The old house groaned, then shuddered. A sharp crack echoed from the pipes in the wall, followed by the unmistakable gush of water. Not a drip, but a deluge. My parents, of course, were on their annual cruise, leaving me, Olivia, twe nty-two, to manage. Just my luck.

I’d thrown on an old tank top – faded cotton, stretched almost transparent across my chest – and a pair of worn denim shorts. The fabric clung, pulled taut over the generous swell of my breasts. They’d always been… prominent. A natural bounty. Sometimes, I’d catch men’s eyes lingering, and a part of me, a small, defiant part I rarely acknowledged, reveled...