Lost in the labyrinth of my thoughts, I am caught off guard as his powerful, sheltering arms encircle me from behind. I attempt to turn my head toward him, but his hands compel my body to face him instead. His lips crash into mine with a desperate urgency, as though our lives depend on the passionate exchange. We collapse onto the sofa in a storm of passion and longing. He yanks my dress up and claims me, our clothes clinging to our fevered skin. His arms lock around me like iron bands while his ragged breath scorching my hair. The spicy amber of his cologne blends with the crisp freshness of dry-cleaned shirt, creating a heady, intoxicating scent.
For the first time in almost a year together, I recognize the source of the intensity that always seems to mix with the overwhelming emotions he stirs in me. The truth hits like a blow: when he touches me, my body ceases to be mine. Every nerve answers to him, my moans escaping without permission, my control slipping under the weight of his rough, relentless need. I bite my lip hard, the sharp tang of blood mingling with the rush of pleasure coursing through me. My mind screams for me to stop him, to regain control, but my body betrays me, yielding to his every command, driven by his desire.
Tears well in my eyes as he pushes me to the edge and beyond, his climax triggering a wave of unbearable ecstasy that grips my body tight, my insides clenching around him. The pleasure shatters me, leaving a bitter aftertaste of betrayal. How can I feel this way? How can my body betray me like this?
A torrent of questions floods my mind, each one sharper than the last. How could I have been so blind? Has he always known what he does to me, deliberately denying me the chance to understand it? Has he trained my body to respond to him this way, molding me to his touch? Did he plan this from the start? Oh god, was it me? Have I conditioned myself for this?
His hug tightens, and his lips leave a trail of kisses along my neck, reaching the dampness of my cheek. He pauses, his warm breath lingering against my skin. "What's wrong?" he asks, his voice heavy with concern, breaking through the storm in my mind. His eyes lock onto mine, searching, probing for the truth in the silence hanging between us.
"I found lipstick on your collar. Do you have—" The words tumble out before I can stop them, but I freeze as his expression shifts. The warmth in his gaze hardens, his eyes darkening into something cold and unyielding, like a frozen abyss.
He pulls away from me, standing without a word as he zips his pants. The distance between us feels physical, a chasm I can't cross. My heart splinters, tears welling in my eyes while my mind spirals into nightmarish possibilities. Desperate to hold onto reason, I swallow back my feelings and silence the racing thoughts.
Mohamad hears it first in her breathing. The break in it. The choke she tries to swallow. Then the words. Lipstick. His jaw tightens. Lipstick. Nonsense. Utter nonsense.
She watched him take another woman. Calm. Quiet. No accusation. No tears. She wiped his hand as if nothing mattered. As if he meant nothing. And now—this. Crying over lipstick. Right after they've just—
His fingers curl slowly at his side. What kind of logic is that? What does she want from him? He's given her everything she asked for—space, freedom, no demands, no restrictions. No cage. He did exactly what she wanted. And still—this. The sound of her breath breaks again. Softer this time. Fragile.
Something inside him pulls tight. Sharp. Unwelcome. He ignores it.
This is irrational. She's irrational. She can't be jealous. She's not capable of it. She made that clear. Again and again. She doesn't demand. Doesn't claim. Doesn't fight him. That's what she is. So what is this?
His irritation rises, hot and directionless. Why is she crying? He doesn't understand. There's nothing to fix. Nothing he did. Nothing that should matter. It's lipstick. Meaningless. Trivial. Irrelevant.
But the sound of her trying to breathe through tears cuts into him again. Disruptive. Wrong. He wants it to stop. Needs it to stop. The noise fills the room, fills his head, presses against something he refuses to examine.
His jaw tightens harder.
Why is she like this? If she wanted something—she should say it. If she's angry—she should accuse him. If she's hurt—she should explain. Something he can answer. Something he can solve.
This—he can't solve. That frustrates him more. What does she want from him? He's already given her enough. More than enough.
And still she cries. His chest tightens once—brief, almost painful—before he forces it down. Annoyance. Just annoyance. Nothing else. Why doesn't she stop? Why can't she stop? He stares at her, expression hardening, anger settling where something else threatens to surface. He doesn't understand her. And the fact that he can't—infuriates him.
Without a glance in my direction, he strides into the kitchen and takes a seat at the prepared dinner table. His casual movements cut through me like a blade, while I gasp for air, struggling to steady my trembling hands. My eyes drift down to the ivory dress clinging to my body, the faint stain of his passion visible against the fabric. The pain in my chest tightens, pushing tears to the surface, but I wipe them away with steely resolve and brace myself.
I join him at the table. He's composed and indifferent, meticulously dissecting the fish on his plate with the same refined precision he always exudes. My heart plummets further, the abyss inside me growing darker with each moment of his detached grace. I take my seat and force myself to eat, the silence between us thick and suffocating. I try not to feel. I try not to think.
But when I dare to glance up at him, the breath catches in my throat. His eyes blaze with fury, the intensity behind them burning into me, even as his movements remain controlled, almost nonchalant as he chews. The tears I've been holding back spill over, landing in unwelcome splashes on my plate. I push my chair back to leave, unable to bear the weight of it all. I push my chair back to leave.
"Sit down!" His voice explodes, booming with a force I've never heard from him before. The air in the room crackles with tension, and I freeze.
