I’d made love to her, yes.
But I’d missed the point entirely.
She didn’t just need my body.
She needed my presence.
My attention.
My time.
And I’d failed her again.
41
SOPHIA
I wake to sunlight streaming through the bedroom windows, my hand instinctively reaching across the sheets.
Empty.
Cold.
Mikhail’s side of the bed hasn’t been slept in.
My heart sinks as I sit up, the silk nightgown I wore last night twisted around my thighs.
The emerald green fabric mocks me with its sensuality, a reminder of the evening I’d so carefully planned.
The candles I’d arranged throughout the room have burned down to nothing but puddles of wax on the dresser and nightstand.
I pad barefoot to the bathroom, catching my reflection in the mirror. My makeup is smudged, my hair a tangled mess. I look exactly like a woman who fell asleep waiting for her husband to notice her.
The romantic dinner.
God, I’d spent hours coordinating with Elena, choosing the perfect menu, setting the table with our best China.
Setting up the bedroom…and myself. I’d wanted to remind Mikhail that I’m more than just the pregnant wife who needs protecting.
That I’m still the woman he married, the one who makes his blood run hot.
But he never came.
Or did he?
I pause, my hand on the bathroom counter, as fragments of memory surface.
Strong hands on my skin.
Mikhail’s voice, rough with desire, whispering my name.
The weight of his body covering mine, the exquisite pressure as he moved inside me.
The way he held me afterward, his heart beating against my back.
Was that real?
Or just another dream born from loneliness and longing?
