The reflection stares back—black silk clinging where it has no business clinging, the fading bruise on my neck like a shadow that won’t fade—and I can’t look away. This is the woman who just stood there contemplating a broken mirror as a weapon… and then chose not to break it. The woman who replayed the crack of bone last night like it was something intimate, something that made sense instead of bile rise. The woman whose body lit up at the sight of blood on stone, at the sound of a scream that wasn’t hers.
I don’t recognize her.
The shower helps.Hot water sluicing over skin that still remembers his touch. Steam fills my lungs as I lean against the marble wall and try no to think about him except my brain keeps serving up?—
His fingers inside me. Curling. Finding spots that made me scream.
Stop it.
But my hand is already sliding down. Just washing. That’s all. Except my fingers brush my clit and the response is immediate, heat flooding through me, body lighting up like a trained animal recognizing its cue.
Fuck it.
I give in.
Close my eyes and let memory take over. His hand between my thighs. The way he circled my clit, precise, patient, like he was learning me. The pressure when he slid inside. The devastating rhythm.
I repeat his patterns. Circle. Press. Slide.
Christ, you’re drenched.
His voice in my head.
This cunt wants me, even if you won’t admit it.
My hips buck against my own hand, shameful and desperate. I hate myself for thinking about it. Still feel violated in some way, even though I never saidstop—the one word that would have ended it. I can admit that to myself now. My mouth said ‘no’ while my body screamed yes, and he read the truth better than I did.
The orgasm builds fast. Too fast. Like my body’s been waiting for permission.
I come with his name on my lips, legs shaking, water running down my body like absolution it can’t provide. The pleasure erases thought for a few blessed seconds. Then the shame crashes back.
At least he wasn’t here to see this. Didn’t hear me moan his name as I came.
At least he doesn’t know you’re slowly going insane.
I finish washing with mechanical efficiency. Step out. Towel off. Pretend none of it happened.
You’re so fucked up, Murphy.
A new dress hangs on the wardrobe door. Midnight blue silk. Lower cut than the green. More provocative. The neckline plunges between my breasts, and the back… well, there isn’t one. Just bare skin to the base of my spine.
He chose this. Hung it here while I was in the shower, making myself come to the memory of his fingers.
I put the dress on.
The mirror shows me a different woman than it did before the shower. I’m no longer the wild-haired creature who stood in black silk contemplating weapons. This woman looks expensive. Claimed. Like she belongs in Elio Marchetti’s world.
Elio arrives fifteen minutes later.
No knock. Just the door opening and his presence filling the space. His eyes find me immediately, tracking the midnight blue, the exposed skin, the way the fabric clings. The hunger in his gaze is controlled but visible.
“You wore it.”
“You left it.”
“I did.” He gestures toward the door. “Breakfast on the terrace today. If you’re amenable.”
Amenable.Like I’m a guest. Like any of this is my choice.
