Mohamad holds the folder titled Project Eve in his hand. Progress report. Prototype successful. Eight hundred million in R&D. Good.
If this continues, he can redeem himself. Fix the mistake. Then let her go. She doesn't have a uterus. He'll build her one. She needs protection — because he was the one who put her in danger. He'll protect her. Keep her at a distance. Once she's safe… once everything is fixed… he'll let her go.
Until then—
His gaze shifts. Three naked women sleep across the hotel bed. Unmoving. Replaceable. Irrelevant. It worked. But it didn't. He performed. He even finished. But only—when he closed his eyes. Only when he replaced their faces. Only when he imagined her.
His jaw tightens. Not desire. Not them. Just memory. He knows now. This isn't coincidence. This isn't preference. Something in him rejects other women. Completely.
His fingers tighten around the folder. What is she? No. That's not the real question.
Why… can't he want anyone else? What has she done to him?
His eyes shift briefly toward the bed. Then away. Is it the sex? Is it different with her? Was she better than them?
His jaw hardens. No. That doesn't explain it. Skill fades. Bodies blur. Faces replace. But this—this didn't fade. He closes the folder slowly. Maybe he didn't have enough of her.
His gaze darkens. His body still remembers. Still reaches. Still waits. Hunger. Not satisfied. Not finished.
If he had more time… More of her… Once satisfaction is truly reached—then this would end. It always does. It has to.
His grip tightens slightly.
Next time… he won't stop. He'll take everything. Until there's nothing left to want.
Then she'll be replaceable.
###
Over the next two days, I compulsively check the phone he'd given me, hoping for a reply. Afraid, he may be offended by my text earlier I text another: JK, I don't think you're a jerk. I love you and miss you a mountain high. More waiting. Eventually, I accept the fact that he is a man of few words, even over text. Why did he get me a new phone instead of giving me his phone number? The list of questions I have for him keeps getting longer.
Anat texts: Where have you disappeared to?
Me: I've been busy with the usual.
While I told my family I was traveling for school during the two months of my recovery from surgery to keep consistent with what Mr. Silence had Jason tell them, I couldn't use the same lie with my friends. They would've caught on since they would have heard about any school trips earlier.
Anat: What usual?
Me: Life.
Anat: Ahuh... and?
Me: I'm so sorry. I dropped my phone and had to get a new one. (large eyes crying emojie)
Anat: Ok, but we haven't heard from you for like three months. (eye roll emojie)
The best strategy is always distraction with our group so I sent: I'm so sorry... I had thought it was over with Mr. Silence. But then... we kept having sex....
Anat: What! (blowing mind emojie)
Me: I've been distracted because... well... I had to sort out my feelings.
Anat: And?
Me: When I was ready to move on from him, we... had sex.
Anat: And?
Me: Now I'm all confused again. I think we're just casually having sex? Probably casual for him. But I'm fine with that. I'm very happy actually.
Anat: Happy's good. You'll figure out the rest.
Me: I hope so. (heart emojie) See you later.
I'm so excited that I show up to the apartment complex thirty minutes before our meeting. The woman at the front desk in the lobby greets me by name and hands me the apartment key. Practically sprinting all the way, I open the door to a candle-lit apartment.
"My love?" I call out before catching the scent of spicy amber.
He grabs me from behind, and I spin into his arms, breathless. His lips crash into mine. He's wearing too much. I'm bare under my dress, but it's still too many layers between us. The leather couch is only a few steps away. We're already tangled together, inseparable.
Time is lost to our passion. Naked, lying there on his arm, him on his side, me on my back, the leather sticks to my skin in an almost possessive way, the smooth surface now warm and slightly damp from our body heat. He's still oozing out from within me, even though we've calmed from the storm.
His fingers trail down my front like feathers, so light they barely brush my skin, yet each touch leaves a spark in its wake. His gaze follows the path of his fingertips, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing every curve, every breath, every inch of me. There's something reverent in his eyes—admiration so profound it's worship, as though I'm a masterpiece he's lucky to behold. There's hesitation in those fingers. I'm a delicate perfection he hardly dares to touch, for fear of ruining me. The weight of his desire, not just for my body, but for my soul presses down on me.
It's powerful—more than wanted, more than cherished—I feel like a goddess being honored by a devoted believer. It's like I hold the universe in my hands, with him standing in awe of my divinity. Every soft caress whispers of love and reverence, making me feel irreplaceable, radiant, as if the world exists just for me.
Other men had done this to me. Roberto used to do this on my bare back while I slept, so focused on his worshipping that he didn't realize I had woken up and was watching him. I didn't understand this strange nature of a man to worship a woman's body back then. Even now, I'm not sure why they do it. When I did remember to investigate, Eric said he simply wanted to, while others didn't seem to know either. Some were unaware that they were doing it. But my feelings of being worshipped remained the same.
I meet Mr. Silence's gaze, and his presence instantly grips me. His eyes darken, piercing into me, stealing the air from my lungs. A possessiveness, like a raging storm devouring everything in sight, coils around me, burrowing into my soul and clawing its claim deep inside, leaving no part untouched. Consumed and breathless, I gasp as his breath brushes lightly against my skin, inking his name into me. Goosebumps rise, a moan escapes, my heart hammers under the assault of his worship, leaving no place unexplored. All I can do is struggle to breathe.
Then it's over. Too soon, unfortunately. I shouldn't complain. Isn't his name already on every centimeter of me, stamped on by his kiss, even the tips of my toes and the creases in between carrying his marks? He rises, bends, and slides his hands underneath me, peeling me from the leather that clings stubbornly to my skin.
My body's weight is lifted, along with every worry and burden in the world. The lightness of my childhood returns whenever he carries me like this. His steps are secure and steady. I feel like the most precious thing in the world as he cradles me. Completely secure, safe, and protected, I let my head fall back and float onto the bed. Roberto used to make me feel this free.
That's my last thought before time slips away again. Naked and resting on his bare chest after our seventh round of lovemaking, I look up at him, my eyes searching his. "I don't even know your name," I say.
He gently brushes a stray strand of hair from my face. "You call me 'my love.' I like that."
I hesitate, noticing the discomfort in his eyes, not wanting to pressure him. "My love, there are so many things I wish you would tell me. I know we all have secrets and things we might not want or are ready to share. I won't ask or insist that you share them, but maybe in time, you'll choose to confide in me."
His smile, warm and filled with affection envelops me like a cozy embrace.
I shift to a sitting position on the bed beside him. "Can you tell me what you want and need from our relationship?"
"What about you?"
With a sincere smile, I confess, "I just want to be with you." I anxiously wait for his turn now to respond.
He draws me into his arms, and I can feel his entire being relax. When he doesn't answer my questions, I usually don't know why. This time, I understand that he doesn't answer because he already has what he wants and needs from me. His breathing becomes even and slow; he falls asleep.
We fall into a rhythm. Between eating takeout, sleeping, and showering, we can't keep our hands off each other. We roam the room naked, leaving traces of our lovemaking everywhere over the past thirty hours. While he snores, I find inexplicable joy in the disarray of the fully furnished apartment. He makes me happy, even if I'm just a temporary obsession—his fleeting infatuation that I get to live through until he's satisfied, grows bored, and moves on to someone else. Until then, I'll savor these joyous moments with him.