His Brother's Bride, His Secret Obsession.

Izzy's Pov.

The clink of silverware and soft laughter filled the room, but I felt a churning pit in my stomach. Across the table, Adrian’s brother—my husband—was talking about some new project. I nodded, smiled, tried to look engaged. Normal. Pretending.

And then there was Adrian. Sitting diagonally across from me, his hand brushing ever so slightly against mine when he reached for a glass. I swallowed hard. My pulse spiked. My brain screamed, Don’t look. Don’t react. But I did.

His eyes met mine, just for a heartbeat. A spark of recognition. A silent, shared sin. The rest of the table was oblivious. They always were.

“Is everything okay, Izzy?” my husband asked, voice smooth, unsuspecting.

“Fine,” I lied. Smiled too wide. Tried not to imagine what Adrian’s fingers would feel like on me instead of the tabletop.

Adrian smirked subtly, and it was enough to make me quake in my seat. He wasn’t touching me. Not yet. But the tension between us was a live wire—ready to snap.

I excused myself, voice trembling. “Bathroom,” I murmured, standing quickly, gripping my clutch like it was a lifeline.

“Everything alright?” my husband called after me.

“Just… need a moment,” I said, forcing a calm I didn’t feel.

The second I shut the bathroom door, my legs almost gave out. Heart hammering, chest tight, I leaned against the sink, trying to collect myself. And then I heard it—the quiet click behind me.

And suddenly, every rule I’d tried to obey, every restraint I thought I had, felt like it had melted away.

The bathroom was smaller than I remembered. Cold tiles under my heels, the mirror reflecting a face that didn’t feel like mine. Heart pounding, I leaned against the sink, trying to slow my racing pulse. God, what had I done? What was about to happen?

The door clicked. Not a knock. Not a warning. Adrian.

He closed it behind him, one hand on the knob, the other on my waist before I could even react. My body jerked back, but he didn’t give me room. His heat pressed against me, his breath low and deliberate.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I whispered, voice trembling, part fear, part need.

“I know,” he said, voice rough, dark. “But neither should you.”

His hands were everywhere before I could think. Fingers tangled in my hair, tracing down my back. He leaned in, lips crushing mine, and the world narrowed to this—his mouth, his hands, the forbidden press of him against me.

I gasped, trying to pull away, but he pressed me harder against the cold sink. “You want this,” he murmured against my ear, teeth grazing the lobe. “You want me. Don’t lie.”

I couldn’t. My hands went to him, to the edge of control I didn’t have. Every thought of my husband, of dinner, of the life outside, vanished. There was only heat, lust, and the danger that thrummed between us.

Clothes became a mess of buttons and fabric. The cold sink under my thighs, the hard press of his body, the risk—it made every nerve sing. He kissed me like he could claim me, like he owned the part of me that was mine and not mine all at once.

“Izzy…” His name, low and deliberate, sent shivers straight to my core. My fingers gripped his shirt, pulling him closer. “Stop teasing—just—” I choked on my own words, voice breaking.

“I can’t,” he said, lips brushing my neck, teeth grazing skin that burned under his touch. “Not when I’m like this. Not when you look at me like you’re about to break.”

We moved against the sink, rough, urgent, reckless. My stomach twisted with guilt, pleasure, and fear. The sound of the world beyond the bathroom—the laughter, the clinking glasses—made it more intoxicating. Stolen. Forbidden.

I bit my lip, trying to hold back a moan, knowing we could be caught at any second. His hands roamed, tugging, pressing, and my mind screamed with every sin, every stolen moment, every rule shattered.

Then, just as suddenly, he pulled back. His hands slid down my arms, resting lightly, teasingly. “Go. Before someone notices,” he whispered.

I leaned against the sink, chest heaving, every thought spinning. My hair was messy, clothes disheveled, lipstick smudged. Heart still racing, I straightened my skirt, adjusted my blouse.

Adrian’s smirk was the last thing I saw before he nudged the door open. “Dinner waits,” he said, calm, collected, as if nothing had happened.

And just like that, we stepped back into the dining room, faces serene, pretending. Normal. Polite. Like nothing had exploded in the bathroom two minutes ago.

But I knew. And so did he.

Adrian cleared his throat, smooth and casual, like nothing had happened. “Sorry,” he said, slipping his phone into his pocket. “Call took longer than expected.”

I kept my gaze on my plate, pretending to study the food, though my hands shook slightly. Across from me, he sat, calm and collected, like a predator who’d already caught his prey.

“Everything okay, Izzy?” my husband, Matt asked, voice light but curious.

I nodded, forcing a smile. “Yes, just… a bit of a headache.”

His mother leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “Well, I hope you two are thinking about babies. You know, it’s time.”

The words landed like stones in my chest. Time. Babies. My heart lurched. I felt Adrian’s eyes flick to me, sharp, teasing, dangerous. My throat tightened.

“We are trying,” Matt said, voice steady, but the tension in the air was electric.

I swallowed, forcing myself to breathe, but my mind was spinning. Trying. Trying. Could I already…? My stomach twisted. My thoughts jumped back to the bathroom. To the feel of Adrian. To the reckless, stolen heat of our sin.

Adrian’s hand brushed mine under the table—just a flick, a tease—but it sent fire straight through me. My pulse spiked, guilt and desire colliding.

I chewed my lip, staring down at my plate. I couldn’t let anyone see the storm inside me. I couldn’t let my husband see the pulse of danger Adrian carried—or worse, suspect anything.

The conversation moved on, but I was gone, lost in the weight of my own body. My period… maybe it was late. Maybe this was already happening. My heart stuttered.

If I was pregnant… if this little secret was already taking root…

My eyes flicked to Adrian. Calm, smirking, unreadable. My mind raced: If it is… who’s the father?

The words didn’t exist. They didn’t need to. The question hung in the air like smoke, unspoken, forbidden. And just like that, the room felt smaller, heavier, every glance and gesture loaded with danger.

I took a shaky breath, tried to focus on the fork in my hand, but I couldn’t shake the thought.

Everything was about to change. And not for the best.

My phone vibrated against the napkin. My heart skipped.

It was a text from my mother-in-law, who had pretended to go get some dessert from the kitchen.

“You’re playing with fire, little girl.”