Chapter 5: Cracks in the Facade

The autumn light came through Lana’s skylight, and it made gold patterns on the messy bed where we lay after our quick morning fuck. Her head was on my chest, and her fingers traced the light scratches Cara left last night. I hid them under a hoodie, said it was from the gym. The air smelled like warm vanilla from her candle, mixed with her floral shampoo, soft but feeling fake against the mess in my head. Two weeks since Vegas, our secret marriage a weak bubble, and I was sinking under it.

Lana moved, her blue eyes opened, and she smiled as she kissed my collarbone. “Morning, husband,” she whispered, the word still fresh and exciting. She slid out of bed, body looking hot in the October light, and pulled on a robe that barely hid her curves I knew by heart. I watched her go to the kitchenette, mugs clinking as she made coffee. My phone buzzed, Cara’s name like a red flag. My villa. Tonight. Don’t keep me waiting.

I turned it off, heart jumping, and went to Lana, wrapped my arms around her waist. “You’re too good at this home stuff,” I said low, bit her ear, trying to hide guilt in her warmth. She laughed, leaned back into me, and her body gave in as I slipped a hand under her robe, fingers finding her wet pussy. “Cole,” she gasped, put the mug down, hands gripping the counter as I knelt and licked her slow and deep. Her thighs shook, moans soft and real, nothing like Cara’s bossy yells. She came shaking, pulled me up for a kiss tasting like coffee and trust I didn’t earn.

Breakfast was fast, made pancakes with a smile, her teasing about the cufflinks in my jacket. “Client gift,” I lied, kissed her to shut it up, hand on her thigh again. The “C” on them burned in my brain, a bomb waiting. She bought it for now, but her eyes stayed a bit off. “Dad’s dinner tonight,” she said, spinning the ring on her finger. “He wants to grill you good. Don’t be late.”

I nodded, throat tight. Victor’s big house felt like a trap, his old warning ringing: Don’t be like her. Cara’s text hit harder, Villa. 8 PM. I’ll make it worth it. I’d promised Lana I’d be there by seven. One more night with Cara, one more fat envelope for our life, I told myself. Just one.

By afternoon, I was in my Brooklyn studio, brush in hand, trying to paint the chaos, red and black swirls, a woman’s shape half there, half sinking. Air stank of turpentine, futon messy from no sleep. Another text from Cara: pic of her in black lace, thighs open by the villa fireplace. My dick got hard despite the guilt, her power pulling too strong. I texted Lana: Work late. There by 8. Lie piling up.

Drive to Cara’s Upstate villa was a blur, two hours north, city lights gone, misty woods, October leaves on fire around the hidden house. The villa’s 3,000 square feet, stone walls by the lake, big fireplace cracking in the open room, heat fighting the damp cold. Cara waited in the bedroom, candles glowing on her naked skin, silk robe on the floor. “You’re late,” she purred, pulled me in, jasmine smell strong as she kissed hard, teeth on my lip.

She pushed me to the bed, straddled me, fingers ripping my shirt open. “Missed this,” she said low, put my hands on her tits, nipples hard under my touch. I was gone in her, thighs tight on my hips, pussy wet as she dropped onto me, raw and hard, fire matching our beat. “Mine,” she growled, rode me till the bed shook, moans loud off the stone. I grabbed her ass, thrust up, world just her squeezing heat, nails scratching my chest as she came, yanking my cum with a rough yell.

We fell sweaty, lake lapping outside like fake peace. She traced my jaw, eyes sharp. “You’re off, boy. Don’t make me ask again.” I mumbled about deadlines, but she saw through. Phone buzzed, Lana: Dad’s ready. Where are you? I ignored, Cara’s hand on my cock, stroking me hard again. “Stay,” she ordered, sat on my face, her taste flooding as I licked till she shook more.

Hours gone, fire low to embers. Buzz again, Lana, worried: Cole, it’s 9. What’s wrong? Guilt hit, but Cara’s villa was a drug, her body my hit. I texted lame, Client mess, stuck upstate. Cara dragged me to the shower, steam up as she pushed me to tile, mouth on my cock, sucked slow and deep till I came down her throat, eyes locked on mine.

By midnight, I dressed, Cara naked on the bed, tossed me an envelope—fifteen grand, thick and new. “For your trouble,” she smirked, but voice edgy. “Don’t forget who pays.” I pocketed it, kissed goodbye, mist hiding my run.

Drive back hazy, phone dead quiet—Lana’s texts ignored, Victor’s dinner skipped. Stopped at studio to change, turpentine smell hitting, but door was open, shadow inside. Heart stopped—Lana by my easel, staring at the painting of Cara’s body, curves too clear. In her hand, the cufflinks, “C” shining under the light.

“Cole,” she said, voice shaking but mad, “who is she?” Eyes red, robe gone for jeans and jacket, bag at her feet. “I followed you. To the villa. Saw… it all.”

World spun. She tailed me, saw me deep in Cara, heard moans and orders. Then Cara’s voice from the door, cold: “Lana? My girl?” The locket on Lana’s neck—Victor’s gift, old pic of Cara inside—snapped it together. Mom and daughter, split by divorce, now facing over my fuck-up.

Lana screamed, fist hit the canvas, paint smeared like blood. “You’re her? My mom? And him?” Cara’s face went white, but eyes hard, stepped closer. “You left us,” Lana spat, tears falling. I froze, envelope hot in my pocket, their yells a storm of rage and hurt.

Victor’s car screeched outside, voice booming: “Lana? Cole?” Night blew up—yells, threats, villa echoes now in this tiny studio. My world, built on fucks and lies, crashed under their eyes, price of my wants out in the open.