Chapter twenty eight

Bella pushed open the apartment door with her shoulder, keys jingling softly in her hand. The place was dark except for the faint glow of the hallway light she always left on. Quiet. Too quiet.

 

“Rachel?” she called out, voice echoing off the empty walls.

 

No answer.

 

She dropped her bag on the couch, kicked off her heels, and padded barefoot toward the kitchen. A quick glance at the counter, Rachel’s usual mess of coffee mugs and takeout containers was gone.

 

The fridge hummed, but the sink was dry. No lipstick-stained glass. No half-eaten yogurt container with the spoon still in it.

 

She wasn’t home.

 

Bella exhaled through her nose. Part of her was relieved. She didn’t want to talk right now anyway, not about the office, not about Darian, not about the way Vivian’s hand had looked wrapped around him like she owned every inch.

 

She just wanted to wash the day off her skin and disappear into her own head for a while.

 

She headed straight for the bathroom.

 

The shower came on hot, steam rising fast. Bella stripped slowly, letting her blouse fall, then her skirt, bra, panties, each piece hitting the tile like shed skin she no longer wanted touching her. She stepped under the spray and closed her eyes.

.

 

She started at her neck, fingers pressing into the tense muscles there, working slow circles. Down to her collarbones, the hollow at the base of her throat.

 

Over the swell of her breasts. full, soft, nipples tightening under the heat and the rough drag of her palms. She lingered there longer than necessary, thumbs brushing the peaks until a small shiver ran through her. Not arousal exactly. Just… feeling herself. Reminding herself she was still here, still solid, still hers.

 

Lower. Soap over her stomach, the gentle curve of her waist, the flare of her hips. She turned, let the water hit her back, arched slightly so it cascaded down her spine, over the dimples above her ass.

 

Her hands followed, scrubbing her ass cheeks, squeezing once, hard, like she was punishing the skin for carrying the weight of the day. Down her thighs, long, toned from years of walking everywhere when money was tight, then calves, feet.

 

She lifted one leg, braced it against the wall, dragged the loofah between her thighs, slow and deliberate over her folds. Not teasing. Cleaning. Erasing.

 

Every swipe felt like wiping away Vivian’s perfume, Darian’s low voice in the car, the memory of that locked office door. She scrubbed until her skin tingled pink, until the water ran clear, until she felt raw and new.

 

When she finally stepped out, steam fogged the mirror so thick she could barely see her outline. She wiped a stripe clear with her forearm and stared at herself.

 

Dark eyes. Wet hair dripping onto her shoulders. Lips parted. Cheeks flushed from the heat. She looked… dangerous. Not broken. Not anymore.

 

She wrapped a towel around her body, tucked another around her head, and walked to the bedroom.

 

The wardrobe doors creaked when she opened them. She pulled out lotion and sat on the edge of the bed, one leg crossed over the other, and started at her feet.

 

Worked up her calves, knees, thighs, slow, methodical strokes. Her fingers dug in a little harder on the insides of her thighs, right where the skin was softest. She bit her lip, focused on the sensation, on claiming every inch.

 

When she reached her stomach, she paused. Pressed her palm flat over her navel. Breathed.

 

Then continued, up her ribs, over her breasts, circling the nipples again until they peaked. She didn’t rush, Just… felt.

 

Hair next. She unwrapped the towel, shook out the damp strands, grabbed her wide-tooth comb. Sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the full-length mirror.

 

Section by section, she combed, gentle at the ends where it tangled, firmer at the roots. The wet strands darkened to almost black, falling sleek and straight down her back when she finished.

 

She stood.

 

Naked now, towel discarded.

 

She chose black, simple, fitted jeans that hugged her ass and thighs, a deep red top with thin straps that showed the curve of her collarbones and just enough cleavage to remind anyone looking that she was still a woman who could turn heads.

 

No bra. She didn’t need one tonight. She wanted to feel the fabric slide against her skin, wanted to feel exposed in a way she controlled.

 

Light makeup, just enough to sharpen her eyes, darken her lashes, slick her lips with gloss that caught the light.

 

She looked in the mirror one last time.

 

Not the broken girl from two weeks ago.

 

Not the assistant who stood frozen while another woman stroked her boss in front of her.

 

She grabbed her phone, keys, and a small crossbody bag. Locked the apartment door behind her. The hallway light buzzed overhead as she walked to the elevator.

 

Outside, the cab was already waiting, yellow light glowing in the dusk.

 

She slid into the back seat.

 

“Good evening,” the driver said, glancing in the rearview.

 

“Evening,” Bella replied. “248 Oakwood Terrace. Take the long way if traffic’s bad,I’m not in a rush.”

 

He nodded, pulled away from the curb.

 

Bella leaned her head against the window, watched the city slide by. Streetlights. Neon signs. People moving like shadows. Her reflection stared back, calm, almost serene.

 

She wasn’t going to text Marcus. No warning. No heads-up.

 

She wanted to see his face the second he opened the door. Wanted to look straight into his eyes and know, really know, if there was anything left of the man who once promised her forever.

 

If the spark was still there, buried under all the bullshit. Or if it had died the moment he believed the worst about her.

 

The cab slowed outside the familiar brownstone. Same chipped steps. Same flickering porch light. Same unlocked front door, Marcus never locked it properly. He always said the building was safe, that he trusted the neighborhood.

 

Bella paid the driver, stepped out.

 

Her heels clicked up the steps.

 

The front door was ajar, just like always.

 

She pushed it open slowly.

 

Inside smelled like him, woodsy cologne, coffee, the faint trace of whatever takeout he’d had last.

 

But there was another smell.

 

Sweat. Skin. Sex and groans.

 

Low, rhythmic, coming from the back of the apartment.

 

Bella’s stomach dropped.

 

She closed the door behind her, quiet and carefully.

 

“Marcus?” Her voice came out softer than she meant. “Marcus, are you okay?”

 

No answer.

 

Just the groans, deeper now, faster. And another sound layered under it. A woman’s moan. High, breathy, familiar.

 

Too familiar.

 

Bella’s heart slammed against her ribs.

 

No. No no no.

 

She walked forward, slow at first, then faster. Past the living room. Past the kitchen. Toward the bedroom hallway.

 

The sounds grew louder. Skin slapping skin. Heavy breathing. A low “fuck, yes” in Marcus’s voice.

 

Bella’s hand shook as she reached the half-open bedroom door.

 

She pushed it.

 

The room was lit only by the bedside lamp, warm, golden, cruel.

 

Marcus was on top, sweat gleaming on his back, hips driving hard, relentless. His head was thrown back, mouth open in a groan.

 

Under him, legs wrapped around his waist, nails raking down his shoulders, was Rachel.

 

Her best friend.

 

Rachel’s head turned toward the door. Eyes wide for half a second…then narrowing. A slow, satisfied smile curled her lips even as Marcus kept thrusting.

 

“Fuck…” Marcus grunted, not noticing yet.

 

Bella stood frozen.

 

The world narrowed to this: Marcus buried deep inside Rachel, Rachel’s legs locked around him, Rachel’s smug little smile as she met Bella’s eyes over his shoulder.

 

Hope it’s not what I’m thinking, Bella had whispered to herself on the way down the hall.

 

It was exactly what she was thinking.