Through the relentless torrent of tears, I meet his gaze, my chest heaving with unspoken pain. The room seems to hold its breath until the sharp metallic clang of his knife and fork cuts through the silence. He flings them across the room with explosive force, the sound reverberating.
Before I can react, he storms toward me, his hands gripping my arms with a desperation that sends a shiver down my spine. His eyes burn into mine as he growls, "What do you want from me, Ace? Isn't this what you wanted?" The vehemence in his voice shakes me, revealing a side of him I never thought existed—raw, unrestrained, and furious.
I'm shaking.
Then, as if a switch flips, he composes himself, his stoic face returns. His hands release me, and he adjusts his tie with precision, smoothing the fabric of his suit as though trying to erase the cracks in his façade. He turns and strides back to his seat, reclaiming it with unnerving nonchalance. "Get me some silverware," he demands, sinking back into his chair with the familiar refined grace I had grown to admire.
Yet, for the first time, his gentlemanly demeanor feels like a cruel reminder of my insignificance to him. My mind howls in protest, but my body, as if on autopilot, obeys his command. I fetch the silverware and place it next to him. His hand outstretches, his eyes shooting daggers at me. Despite my mind's screams and the torrent of tears, I unfurl the knife and fork from the folded napkin, placing them shakenly onto his hands. Unperturbed, he carries on with his meal. I remain rooted to the spot, immobile.
"I said sit down," he growls.
My enslaved body complies with his demand. He focuses back on his plate, cutting into a carrot with the same precision he uses to control everything around him. Seated there, in his Armani three-piece brown suit and black silk tie, he looks like a figure torn from the pages of Vogue. Flawless. Immaculate. Unreachable.
In that moment, I understand why I've never feared him—not his outbursts, not his commands, not even his anger. His demon is nonexistent compared to mine. I am the scariest person I know. The things he could ever do to me pale in comparison to what I'd do for him—or because of him. Wasn't it the same with Roberto?
I'm failing him. The shaking needs to stop. I have to look away from my greatest failure. Shutting my eyes, I turn, only to catch sight of the fork lying on its side. The silver glimmers against the ivory marble floor. Isn't this what I've wanted all along? To confront my greatest failure?
"Look at me," he commands.
Compelled by a force beyond my control, my eyes snap to his, locking onto his blazing gaze. Tears streak my face, betraying my anguish.
"Tell me what you want," he insists, his tone deceptively calm, though the tempest raging within him is unmistakable.
The words leave him — and immediately something tightens in his chest. What if she answers? What if she says she wants freedom. Space. Other men. Other lovers. The life she claimed was natural to her. His jaw hardens.
No. He wouldn't allow that. Not now. Not after— His thoughts cut off before they form. This is irrational. He's reacting to something she hasn't even said. Control. He reins it in.
Still — the possibility lingers. Is that what this is? A prelude. A negotiation. The lipstick — an excuse. A setup. She cries, he yields, she asks. Logical. Strategic. Consistent with her.
His gaze sharpens slightly. No. That doesn't fit either. She doesn't manipulate like that. She doesn't demand. She retreats. That's worse.
His irritation rises, masking the unease creeping in beneath it. Why is she this way?
If she wants something, she should say it. Clearly. Directly. Something definable. Containable. But this — tears, silence, confusion — offers nothing he can counter. Nothing he can control.
His chest tightens again. He ignores it. He shouldn't have asked. The question creates variables. He doesn't want variables. He wants this contained. Closed. Finished.
This needs to stop.
Now.
My mind screams the answers: What do you want from me? Why won't you talk to me? Tell me how you feel! Reveal the truth! Stop exploiting your control over me! Bare your soul to me! Leave me because I don't know how to leave you! I can't bear this surrender of my body any longer! I don't even know how I feel about you anymore because—
"Tell me what you want," he insists, his tone deceptively casual in contrast to the tempest brewing within.
"Say it!" he snaps, jolting me from the chaos of my thoughts.
I swallow hard, trembling. "I'm—"
No. Not that. He needs to stop her before—
"You don't think I know what you are?" His dark, foreboding eyes lock onto mine as he lifts the knife and fork. With the grace of a man accustomed to control, he aligns them neatly across the plate, signaling the end of his meal. His breath grows heavier, nostrils flaring as the tension between us thickens.
I've never seen him so incensed. The murderous rage in his stormy eyes leave me paralyzed, unable to utter another word. I avert my eyes.
"So what if I have another woman?" His iron grip clamps down on my arms as he hoists me from my chair, the venom in his words seething against my face.
His gaze cuts through me, sharp and lethal, as though he's peeling back every layer of my being.
Reason returns to me. "Does she know about me? Are you in love with her? My love, I'm poly—"
"Shut up!" he roars, spinning away from me, panic seizing his features.
He clutches the dinner table, his knuckles turning ghostly white, his breaths uneven and shallow. Then, he strides toward the bedroom.
Bewildered by his abrupt shift from fury to panic, I hasten after him. "My love—" I reach for his arm, but he jerks it out of reach.
Spinning around, his wide, blinking eyes and trembling expression stop me cold. His face—a mask of terror—feels foreign on the man who usually exudes unshakable composure.
"I knew all along. If you hadn't said it... if you never brought it up..." His voice falters, a frown deepening the lines of his face as pain etches itself across his features.
My heart races, panic surging through me as my mind echoes: What have I done?
"My love, we can—"
He silences me with a raised hand. Snatching his keys from the living room stand, he walks to the door without a backward glance. And then, he's gone.