The Sin Etched in Her Soul

I rushed through the crowded street, my feet pounding against the pavement with every hurried step. I wiped the sweat dripping off my forehead from the back of my hand as I took a glance at my watch.

“Late,” I muttered under my breath, making my legs move even faster—if that was even possible.

My sweatshirt clung to my back, drenched with the humidity of the unbearing heat. My jeans felt too tight, the air felt suffocating, beads of sweat dripping on my nose.

But I didn't care. None of that mattered.

Because I was Jaxon Black's wife.

And that thought alone… a huge smile popped on my face.

The Jaxon Black.

Sinfully handsome and devastatingly powerful.

And all mine.

At least that's what I kept telling myself.

Finally, I spotted the beautiful white mansion, standing as tall and sturdy as its owner.

I reached the front of the mansion and flung open the door.

I stepped into the marbled silence of the grand hallway, my heels clicking too loudly in a house that felt as empty as I felt inside.

There he stood, his hands in his pocket and his back casually leaning against the wall, as if he was waiting for me—but his eyes stated otherwise.

His cold black eyes looked at me as if a storm was brewing inside them.

"You're late," he said flatly, his voice devoid of any emotion.

"I—Jaxon—I..." I stumbled, breathless.

"Speak, Genevieve!" he snapped. I wiped my sweaty hands on my jeans, thinking of an appropriate answer that would calm him.

My stomach twisted painfully.

"There was traffic, and—"

His phone blared, causing me to jump. Without sparing me another glance, he pulled it out and answered.

"Jaxon here," he said into the receiver. His voice softened, and I wondered who was on the phone.

I wish he would talk to me this way, where a ghost of a smile etched on his face.

I stood there.

Invisible.

Irrelevant.

It didn't surprise me. I was used to this.

He pressed the end button, walking towards the door.

"We haven't eaten yet," I said gently. "I made your favourite—"

"Shut up," he muttered, interrupting me.

I froze, swallowing hard.

"Just… stay. Please, eat with me," I..." I pleaded, my voice barely above a whisper.

"I said I am going out."

He grabbed his coat from the rack. Impulsive, I reached out, brushing my fingers against his hand.

"Where are you going?"

He jerked his hand away, turning around.

"Do I need your permission now?"

"No, I just… I worry..."

A single laugh escaped him. A cruel sound that cut through me.

"Don't." He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to.

I tried to follow him out.

"Genevieve," he said through gritted teeth, "Don't you dare take another step."

"I love you." The words spilled out before I could stop them.

He paused—just for a second. I thought he'd stay.

Then those black eyes locked into mine, and a cruel smirk etched on his face.

"Stop saying that all the time. You're pathetic."

And then he was gone. The door slammed hard. Tears swelled up in my eyes, hesitating to fall right away—but I was stronger than this.

I turned around, deciding to just go back and sleep. The plate of ravioli remained forgotten on the dining table.

Eventually, I forced myself to take a shower, removing the sweat and grime from my body.

I lay on my side, facing the door, just in case he walked back in.

The clock ticked.

Midnight came and went.

The sheets remained cold beside me, the pillows still smelling like him—or maybe I was imagining it, since he never slept beside me.

"One day," I whispered to myself, "he'll love me just as desperately as I love him."

But even I didn’t sound convinced.

Because deep down,

I knew.

He never would.

Not realizing that my wish might come true one day.

But at what cost?