We haven’t had sex since leaving the States. She hasn’t really tried…which is shocking. I don’t move or react to the way her nails trace over my skin. Her touch feels wrong because it’s supposed to. Because this is what I chose when I walked away from…
When I decided I didn’t get to want better things anymore.
So I just have to deal with it.
Adriana is the first to get out of bed. She stretches, arms lifting, the baggy pink sleep shirt riding up her sides before dropping back against her thighs. The hem brushes her tan legs as she swings them off the mattress and pads toward the kitchen. She moves with a confidence that really annoys me. It's like she’s already satisfied and settled into this version of my life. Next thing I know, I'll be forced into a fucking marriage.
I pull on my gray sweatpants and follow, the bedroom carpet thick beneath my feet. I don’t bother with a shirt. The she-devil prefers it hot as hell in here. Not surprised one bit. The suite opens into a polished marble-and-steel kitchen that’s a dream for people who like to cook extravagant meals. She starts the coffee with a yawn, like this is our new normal. And I suppose it is.
Before she can turn around, I reach into the pocket of my sweatpants. The motion is automatic as I dry-swallow an oxy, then chase it with a gulp of water straight from the sink. I don’t look at her while I do it. I don’t need to. I feel her attention snap to me anyway. Being around her constantly is weird as fuck because of how much she watches me. I suppose when you're proud of something you own, you admire it often.
“You know,” she says lightly, “it’s been a week.”
I lean back against the counter, face blank. “Congratulations. You can count.”
She glances over her shoulder. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
She pours herself a mug, loads it with creamer, then turns. Her eyes drag down my chest, stomach, and where my sweatpants are hanging off my hips. I fight the urge to flinch.
“Are you not attracted to me anymore?” she asks.
I don’t answer.
She steps into my space anyway, close enough that I smell her sickly sweet perfume. She sprays the shit into her hair so it lingers. She presses like she always does, like proximity is consent if she doesn’t give me room to refuse. Her hand slides over my stomach, fingers gently tracing, familiar in a way that makes my skin crawl.
I finally flinch.
Her hand stills. “Oh,” she says flatly. “You’re pouting. I see.”
“Shut up.”
She pulls back with a short laugh. “Jesus. Relax.” A beat. “I’m your girlfriend now.”
Now.
“I’ve been your girlfriend for almost eight years,” she adds, like that settles it.
I breathe out through my nose. “That’s a creative memory.”
Her green eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I didn’t agree,” I say evenly. “I never fucking did, Adriana.”
She scoffs. “Yeah. We’re both trapped here with Nolan. I can’t exactly leave, either. I never have been able to. And now, we’re all Alexei’s bitches. So might as well enjoy what we can.”
A wild heat sparks in my chest. I picture smashing her face against the marble. The sound it would make. I clamp down hard on the thought.
She steps back, arms crossing. “You know how insulting this is, right? Sharing a bed with a guy who won’t even fuck me?”
“I touch you plenty,” I say coldly.
“Not like you used to,” she mutters.
She turns away, grabs her coffee, and takes a long sip. Then she leans forward onto the counter, the collar of her shirt revealing the fact that she’s pushing her tits together.
A muscle ticks in my jaw as I saunter toward the vast windows. I stand there, looking over the city, my phone heavy in my hand as my thumb hovers overhername. For a moment, I consider calling. Hearing her voice. Telling her the truth I should’ve said before I walked away. That I love her, and I’m so sorry.
