But I did.
Eventually, I pulled back just enough to look at him—his face flushed and soft, his eyes hazy and full of everything I had told him to keep to himself. I knew this was the last time. He didn’t. A part of me felt sad about it, but this was never meant to last. I moved, extracting myself from the heat of his arms.
He stirred, his hand reaching for me. His eyes opened.
“Elara. Come back.”
I sat up, drawing the sheet with me. I reached for my clothes on the floor.
“It’s over. My husband’s flight lands at four P.M.” It was three in the morning, which meant I had thirteen hours to get myself together—to bury this version of me before the other one was required.
The silence in response to what I’d said was so complete I heard the shift of linen as he pushed himself up. When I glanced back, he was staring at me. Every muscle in his face tightened, pulling his expression into a look the devil would envy.
“Over?” he echoed flatly.
I rose, the sheet falling away. The air was cool on my skin. I dressed with methodical precision. I pulled on my tailored trousers and my silk blouse, stuffing my bra and panties into my purse before I spoke.
“The arrangement has run its course. You knew this was temporary.” I told him that very first day I had a nominal husband.
He gave a short, hollow laugh. “Temporary.”
He swung his legs out of bed. He didn’t pace this time. He moved toward me, his naked body a looming shadow in the dim light. He looked unraveled.
“You don’t love him.”
“That is irrelevant,” I rebutted.
“It’s the only fucking thing that’s relevant.” His face was hard in the gray light, a beautiful anguishhad etched itself into the set of his jaw and the darkness of his gaze.
“Why go back if you don’t love him?”
“This isn’t about him.” I found my heels and slid them on.
“Then stay with me.”
A different woman might’ve said yes. But I outgrew “different” a long time ago. I couldn’t look at him as I took out a large envelope.
“Don’t be sentimental. It doesn’t suit you, Julian.”
I placed it on the glass coffee table. He didn’t even look at it. His hand shot out, slamming down on the table beside it. The impact made the crystal ashtray jump, the sound echoing like a gunshot. I didn't flinch, even as he stepped into my personal space, his chest heaving. I didn’t believe he’d hurt me; he had rough edges, but he was soft when it came to me.
“You don’t love him,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a grate. “You make it seem like you live in a mausoleum, but you’re going back to the marble slab. For what? A brand name? A board seat?”
“For loyalty. I owe his parents. I’m surviving.”
I kept my tone cool—a placid lake over a deep, cold trench—because there was no need to feel emotional about it. It was an undeniable truth.
I continued. “It really doesn’t matter why. What was between me and you was never about building something. It was an interlude. Fun. An outlet. You made me feel good. I made you feel good.”
It was all bullshit. I wanted to stay… but—
My husband's family saved me. They took me in after my parents died. They raised me. Molded me. And when they asked me to marry their son, I couldn’t say no. When he ran off to “find himself” and they asked me to run the business, I couldn’t say no to that either. Obligation had become a cage I was trapped in before I even noticed the lock. Bitterness was the air I was breathing now.
“Don’t do that. Don’t make what we have trivial. It was real,” he shouted. He was in front of me then, vibrating with a frantic energy I’d never seen. He grabbed my upper arms, his grip tight, pinning me to the spot. His fingers dug into the silk of my blouse, anchoring me to him as if he could physically stop the clock.
“Tell me it wasn’t real. Look at me and tell me that.”
I met his gaze. Held it. I hated seeing him like this. It made me want to scream at him to stop—that I wasn’t worth it.
