Isabella’s expression hardened at Samuel’s plea, her usual composure replaced by an icy resolve.
"No!" she snapped, her voice firm and unyielding. "If my husband finds you in the house, it will cause unnecessary trouble. I’ll take you to a hotel."
Without hesitation, she stepped back into the villa, grabbed her coat and draped it over Samuel’s shoulders. She tossed him the car keys, her tone leaving no room for argument.
"Wait for me in the car."
Handing him the umbrella, she turned to head inside. The quick efficiency of her movements betrayed her nerves as she went upstairs to change her clothes. Before leaving, she entered the bedroom to turn off the lights, her hand hovering over the switch.
“Don’t turn off the lights," my voice broke the silence, cutting through the dim room.
Isabella froze, her hand suspended mid-air. Slowly, she turned to face me, her smile shaky and forced.
"Darling," she said, her tone light but strained, "when did you wake up?"
Feigning grogginess, I propped myself up slightly.
"What are you standing there for, my dear? Come to bed."
My gaze dropped to her attire, catching the subtle change. My brow furrowed.
"Didn’t you have your pajamas on just now? Are you going somewhere?"
Her reply came quickly, almost too quickly. "No, I just tried on what I planned to wear tomorrow. I’ll go to bed now."
She urged me to sleep first, but I shook my head, insistent that I watch her join me. Isabella hesitated but relented, returning to her pajamas and slipping into bed beside me.
"Darling," she murmured, pulling me close, "I’ll hold you while you sleep."
I closed my eyes, her familiar warmth enveloping me. But my mind was elsewhere, replaying the scene from earlier—Samuel’s lips on hers, her body frozen but unresisting.
Samuel, the male secretary, had worked for Isabella for two years. Until now, I had never doubted her. After our marriage, Isabella had insisted on hiring only female assistants, ensuring that no man could intrude on her professional or personal space.
But Samuel’s entry into her life had been... unconventional. I remembered that day vividly. I had come to her office to surprise her with fruit, only to find Samuel being rejected during his interview. He had collapsed to the floor in despair, his desperation palpable.
"Please, Madam Waterlow," he had begged, his voice raw, "if I don’t get this job, I’ll die!"
Isabella had remained cold and indifferent, unmoved by his pleas. But Samuel had escalated his desperation, running to the rooftop and shouting his ultimatum.
"Madam Waterlow!" he had cried, his voice echoing through the city. "I met all the requirements! Why am I being rejected just because I’m a man? I won’t accept this! If you don’t hire me, I’ll jump right now!"
Fearing the damage this spectacle could cause to the company’s reputation, I had urged Isabella to hire him. "Just give him a position," I had said. "Have him assist someone else. Keep him out of your way."
For a time, Isabella treated him with the same coldness, keeping their interactions strictly professional. So when had this connection begun?
Now, as she lay beside me, I felt the tension between us like a chasm. She shifted restlessly, her hand attempting to slip away from mine, but I tightened my grip.
After a long silence, I heard her sigh softly. The faint glow of her phone lit up her face as she began typing a message. I squinted, catching the words she sent to her assistant.
[Samuel is in my car. Take him to the hotel. I can’t leave right now.]
The assistant’s reply came swiftly and Isabella visibly relaxed, setting her phone aside. She leaned back into me, her hand gently resting on my chest as though trying to dispel the unease in the air.
By morning, I rose and prepared for work, my thoughts heavy with questions. When I arrived at the office, the atmosphere was noticeably off. Something had shifted, an unspoken tension lingering in the air.
Samuel had made a scene. His disheveled appearance caught everyone’s attention. His eyes were red and swollen, his posture slouched with exhaustion.
Colleagues surrounded him, their tones a mix of teasing and concern.
"Hey, Sam," one quipped, "did you fight with your girlfriend? Those bags under your eyes are giving you away."
Another chimed in, "Yeah, did she have her way with you? Toss you around all night, huh?"
Someone scoffed, trying to defend him. "Cut it out. Can’t you see Sam’s in a bad mood? His girlfriend probably mistreated him. Women, I tell you—they’re all trouble."
At that moment, I entered, Isabella following closely behind me. The room fell into a hush as Samuel’s puffy eyes locked onto hers. His lips twisted into a bitter smile.
"You’re right," he said loudly, his voice dripping with venom. "Women are trouble. They’re all liars."
His pointed words were ambiguous, yet unmistakably aimed at Isabella. With exaggerated gall, he leaned closer to the female assistant, whispering something that made her giggle nervously, all while stealing glances at Isabella.
I watched as Isabella stiffened beside me, her composure cracking ever so slightly.
