’ve been working in houses like these for a long time, my dear.” She whispers, her eyes suddenly growing more sharper, more solemn. “One whiff that you are unfaithful, and men like him will ruin your life. You are lucky that Master Rogers loves you. He would do everything for you. You are his wife, and it’s your job to make sure your marriage stays strong.”
“Unfaithful?” She almost stutters, finding that possibility unbelievable. In her astonishment, she doesn't notice when Daisy slips out of her grasp. She looks at her plate, the toast half torn, most of the tomatoes gone, and the egg going cold slowly. “I’m not unfaithful. Or…attracted to anyone else. He’s just my friend.”
“I’m not saying you are my dear.” She says. “But just remember. Without Master Rogers, you have no future. If I were you, I’d focus on my husband and bear him children. Master Rogers has given you everything. He can also take away everything."
Part 2, Part 3, Part 4