His father’s touch

"We shouldn't be doing this."

His hand was on my thigh.

I should have stopped him. I should have pushed him away. I should have screamed.

Instead, I parted my legs.

"You don't want me to stop," he whispered, his lips brushing my ear. "You want to know why your fiancé doesn't touch you like this."

I opened my mouth to say no, but the only sound that escaped was a moan.

His lips found my neck. I felt his smile against my skin.

"That's what I thought."

Two weeks earlier.

The bridal shower was supposed to be the happiest day of my life.

Instead, it was the day everything started to fall apart.

I stood in the middle of the party, surrounded by dozens of smiling faces, clutching a glass of champagne I hadn't touched. The room was decorated with white roses and silver ribbons, just like I'd wanted. The cake was three tiers of vanilla buttercream, shaped like a wedding dress. Everyone was laughing, drinking, taking photos.

Everyone except me.

I felt hollow. Empty. Like I was floating above my own body, watching someone else live my life.

You're getting married in two weeks, I told myself. You should be happy.

But I wasn't happy. I hadn't been happy in months.

I couldn't explain it. Damon was a good man. He was handsome, successful, and he loved me—or at least, he said he did. He'd proposed to me in Paris, on a rooftop overlooking the Eiffel Tower. He'd bought me a ring that cost more than my first car.

He'd given me everything I ever wanted.

Except the one thing I needed most.

Him.

Something had changed between us. I felt it in the way he pulled away when I tried to kiss him. In the way his eyes drifted whenever I spoke. In the way he came home late and went straight to bed, his back to me.

I'd asked him yesterday if he still loved me.

He'd laughed. "Of course I love you. You're my fiancée."

He hadn't said "I love you." He'd said "you're my fiancée." Like I was a title. A possession. Something to check off a list.

I took a sip of champagne. It tasted bitter.

"Clara! Come here, we need a photo!"

Mia's voice cut through my thoughts. She was standing by the cake, waving at me with both hands. Her blonde hair was perfectly curled. Her dress was white and fitted and showed off her tan.

She looked beautiful. She always looked beautiful.

I walked over and stood beside her. She wrapped her arm around my waist and smiled for the camera.

I didn't smile. I couldn't.

"Okay, lovebirds!" the photographer called out. "Let's get a shot of the bride with her maid of honor!"

Mia squeezed my waist. "You okay?" she whispered, her lips brushing my ear. "You've been quiet all night."

"I'm fine," I said.

"You're not fine." Her eyes searched my face. "You've had that same look all week. What's going on?"

I opened my mouth to speak. To tell her the truth that something was wrong with Damon, that I felt like I was drowning, that I didn't know if I wanted to get married at all.

But I couldn't. The words wouldn't come.

"Nothing," I said. "I'm just tired. Wedding planning is exhausting."

Mia studied me for a moment. Then she smiled warm, understanding, the smile of a best friend who knew me better than anyone.

"Come on," she said. "Let's get you out of here."

She dragged me out of the party.

"This is your day, not a funeral," Mia said, linking her arm through mine. "We're going to have fun. Just you and me. Like old times."

I let myself be led.

She drove us through the city, past the neon lights and crowded sidewalks, past the restaurants and bars where we used to spend our weekends before life got complicated. She pulled up in front of a narrow door tucked between two buildings a place I hadn't seen in years.

"Fitzgerald's," I said. "I can't believe this place is still open."

"I've been saving it for a special occasion," she said, grinning. "It's your bridal shower after party. Just us."

She pushed open the door.

The air hit me first.

Warm. Heavy with the scent of old wood and spilled whiskey and something sweet vanilla, maybe. The walls were dark mahogany, lined with framed photographs of jazz musicians from decades ago. A pianist sat in the corner, his fingers moving lazily over the keys, playing a melody I almost recognized. The lighting was dim, amber, flickering from candles on every table.

It was beautiful.

It was heartbreaking.

This was the kind of place I used to love. The kind of place I'd abandoned when I started building a life with Damon because Damon didn't like bars, didn't like jazz, didn't like anything that wasn't quiet and controlled and predictable.

