Chapter 6

"Shit," the word escaped his lips in a hoarse whisper as he forced his body through a series of push-ups on the wooden floor of his home gym.

His muscles burned, sweat streamed down his temples, gluing his dark hair to his forehead. He exercised with an almost self-destructive fury, as if he could sweat the memory of her out of his pores. Each repetition was an effort to replace the vision of Theresa's honey-colored eyes with the burn of lactic acid. But it was useless. At the peak of exhaustion, when his arms trembled and his chest heaved, it was the image of her neck, smooth and elegant, that surfaced, not the satisfaction of physical exertion.

Giving up, he stood and went to the kitchen, wiping his face with a towel. The refrigerator was almost empty, a testament to his busy bachelor life. He grabbed a bottle of water and drank avidly, the cold liquid offering temporary relief. He then sat at the living room table, opening his laptop with the intention of reviewing the financial spreadsheets for "Inferno." The numbers danced before his eyes, a meaningless choreography. The profit column from the last weekend was robust, but it couldn't elicit more than an empty stare from him.

That's when the scent hit him.

It was subtle, almost imperceptible, a ghost of strawberry and honey that seemed impregnated in the fabric of his shirt, the same one he had worn the previous night to carry her. He brought the fabric to his nose and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes. It was her. It was the smell of her skin, of her hair, a fragrance both sweet and profoundly sensual that invaded his senses and awakened a primal hunger. The memory of her weight in his arms, the heat radiating through their clothes, the way she nestled against his chest in the car—it all came back with the force of a tide.

He stood up suddenly, the chair scraping against the floor. He walked to the built-in bar and poured two fingers of neat whiskey, no ice. He took a sip, feeling the amber liquid burn his throat, hoping the internal fire could purge this insane desire.

His eyes were drawn, as if by a magnetic force, to the shelf above the bar. There, in a light wood frame, was the photo. A younger him, face relaxed with an easy smile, next to Johan, his arm draped over his friend's shoulder. And between them, a teenage Theresa, with her long blonde hair and a carefree smile that lit up the entire beach in the background. The day had been sunny, happy. A record of a loyalty that was the foundation of his life.

Now, he looked at the image of that girl and saw the woman she had become. He saw the curve of her lips, the intelligence in her eyes, the strength with which she had faced Ryan. And guilt descended upon him like a lead cloak. It was a double betrayal: to betray Johan's trust and to sexualize the memory of that girl he had sworn to protect.

With a trembling hand, he picked up the phone lying on the bar. The glass was cold against his skin. His fingers navigated the menu until they found the contact. "Theresa." Her picture, a smiling selfie he secretly adored, filled the screen. His thumb hovered over the call button. His pulse accelerated, throbbing in his temples. He wanted, with an intensity that scared him, to hear her voice. He wanted the reassurance that she was okay, but, more than that, he wanted the connection.

"No," he snarled at himself, pulling his finger back.

In a fit of frustration, his arm tensed, muscles coiling, and he almost, almost, hurled the device against the opposite wall. But he controlled the impulse. His breathing was heavy. Instead, his disobedient hands opened the messaging app. He typed, with a feverish determination, three simple words: Are you okay?

He stared at the unsent message, the black letters on the white background seeming to accuse him. It was an innocent question, but loaded with profound meaning. It was a bridge he could not cross. With a groan of anguish, his finger smashed the delete button. The message disappeared, but the desire, that insidious demon, remained, stronger than ever.

Theresa closed her apartment door and let out a long, slow sigh. The bag slid from her shoulder and landed with a soft thud on the sofa. Instead of the exhaustion she expected to feel, a strange, vibrant euphoria coursed through her veins. The confrontation with Ryan hadn't drained her; it had empowered her.

The melted anger had left behind a solid core of certainty. She was no longer the betrayed fiancée, the victim. She was a woman who had reclaimed her space, her dignity, and her future. The lightness was almost intoxicating. She walked to the living room window, watching the city beginning to light up under the twilight. Each shining light was like a 'yes' to her newfound freedom.