Chapter 2 – The Storm 

Roman’s POV

​Rain slams against the windshield. It’s a vicious, loud downpour.

​I almost drive past her.

​A small, soaked figure is hunched beneath a bus stop bench. She's shivering, her arms wrapped around her knees.

​I hit the brakes. The sedan stops silently.

​She doesn't look up at first.

​But I recognize her instantly.

​Lana. My wife’s daughter.

​She finally lifts her head when the window rolls down. Her face is a mess of tears and mascara. Her eyes are red, wide with shock.

​“Get in,” I order.

​She hesitates for a moment, then pushes herself up. Her bag—a cheap canvas tote—clutched tight to her chest.

​She opens the door and slides onto the leather. She doesn't speak.

​The door shuts, locking out the storm.

​I pull away from the curb. I don’t ask what happened.

​I can smell it on her: the sharp, cold scent of raw devastation.

​She stares straight ahead. Her voice, when it comes, is flat and brittle. “He cheated.”

​That's all she offers.

​I grip the steering wheel. Lana is sitting in my car, broken. She is vibrant, young, and too alive to be related to the woman I married.

​Now she’s here, ruined.

​The drive is silent. Every second stretches thin.

​I don’t speak. She doesn’t either.

​I drive up to the house and punch the gate code.

​She steps inside, tracking water onto the marble floor. I ignore it. Mess is temporary.

​I stop at the guest room on the second floor and open the door. The room is neutral, unused.

​“Fresh towels are in the closet. Bathroom through there.”

​She nods, silent, her body shaking from the cold.

​“Thank you, Roman,” she whispers.

Then she disappears inside. I stand there. For a beat. Two. Maybe hoping she’ll open the door and say something. Or maybe just needing to hear the lock click to breathe again.

It doesn’t.

I walk away.

​She comes down twenty minutes later. She is wearing one of my white shirts, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. The fabric falls high on her thighs.

​Her hair is damp. Her face is clean, but her eyes are hollow.

​Maria set out some food. Lana sits down, barely touching the plate. She just pushes the pasta around.

I pour myself a glass of Lagavulin and watch her from across the table.

She doesn’t eat. She doesn’t speak. She’s not sulking. She’s mourning.

I break the silence. “How long were you with him?”

Her jaw clenches. “A year. Almost.”

“Living together?”

A nod.

I watch the way her hands tremble when she lifts the fork. Watch how she keeps her knees tight together like she’s trying not to spill over.

“He cheated,” I say.

She huffs a humorless laugh. “Yeah. With someone I should’ve seen coming.”

“That’s always how it is.”

“Did someone cheat on you too?”

I pause. Sip my whiskey. “In a way.”

She studies me. For a moment, the silence isn’t uncomfortable.

It’s just quiet.

Then she stands and pushes her untouched plate away.

“I think I’m gonna take that bath now.”

I nod.

She disappears down the hall again, bare feet slapping softly on the tile.

Later, as I walk past the guest room, I hear the water running. Not a shower. A bath.

And I shouldn’t think anything of it. But the image creeps in like a virus.

I picture her naked. Steam clinging to her skin. My shirt discarded on the floor. Her thighs glistening, knees parted, her breath fogging the mirror.

I clench my jaw. Keep walking. Faster.

My door slams louder than intended when I enter my wing. I yank open the bathroom, grip the sink, stare into the mirror.

“She’s your wife’s daughter,” I mutter.

Then why does my dick ache like it disagrees?

Midnight.

The storm still hasn't let up. Thunder rolls lazily over the hills. The house sleeps.

I can’t. I head to the kitchen for a drink. Ice water. Cold shower from the inside out.

I push open the kitchen door and freeze.

She’s standing there. Bare-legged. Shirt hanging off one shoulder. A water bottle half-drained in her hand.

She turns slowly.

Her nipples are hard under the thin cotton.

My shirt barely covers her ass.

She notices my stare. But she doesn’t cover up. She holds my gaze. 

“Thanks,” she says. Her voice is soft, almost shy. “For not asking.”

I narrow my eyes. “Asking what?”

“Why,” she says. “Everyone always wants to know why something hurts. Like it’s less awful if you can explain it.”

I step closer. “Pain doesn’t need permission.”

Her eyes flick up to mine. “Exactly.” A silence stretches.

She sips her water again, throat flexing.

I swear I feel it in my own.

“You ever have someone break you so perfectly, you couldn’t even hate them for it?” she murmurs.

I don’t answer. And she doesn’t wait for one.

She brushes past me. Slow. Barefoot. Heat radiating off her like sun off wet pavement. Her hips sway under the shirt. Her scent is clean, warm, fucking dangerous, it lingers behind her.

The hallway swallows her.

I don’t move.

I just stand there in the middle of my own kitchen like a fucking idiot, heart in my throat and cock already half hard.

I mutter to the dark, bitter and low:

“What the fuck are you looking at, Roman?”

But the shadows say nothing.

Only the soft click of a bedroom door closing down the hall.

And the twist in my gut that says this is already out of my hands.

To Be Continued…