Mia led me to a booth in the back. The leather was cracked and worn, soft from years of use. I slid into it and let my body sink into the cushions.

"Just like old times," I murmured.

"Just like old times," she agreed.

A waiter appeared. He was older, with silver hair and kind eyes. He didn't ask for our order. He just brought us a bottle of red wine and two glasses, like he remembered what we used to drink.

"He remembers us," I said, surprised.

"Of course he does." Mia laughed. "We were his best customers."

She poured the wine. The liquid was dark and rich, catching the candlelight like liquid rubies. She pushed a glass toward me.

"Now," she said. "Tell me what's really going on."

I wrapped my fingers around the stem of the glass. The crystal was cool against my skin. I stared at the wine, watching the way it swirled when I moved my hand.

"Something's wrong with Damon," I said finally.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. He's... distant. Distracted." I paused. "I feel like I'm invisible to him. Like I'm just a fixture in his apartment. Like he's waiting for me to disappear so he can breathe."

Mia's face softened. "That's just pre-wedding nerves. I promise. Every couple goes through this."

"Did you and Marcus go through this?"

She laughed. Marcus was her on and off boyfriend of three years. "If it's not nerves, it's something else. It's never perfect. That's the secret everyone's too afraid to tell you."

She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. Her fingers were warm, her grip firm.

"Listen to me, Clara. Damon loves you. Anyone can see that. He's just... he's a man. They're idiots. They don't know how to handle emotions. But he'll come around. He always does."

I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe it was just nerves. I wanted to believe that the hollow feeling in my chest was nothing more than cold feet.

But deep down, something whispered: It's not just nerves. Something is wrong.

I pushed the thought away.

"You're right," I said. "I'm overthinking."

"There you go." She released my hand and lifted her glass. "Now drink. I'm not letting you leave until you smile."

I looked at my reflection in the dark window. A woman stared back at me. Beautiful. Perfect. Completely hollow.

I lifted my glass.

I drank.

The wine was smooth and warm, settling in my chest like a slow burn. I drank another glass. Then another.

"Remember when we used to come here every Friday?" Mia asked. "Before you met Damon. Before everything got so serious."

"I remember," I said.

"You were different back then. You were... free. Carefree. You laughed more."

"I still laugh."

"When was the last time you laughed?"

I opened my mouth to answer. Nothing came out.

I couldn't remember.

Mia's eyes searched my face. She looked sad. Pitying. I hated that look.

"I'm fine," I said. "I'm happy."

"You're not happy," she said gently. "And it's okay to say that. It's okay to not be fine. You're about to get married. That's a huge deal. It's normal to be scared."

"I'm not scared."

"Then what are you?"

I stared at the candle on the table. The flame flickered, casting shadows across the walls.

"I'm tired," I whispered. "I'm so tired, Mia. I don't know how to explain it. I'm tired of pretending. Tired of smiling. Tired of being perfect. I just want to feel something. Anything."

The words hung in the air. Heavy. Fragile.

Mia said nothing for a long moment. Then she reached across the table and took my hand again.

"Then let's feel something," she said. "Together. Like we used to."

"What do you mean?"

She smiled. But this time, the smile didn't reach her eyes.

"Trust me," she said.

We stayed for three hours.

We talked about old times. High school. College. Our first apartments. The terrible men we'd dated before Damon and Marcus. We laughed. We cried. We drank.

"We've come a long way," Mia said, raising her glass. "From sharing a bunk bed in a studio apartment to... this. You, about to get married. Me, a successful interior designer. We made it."

"We made it," I echoed.

It felt like a lie.

But I didn't know why.

The next morning, I woke up in my own bed.

Damon was beside me, already dressed for work. He was scrolling through his phone, completely unaware I'd even woken up.

"Morning," I said.

He looked up. His smile was distant. "Morning."

"Where did you go last night?"

I blinked. "What?"

"Last night. You were gone when I got home."

"I was with Mia. We went to Fitzgerald's."

"Ah. Okay."

He said nothing else. He got up and walked toward the door.

"Breakfast?" I asked.

"Can't. Meeting."

He left without kissing me goodbye.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Something was wrong.

But I still didn't know what.