Guilt

When I finally found Chris again, he barely noticed the change in me.

He spoke about contracts on the drive home, about expansion plans and hostile bids. I nodded at the right moments, my body present while my mind replayed a terrace under city lights and a man who looked at me like I was not already claimed.

At home, Chris loosened his tie and headed straight for his study.

“I will be working for a while,” he said. “Do not wait up.”

I did not answer. I did not need to. That sentence had become routine, as familiar as the quiet that followed.

Our bedroom was dark when I changed into my nightdress. I slipped into bed alone, the space beside me untouched, cold. I closed my eyes, expecting exhaustion to pull me under.

It did not.

Instead, Sebastian Cross appeared behind my eyelids.

His voice. Calm. Controlled. The way his eyes had held mine without apology. The way he had noticed details Chris never did. My pulse quickened, irritation mixing with something dangerously close to want.

I turned onto my side, then onto my back, then faced the empty pillow beside me. My body felt restless, awake in a way it had not been for years.

This was wrong.

I told myself that firmly.

I had a husband. A life. A name tied to his. I should not be lying awake thinking about another man’s mouth, another man’s attention, another man’s understanding of hunger.

The sheets felt too warm. My skin too aware.

I sat up abruptly, breath uneven, and swung my legs over the bed.

A shower. That was sensible. That was safe.

The bathroom lights were harsh, unforgiving. I avoided my reflection as steam began to fill the room. The water hit my shoulders, hot and relentless, washing over skin that felt unfamiliar, reactive.

My hand reached down to touch myself, a feeling of pleasure running throughout my body. I closed my eyes and only Sebastian Cross's face appeared. My hand moved faster and faster until I fell climaxed all over it.

By the time I stepped out, wrapped in a towel, my chest felt tight. Heavy. My mind clouded with shame and something sharper beneath it.

Guilt.

I leaned against the sink, gripping its edge, staring at my reflection now. My cheeks were flushed. My eyes darker than usual.

“What are you doing?” I whispered to myself.

This was not who I was. This was not the kind of woman I had promised to be. Desire was one thing. Acting on it felt like a betrayal.

I dried my hair slowly, deliberately, as if discipline could erase imagination.

When I returned to bed, Chris still had not come back.

I lay down again, this time on my back, staring at the ceiling. My heart gradually slowed, though unease lingered like a bruise.

Sebastian Cross was not a temptation I could afford.

And yet, no matter how tightly I closed my eyes, the memory of his voice refused to leave me.

Sleep eventually came.

But it was not peaceful.

Morning arrived without relief.

Light slipped through the curtains, pale and unwelcome, pulling me out of a sleep that had been fractured by half remembered dreams and unfinished thoughts. I lay still for a moment, listening.

Silence.

Chris had not come to bed at all.

I turned my head toward his side, untouched, exactly as I had left it. Something in my chest tightened, not with surprise but with resignation. I had slept beside emptiness so often that it no longer shocked me. What unsettled me was how much it hurt today.

Maybe this was simple, I told myself. Maybe I was just deprived. Touch starved. A woman with a husband who forgot how to be one.

That was easier to accept than the alternative.

I showered, dressed, and went through the motions of breakfast. Chris appeared briefly, already on a call, nodding absently at me before disappearing again. He did not notice the way I studied him, as if I were measuring the distance between us in inches rather than years.

All day, I tried to bury the memory of Sebastian Cross under routine. Emails. Appointments. Polite conversations. Yet everything felt sharper, more exposed, like my skin had been rubbed raw.

By evening, a decision had settled in me.

I was not some neglected wife pining for a stranger. I was married. I had needs. And my husband was supposed to meet them.

If desire was the problem, I would remind him of it.

I took my time getting ready.

The lingerie was something I had bought months ago and never worn. Black. Simple. Deliberate. I slipped it on slowly, watching myself in the mirror, forcing myself not to think of why I had chosen it now.

This was for my husband. I repeated that like a vow.

I dimmed the lights, smoothed the sheets, and waited.

Chris finally came in close to midnight, jacket over his arm, phone still in his hand.

“You’re awake,” he said, surprised.

“Yes.”

He glanced at the bed, then at me. His eyes lingered for a fraction of a second longer than usual. Hope flared, unwanted and fragile.

“I thought we could talk,” I said softly. I stepped closer, letting him see me properly.

Something flickered across his face. Not desire. Not hunger.

Hesitation.

“I’m exhausted,” he said. “Today was long.”

I reached for him anyway, fingers brushing his sleeve. “It has been a long time.”

His jaw tightened. He gently removed my hand.

“Not tonight,” he said. “I’m not in the mood.”

The words landed heavier than any argument could have.

“Oh,” I said.

He kissed my cheek, distracted, already turning away. “We’ll talk another time.”

Another time. Always another time.

He disappeared into the bathroom, leaving me standing there, dressed for a man who could not even look at me properly.

Heat flooded my chest. Then anger followed, sharp and unforgiving.

This was not about mood. This was not about work. This was about neglect dressed up as civility.

I pulled the robe around myself with trembling hands, my reflection in the mirror looking unfamiliar again. Not because I felt undesirable, but because I finally understood something I had been avoiding.

I was not asking for too much.

I was asking the wrong man.

Chris emerged, already checking his phone again, as if the moment had never existed. As if I had not stood there, offering myself, hoping to feel chosen.

I climbed into bed without another word.

He did not follow.

As I lay there, fury replaced guilt, hot and steady in my veins. Not at myself. Not even at Sebastian Cross.

At my husband.

Because somewhere between last night and now, something inside me had shifted.

And I was no longer willing to starve quietly.