Chapter Five: Whose Husband Is He?

Alice’s POV

I found myself melting into David’s embrace, the fragrant male scent of him still teasing my senses. I realised how highly strung I had been feeling, running on raw tension since Lily had arrived and upset the balance of my world.

What harm was a little human comfort under these circumstances, I asked, as I pressed myself against him?

He nuzzled my hair, then my neck, before giving me a featherlight kiss on the tip of my nose and another one brushing my lips. He paused. Looking into my eyes; he actually looked at me!

“Come on, Alice,” he urged as he quietly led me to the guest bedroom.

Once inside, he closed the door behind us. The bed had been made up and a solitary bedside lamp threw a muted glow where it stood on the nightstand. The dimly lit room was our own private little world – just David and I; and a rising anticipation.

Like it once used to be, for us.

He stroked my cheek and trailed a teasing fingertip along my bottom lip then dropped his hand to caress my throat. The way he knew I liked it. Pulling me in closer, he kissed me softly on the lips.

When I returned his kiss, he became bolder. I quickly found myself surrendering to the passion he was arousing in me, as I savored the demands of his lips and the subtle teasing of his tongue.

I raised my hands up his chest to caress his body and moving down, I was soon exploring the smooth hardness of him, blossoming inside his pants.

He gasped.

He molded his hands to my hips and rump. With a strong grip, he pulled me in close, pressing against me with his obvious arousal. I unfastened his trousers and he willingly shed them, then pulled off his shirt.

I found myself answering the increasing ardor of his kisses with a hot passion of my own.

He pressed me down onto the bed, and in moments he was covering me with his body. Together we pulled off my clothes and they joined his, discarded on the floor.

In this little, private world of our own, our hands were not idle, seeking out each other's most sensitive flesh, to caress and plunder.

Before long, when I was more than ready, he guided himself into the inviting heat of my innermost depths. He could not stifle a groan of desire.

I gasped at his hard thrusts, achingly deep. I wrapped my legs around his hips and joined his rhythm.

As our pleasure grew, he slipped his hands firmly under my hips and lifting my lower body upwards, he pulled me in closer for a deeper invasion.

I heard myself cry out as the tension built, arching my back and riding his thrusts. Until I could take no more.

Right after mine, came his crashing release, almost violent in its strength.

As his ragged breathing abated, he pulled me into an intimate embrace, and wordlessly, we shared the closeness while our heartbeats steadied.

But before I could savor the intimacy for much longer, he gave me a fleeting smile, pulled the covers over us and settled down in the bed.

He murmured, “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

And was almost instantly asleep. Men!

Oh well, I thought with satisfaction, we could both do with a good night’s sleep.

I woke to daylight filtering into the room.

The curtains hadn’t been fully drawn. A thin, gray wash of morning light lay across the floor, quiet and cold, like frost that hadn’t melted yet. The air still carried traces of last night, but the guest room itself felt hollow. Too hollow.

The space beside me was cold. It took a second to register what that meant. David was gone.

He must have left a lot earlier. No whispered good-bye. Not even the sound of a door opening or closing had stirred me. It was as if he’d slipped out of the story entirely, leaving me alone with the aftermath.

The feeling was painfully familiar. Like waking from a brief, reckless dream and realizing you’re the only one still trapped inside the warmth of it.

I sat up. My throat was dry, tight. What had happened the night before replayed in fragments, distorted, as if seen through water — no clear images, only the dull ache it left behind, pulsing quietly in my mind.

I stood up, crossed over and opened the door to the bedroom. It barely cracked open before I froze.

Lily was standing there!

Too close. Close enough that it felt like she’d been pressed against the door, listening. The thought slid into my mind before I could stop it, sharp and unsettling.

How long has she been there?

Her hair was messy, nothing like her usual careful softness. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath her eyes. She looked like she hadn’t slept at all. The gentle, knowing smile she wore so easily was gone. In its place was something raw; her eyes wide, bloodshot, fixed on me with a ferocity that made my spine chill.

She looked at me like I’d committed a crime.

“Did you—” Her voice broke, scraped raw. “Last night… last night, did you sleep with David?”

The question came out twisted, urgent, desperate for confirmation. Not curious. Not calm. Almost panicked.

It was absurd. I was his wife. And yet here I was, cornered in a doorway, feeling like the other woman being confronted by the real one. I frowned, lost for words. How dare she ask such a thing in my own home, about our private matters? Between me and my husband?

I met her gaze, said nothing, and stepped forward, intending to pass her.

“Answer me!” she snapped, her voice shooting up as she leaned toward me, like she might lunge if I kept moving. “Did you sleep with him or not?!”

I stopped. Then I finally met her fevered gaze.

“Lily,” I said, my voice steady to the point of sounding cold. “I’m his wife. And that’s none of your business.”

The words landed like a blow. I watched the color drain from her face.

But I wasn’t finished. “Whatever happened last night,” I went on, “has nothing to do with you. You don’t get to question me like that. You don’t have that right.”

Her lips started to tremble, as if something inside her had been hit — harder than she’d expected.

I was done engaging. “Move!” I stated.

The moment the word left my mouth, she smiled. It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t kind. She took a step back in the hallway. Then another. I didn’t have time to react.

Her body tipped backward suddenly — deliberately!

“Lily!”

The sound exploded through the stairwell. A heavy, chaotic crash. Flesh against wood. Bone against rail.

Down one step. Then another. Then another, she tumbled.

Time stretched thin, like something about to tear. I stood frozen in the hallway at the top of the stairs, my ears ringing, my mind blank.

Then the scream came. “Aunt Lily—!”

Camilla was the first to reach the staircase. She was still in her pajamas, her small body shaking with fright. She saw Lily crumpled at the bottom of the stairs. She saw the blood at her temple.

She broke down instantly. “Aunt Lily! Aunt Lily, you’re bleeding!”

She rushed down to her aunt, then stopped short — too scared to touch her — left standing there, crying helplessly.

Then she looked up. Her eyes found mine. And something in her face changed. The softness was gone. The trust.

What replaced it was sharp and unfiltered. Accusation. “It was you!” she screamed. “You did this!”

Her little girl voice cracked with rage and certainty. “You’re horrible! You pushed Aunt Lily down the stairs!”