Not That Kind of Woman

No dinner on the table. Her house. Her rules. She owns the space, the moment—and him. If he wants to stay, he plays by her rules.

I don’t cook. I don’t serve.

My stove’s clean, untouched.

This isn’t that kind of home.

I am not that kind of woman.

I move through the dining room in lace—never rushing, never offering. Just being.

This is a home where taste lives, breathes, and welcomes you in. This is where I belong.

Abstract art, portraits, framed mirrors. Designer furniture—sleek sofas, sculptural chairs, and a live-edge oak table—fills the space. Textured rugs ground my soft feet.

I rest my hands on the white leather chair and pull it back—slowly, deliberately—because he’s a guest here, and I decide where he sits.

He doesn’t ask what’s for dinner. He wouldn’t dare. Not with the way I look at him, the way this room wraps around me like it knows who it belongs to.

There’s no need for plates or platters. He’s not here to be fed. He’s here to feel what it’s like to be near a woman who doesn’t serve.

My terms. My house.

Tonight, he’s lucky I even opened the door.