Cold sheets

Chapter 10: Cold Sheets

The sound of running water from the master bathroom filled the penthouse like white noise, doing little to drown out the storm in my mind. I sat on the edge of our king-sized bed, still wearing the blouse and trousers from the site visit, staring at the closed bathroom door. Khalid’s attempt at intimacy lingered on my skin like an unwelcome memory. His hands, his lips, the familiar weight of his body — all of it tainted by the faint but unmistakable scent of Natasha’s perfume.

How long had it been since his touch actually made me feel wanted? Desired? Loved?

I couldn’t remember the last time we had made love without it feeling like an obligation or a desperate attempt to patch over the growing cracks. Months, at least. Maybe longer. The realization settled heavily in my chest, a quiet grief that had been building for far too long.

When the shower stopped, I stood up and moved to the walk-in closet, changing into a simple silk nightgown. The emerald gown from the gala hung nearby, a silent witness to another disappointing night. I touched the fabric briefly, then let it go.

Khalid emerged from the bathroom wearing only gray sweatpants, his hair still damp. Water droplets traced paths down his toned chest and shoulders. In another life, the sight would have made my heart race. Tonight, it only made me feel hollow.

He approached me slowly, his eyes dark with lingering desire and frustration. “Evelyn… come here.”

I didn’t move. “I can’t, Khalid. Not tonight. Not when every time you touch me, I wonder how many times she’s been close enough to leave her scent on you.”

He stopped a few feet away, pain flashing across his handsome face. “I told you nothing is happening. She’s a colleague. We work closely together. That’s all.”

“That’s never all,” I whispered. “Not with her.”

He reached for me anyway, pulling me gently into his arms. His skin was warm from the shower, and for a moment I let myself lean into him. His lips brushed my forehead, then my cheek, then my neck. His hands slid down my back, familiar and insistent.

“I miss you,” he murmured against my skin. “I miss us. Let me show you how much.”

His kiss deepened, hungry and demanding. My body responded on instinct — years of muscle memory — but my heart remained distant, watching the scene like an outsider. When his fingers slipped under the strap of my nightgown, I gently but firmly pushed his chest.

“Stop,” I said softly, stepping back. “I can’t do this right now.”

Khalid’s arms dropped to his sides. The rejection hit him visibly. “What do you want from me, Evelyn? I’m here. I’m trying. But you keep pushing me away.”

I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the perfectly controlled temperature of the penthouse. “I want to feel like your wife, not your backup plan. I want to feel desired because you see *me*, not because you feel guilty about how much time you spend with her.”

He stared at me for a long moment, jaw clenched. Then he nodded once, sharply. “Fine. I’ll sleep in the guest room tonight.”

He grabbed a pillow and walked out without another word. The door to the guest room clicked shut down the hall, the sound echoing through the vast, empty penthouse like a final period on another failed night.

I climbed into our cold bed alone, pulling the covers up to my chin. The diamond and emerald necklace from this morning still sat in its box on the nightstand. I hadn’t touched it since discovering the card. Tears slipped silently down my cheeks as I stared at the ceiling, the Manhattan skyline twinkling indifferently beyond the windows.

Sleep came in fragments, haunted by memories of better days — when Khalid would pull me close after long days, when his touch set me on fire instead of leaving me empty.

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I woke before dawn, the penthouse still dark and quiet. Khalid’s side of the bed remained untouched. I slipped out of bed and padded barefoot toward his study, needing something — anything — to distract my racing thoughts. Maybe an old design file or a book. Anything to fill the void.

The study door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open and turned on the small desk lamp. The room smelled of leather, aged wood, and Khalid’s cologne. His massive mahogany desk was neatly organized, as always. I opened the bottom drawer, searching for the old sketchbook I sometimes left here.

Instead, my fingers brushed against a thick envelope tucked at the very back.

Curiosity got the better of me. I pulled it out and opened it.

Dozens of photographs spilled onto the desk.

My breath caught in my throat.

The photos were old — university days. Khalid looked younger, his face softer, less burdened by the weight of an empire. And in almost every picture, Natasha was with him. Laughing together at parties. Studying late in the library, heads bent close. One photo showed them kissing passionately under a campus tree. Another had them wrapped in each other’s arms at what looked like a formal event, both smiling like the world belonged to them.

They looked... perfect together.

My hands trembled as I flipped through more images. There were notes too — handwritten messages from Natasha on the back of some photos. *Miss you already. Can’t wait for our future. Love you always.*

I sank into Khalid’s leather chair, the photos scattered across the desk like accusations. These weren’t recent. They were from years before he met me. But the fact that he had kept them — hidden them here in his private space — spoke volumes.

Had he ever truly let her go?

Tears blurred my vision as I stared at a particularly intimate photo of them. Natasha’s hand was on his chest, possessive and sure. The same confident expression she still wore today when she looked at him.

I heard footsteps in the hallway. Khalid.

I quickly gathered the photos, but it was too late. He stood in the doorway, dressed in a fresh suit, clearly preparing for another early day. His eyes widened when he saw what I was holding.

“Evelyn… those are old. From college.”

I held up one of the kissing photos, my voice barely above a whisper. “You kept them. All this time.”

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “I forgot they were there. It was before us. Natasha and I had history, but that’s all it is — history.”

“History doesn’t usually hide in the bottom drawer of your study,” I said, my voice breaking. “Not when you come home smelling like her. Not when she openly says you need someone like her.”

Khalid moved closer, his expression pained. “Please. Don’t do this. Those photos mean nothing now.”

But as I looked at him, standing there in the early morning light, I wasn’t sure I believed him anymore.

And worse — I wasn’t sure if I even wanted to.