Invitation

Anger is a strange thing. It sharpens the senses.

I woke the next morning with it still sitting heavy in my chest, replacing the guilt that had haunted me the night before. Chris had already left. A note sat on the kitchen counter, brief and impersonal.

Working late. Dinner meeting.

I crumpled the paper and dropped it into the bin.

Something about last night had broken a quiet agreement I had been keeping with myself. I had tried. I had offered him closeness, vulnerability, desire. And he had refused it without hesitation, without curiosity.

For the first time, I allowed myself to ask a question I had avoided for months.

How long had I been alone while still married.

I dressed carefully that morning, choosing structure over softness. A fitted blazer, heels sharp enough to remind me of my own weight against the floor. I wanted to feel composed. In control. I needed the world to see me before I forgot how.

The day unfolded predictably. Meetings. Calls. Polite smiles. Yet beneath it all, something restless stirred. My thoughts kept drifting, uninvited, to a terrace under city lights and a man who had looked at me like I mattered.

I hated that.

I hated that Chris’s rejection had made that memory feel warmer rather than shameful.

By early evening, I found myself standing in front of the mirror again, changing for yet another corporate event. This one was smaller, hosted by a mutual partner company. Chris had insisted I attend.

“It will look better if you’re there,” he had said over the phone. Not you might enjoy it. Not I would like you with me.

I arrived alone.

The venue was quieter than the previous night’s spectacle, dim lighting and soft music filling the space. I accepted a glass of wine and scanned the room out of habit.

And then I saw him.

Sebastian Cross stood near the far end of the room, speaking to someone with an ease that drew attention without demanding it. He looked up, as if sensing my gaze, and our eyes met.

The recognition was instant.

Heat rushed through me, unwelcome and undeniable. I told myself to look away. I did not.

He excused himself from his conversation and approached slowly, giving me time to retreat if I wished.

I stayed.

“Good evening,” he said. “You look less like someone trying to escape tonight.”

“Do I?” I replied, surprised by how steady my voice sounded.

“Yes,” he said. “More like someone who wants blood.”

I laughed quietly. “You have a dramatic way of observing people.”

“I prefer accurate,” he said.

I glanced around. “You should be careful. My husband would not appreciate this.”

His gaze flicked briefly across the room. “He is not here.”

“No,” I said. “He is rarely anywhere near me.”

The honesty slipped out before I could stop it. His expression shifted, something darker settling behind his eyes.

“I will pretend I did not hear that,” he said gently. “Unless you want me to.”

“I do not know what I want,” I admitted.

He studied me for a moment, then nodded once. “Fair.”

We stood in silence, not awkward, just aware. I became conscious of the space between us, of how easily it could disappear.

“You seem angry,” he said.

“I am,” I replied. “And I do not know where to put it.”

“Anger often wants to be seen,” he said. “Not fixed.”

The simplicity of the statement unsettled me more than any flirtation could have.

“This is inappropriate,” I said softly.

“Yes,” he agreed. “It is.”

“And yet,” I added.

“And yet,” he echoed.

Chris’s voice suddenly cut through the air behind me.

“There you are.”

I turned.

He looked from me to Sebastian, his expression hardening immediately.

“Sebastian,” Chris said coolly. “I did not realise you would be here.”

Sebastian smiled, polite and unreadable. “I was invited.”

Chris’s hand settled possessively at my back, the contact making my skin prickle rather than comfort.

“We were just talking,” I said.

“I am sure,” Chris replied. His tone made it clear he did not approve.

Sebastian’s eyes met mine one last time. “Enjoy your evening.”

He walked away without another glance.

Chris exhaled sharply. “I told you to stay away from him.”

“You told me not to talk to him,” I said. “You did not say I was not allowed to exist in the same room.”

“This is not a joke,” he snapped. “He is not someone you should associate with.”

“Why,” I asked quietly. “Because you hate him. Or because he sees me.”

Chris stiffened. “That is enough.”

He guided me away, already dismissing the conversation. I did not resist. I was too busy realising something important.

Sebastian Cross had not touched me. Had not crossed a line. 

Chris did not speak to me on the drive home.

His jaw was set, his attention fixed on the road, the silence between us thick and deliberate. I watched the city slide past the window, my reflection ghosted over passing lights. The anger from earlier had not cooled. It had sharpened.

“You embarrassed me tonight,” he finally said.

I turned to him. “By speaking to another guest at your event.”

“You know who he is,” Chris replied. “You know what he represents.”

“I know what he represents to you,” I said. “That does not make him invisible to me.”

His grip tightened on the steering wheel. “You are my wife.”

The words felt like a claim rather than a connection.

“And I was standing alone,” I answered quietly. “Again.”

He did not respond. The car pulled into the driveway, the engine cut, and the conversation ended without resolution, like everything else between us.

Inside, he headed straight upstairs without waiting for me. I lingered in the hall, listening to his footsteps fade. Something inside me cracked then, small but final.

That night, I did not wait for him to come to bed.

I changed, washed my face, and sat by the window instead, watching the city breathe. My thoughts circled relentlessly, not just around Sebastian, but around the ease with which he had spoken to me. No expectations. No dismissal. No correction.

Chris had not asked how I felt. He never did.

When he eventually came into the bedroom, I pretended to be asleep. His presence beside me felt distant, his body turned away. I lay there, awake, aware, wondering how two people could share a bed and still exist in separate worlds.

The following days passed in a blur.

Chris grew colder, more distant, if that was even possible. Conversations were reduced to necessities. I stopped trying to bridge the gap. The effort felt humiliating now.

And yet, despite myself, I found my attention sharpening whenever Sebastian’s name surfaced. In news articles. In business discussions. In passing remarks at events. It disturbed me how easily my thoughts returned to him, how naturally my mind filled in the memory of his voice.

I told myself it was curiosity. Nothing more.

Then an invitation arrived.

A joint industry conference. Mandatory attendance. Chris’s tone left no room for refusal.

“You will be there,” he said. “This matters.”

I knew what that meant.

Sebastian Cross would be there too.

As I prepared for the event, my reflection stared back at me, composed but restless. I was walking into danger fully aware of it.

And this time, I was not sure I wanted to avoid it.