#eric staal

eric staal's controversially younger mistress in another city

he buys her things to keep her happy while he's away and now that he's retired, he can spend more time with her

lil drabble because idk what i'd do for a full fic

he was still trying to buy you. that much was obvious. the cartier bracelet winking in the candlelight, the bulgari necklace cold against your throat, the louboutins cutting into your toes beneath the table—it was all just currency in a transaction he thought was still open.

the texts had never stopped, even after he retired. "miss me, doll?" attached to a tracking number for something ludicrous, something you’d wanted in passing but never expected him to actually buy. "this'll look good on you." "just because." "a little something for my girl." private shopping appointments, first-class tickets, designer bags you hadn't even asked for—eric had been relentless. you could have drowned in the luxury of it all, suffocated beneath the sheer weight of his devotion, and yet—he was still married. still showing up to charity galas with his wife on his arm. still tucking his kids in at night while you lay in some penthouse suite, a tiffany box on the pillow beside you in place of him.

and now he was here, sitting across from you in a restaurant so exclusive there wasn’t even a sign out front, smiling like he hadn’t kept you waiting. like it was enough that he’d finally showed up at all.

"you’re quiet," he said, pouring you more wine. his hand was steady, practiced. no sign of guilt, no hesitation. just effortless charm, smooth as ever.

you took the glass but didn’t drink. you weren’t sure why you were still sulking, exactly. he was here now, wasn’t he? retired, free, ready to devote more time to you, finally. you should be over the moon. instead, you were prickling with resentment, staring at him over the rim of your glass, trying to pick apart the easy way he looked at you. he still had that athlete's build—broad shoulders stretching the crisp white fabric of his button-up, strong forearms dusted with sun-bleached hair, veins snaking down to his fingers. his jaw was still sharp, still clean-shaven, a little tanned from all those years in florida, his dark blonde hair showing just the faintest touch of silver now. handsome. powerful. and completely at ease. like none of this was complicated at all.

"not hungry?" he asked, gesturing to your untouched plate.

you lifted a shoulder, setting your glass down with an intentional clink. "thought i was here for the company," you said, just to see how he'd react.

eric exhaled a laugh, low and amused, like he actually found you cute when you got like this. "and i’m here now. no more games, no more road trips, just us."

but not just you two. not the way it should have been. his wife still existed, still shared his bed, still got to walk into a room and introduce herself with his last name while you sat across from him wearing gifts meant to make up for it.

you dragged a manicured finger along the rim of your glass, pretending not to care, though your heart was hammering against the cage of your ribs. "that's funny," you murmured. "i could have sworn you said that last year. and the year before that."

eric sighed, but not like he was frustrated. more like he was indulging you. his fingers tapped against the table, then slid across to brush against yours, warm and solid. you could have pulled away, made him work for it, but you didn’t. not yet.

"i know," he said, his voice softer now. "i know it took too long. but you have me now. fully. i'm here, aren't i?" he lifted your hand, kissed your knuckles, his lips brushing against the cartier bracelet he’d bought you months ago. "what more do you want?"

it was a cruel question, because he already knew the answer.

you wanted him. no more secrets, no more excuses, no more waiting. you wanted him to choose you, the way he'd chosen his wife all these years, the way he'd chosen his career. you wanted to be more than a guilty pleasure wrapped in silk and diamonds.

but here you were, all dolled up, glittering in the proof of his affection, and still—it wasn’t enough.

"you tell me," you said, tilting your chin up, defiant. "how much do i cost?"

eric’s eyes darkened, something shifting in his expression. his grip on your hand tightened just enough to make your pulse skip. "that's not fair," he said, low, controlled.

you scoffed, taking your hand back. "isn't it?" you reached for your glass again, but he was faster, catching your wrist. his thumb pressed into the delicate underside, right over your pulse, grounding you.

"stop," he murmured, firm but gentle. "this isn't about that. you know it's not."

you swallowed hard. of course you knew. you knew because when he was with you, he was with you. because the way he looked at you now—sharp and focused, like you were the only thing that mattered—had nothing to do with money.

but you wanted to make him suffer for making you wait. just a little.

he sighed again, shaking his head, and then—before you could pull away—he smirked. slow, knowing. "alright," he said, leaning back, arms stretching over the booth like he owned the place. "you're mad. i get it. but you’re still here. so what does that say about you, sweetheart?"

your nails bit into your palm, heat creeping up your throat. bastard. he knew exactly how to twist the knife.

but he was right. you were still here. sitting in front of him, drinking his wine, wearing his diamonds. still waiting. still wanting.

and the worst part? he knew you’d crack. he always did.

so when he reached for you again, fingertips ghosting over your wrist, your knee, the sliver of bare skin between your dress and the top of your thigh-highs—you let him. you let him soothe you with that voice, that charm, those promises. you let yourself melt, just a little, because god, it was impossible not to.

because eric always got what he wanted.

and you?