Chapter 2

Dahlia

The photo was now fully opened, its provocative intent unmistakable, and beneath it there was the text I had seen before.

Blood rushed to my head, leaving behind a sticky sense of humiliation. I lifted my hand abruptly and shoved hard against his chest, using all my strength.

“What was that?”

He doesn’t look up from his phone. “What was what?”

“That picture.”

His thumb keeps scrolling. “I get a lot of messages.”

“Sebastian.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “We’re still married. An affair during marriage carries responsibility. You can’t just—whatever this is”

He doesn’t look up from his phone. “And what exactly do you think this is, Dahlia?” He finally glances at me and the boredom in his expression makes my chest tight. “Do you even know what an affair actually looks like or are you just throwing words around because you’re upset?”

He leans forward and suddenly the space between us feels suffocating. His cologne fills my senses as his shadow falls across me.“And don’t forget how you ended up sitting in the position of Mrs. Hawthorne in the first place.” He stared at my face as the color drained from it, “Compared to her sending a few pictures, your methods back then were far more impressive.”

The breath leaves my lungs.

“Your methods weren’t exactly clean either,” he continues. “So don’t sit there and act like you have some moral high ground.”

I open my mouth but nothing comes out. Every defense I can think of sounds exactly like what he’s accusing me of

I turn away from him. Press my forehead against the window, the glass cooling against my skin.

He sits back against the seat, already picking up his phone again like this conversation bores him now that he’s made his point. And neither of us speaks for the rest of the drive.

When we get home, Sebastian heads straight for the bedroom and I hear the shower turn on a few minutes later.

I headed for the closet and placed my bag on the shelf.

I was there when he bought it. Thought even then the style was so outdated.

Arabella’s voice won’t leave my head and I hate that it’s getting under my skin but I can’t stop hearing it.

I’m here to take back what’s mine.

I grab the bag and shove it to the very back of the top shelf, behind the winter coats I never wear and the shoe boxes collecting dust. Out of sight. Out of mind.

“What are you doing?”

I spin around.

My heart jumps into my throat and I spin around to find Sebastian standing in the doorway wearing nothing but a towel hanging low on his hips. Water’s still dripping from his hair down his chest and I have to actively stop myself from staring.

“Nothing,just reorganizing”

His eyes go to the shelf, to the obvious empty space where the bag used to be. “You’re hiding your purse now?”

“I’m not hiding anything.”

“Right.” He steps into the closet and the space suddenly feels too small. “This is about the photo, isn’t it? You’ve been upset since the meeting.”

“I’m not.”

“No?” He’s closer now that I can smell his soap. “Then explain what you’re doing shoving your belongings around like a teenager having a tantrum.”

Heat floods my face. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

“Like what? Honestly?” His hand comes up to cup my jaw, his fingers firm against my skin. “You’re being irrational, Dahlia. It’s exhausting.”

“What else am I supposed to think when—”

He kisses me.

His mouth came on mine hard enough to cut off whatever I was about to say. His hand slides from my jaw into my hair, fisting there and holding me in place

When he pulls back I’m breathing hard and slightly dizzy and completely furious with myself for responding to it.

I“I haven’t showered yet,” I manage to say. It’s a weak defense and we both know it.

Sebastian’s obsessive about cleanliness and I’m counting on that now, praying his compulsions will kick in and he’ll back off.

His eyebrow raises. “I don’t care.”

“You always care. You won’t even—”

“I said I don’t care.” His hand tightens in my hair. “Stop overthinking everything for once in your life.”

Then he’s pulling me toward the bathroom and I’m following because apparently I have no self-preservation instinct left.

***

The shower’s already running, steam filling the glass enclosure by the time we get there. Sebastian backs me against the tile wall before I can even process what’s happening and his mouth finds mine again, harder this time, more demanding.

His hands are everywhere at once, yanking my blouse over my head and tossing it somewhere outside the shower. My bra follows, then my skirt, everything ending up in a soaked pile on the bathroom floor

The hot water hits my back as he pushes me fully under the spray and I gasp at the sudden temperature change. His hands grip my thighs and he lifts me like I weigh nothing, pinning me between his body and the cold tile.

“Sebastian, wait—”

“Stop talking.” His voice is rough against my ear, more command than request, and then he’s pushing inside me without warning and I’m not ready but my body doesn’t seem to care because this is what I’ve been craving even if I won’t admit it out loud—his attention.

He doesn’t start slow or give me time to adjust, just drives into me over and over while the water beats down on both of us and I can’t think past the overwhelming sensation of it all.

“Look at me,”

I can’t. If I look at him I’ll see this for what it really is—punishment for accusing him, consolation prize for losing my project, anything except what I desperately want it to be.

His hand fists in my wet hair and forces my face toward his. “Dahlia. Look at me.”

I open my eyes and his are right there, dark and intense and completely unreadable like always. I’ve spent three years trying to figure out what he’s thinking when he looks at me like this and I’m no closer to knowing than I was on our wedding night.

“Better,” he murmurs.

The pressure builds too fast and too intense and when I finally break apart it’s with his name caught somewhere between my throat and my chest. He follows seconds later with his fingers digging into my hips hard enough that I know I’ll have bruises.

Then he sets me down and my legs are shaking so badly I can barely stand. He steps back under the spray and rinses off while I’m still trying to remember how to breathe, and the casual way he does it—like what just happened was routine—makes me want to throw something at his head.

“We need to leave in two hours,” he says without looking at me. “Don’t be late.”

***

The bruises show up while I’m trying to get dressed.

There are purple fingerprints on my hips . Faint marks on my wrists where he held them. A hickey just above my collarbone that I only notice when I’m reaching for my necklace and catch sight of it in the mirror.

I pull a black turtleneck out of the closet and watch them all disappear under the fabric.

Sebastian is already dressed when I come out. He only glances at the sweater but doesn’t comment.

The restaurant is the kind of place where they know your name before you walk in and the menu isn’t printed because it changes daily based on whatever the chef feels like making.

We can hear voices before we even reach the door to the private room.

Laughter. Bright and genuine.

“If you hadn’t gone abroad back then, who knows what might have happened!” That’s Marisol’s voice, warm in a way I’ve never heard her speak to me. “It would be wonderful if you were my daughter-in-law!”

I stop walking so abruptly that Sebastian nearly runs into me.

His hand settles on the small of my back but he doesn’t slow down, pause or give any indication he just heard his mother wishing out loud that he’d married someone else.

When I look at him he’s staring straight ahead, his face perfectly blank.

Say something, I desperately wish. Stand up for me for just once. Tell her to stop talking like that when your actual wife is about to walk through the door.

But he doesn’t. Instead he just reaches forward and opens the door.

Arabella is sitting next to Marisol.