The days after James’s funeral bled together—a smear of faces, pitying glances, and the hush of a house too large for one. I drifted through hours as if underwater, numb and distant, but when I closed my eyes, memories crashed in, relentless and bright. I couldn’t stop myself from reaching backward, grasping at the origins of our love, hunting for proof that it had ever been real, even as doubt gnawed at the edges.
Five years ago, I met James at a charity gala. The ballroom glittered with white tablecloths and cheap laughter, waiters darting between tables with silver trays and forced smiles. I wore a navy dress that hugged my hips—a dress Sarah picked for me, I realized with a jolt—and clutched my glass as if it might anchor me there. That was when I felt him watching: James Collins, tall and devastating in a midnight suit, his gaze lingering just a beat too long.
He found me on the balcony, away from the swirl of polite conversation. The city below shimmered, restless and infinite, but his attention made the world shrink to the space between us. “You look like you want to disappear,” he said, voice low and teasing. I smiled, nerves fluttering in my stomach. “Maybe I do.”
He offered to drive me home. But as we sat in the dark leather of his car, the city lights sliding over his jaw and cheekbones, I said yes to a drink instead. I barely remembered the ride to the hotel—just the press of anticipation, his fingertips skimming the back of my hand, the unspoken dare in his eyes.
Inside, the lighting was gold and forgiving, shadows pooling in the corners. I stood near the window, heart pounding, uncertain and electric. James came up behind me, his warmth a slow-burning tide. His arms circled my waist, pulling me flush against the hard line of his body. I gasped as his hands slipped under my shirt, calloused palms tracing bare skin. He pressed his lips to my nape, his breath hot and heavy, and I melted against the glass, the city spinning outside but my world reduced to the ache of his touch.
“Let me see you,” he murmured, voice rough. My teeth caught my lower lip—half fear, half hunger. He turned me, his fingers trembling as they undid each button, each undone inch setting me on fire. He pressed me against the cold expanse of window, moonlight spilling over us, painting my skin silver. His kiss was deep, claiming, his hands everywhere at once. I clung to him, dizzy, wanting—needing—to believe this was the beginning of something real.
The memory fractured, giving way to another night—weeks later, after an endless evening hunched over laptops and coffee cups, drafting an event proposal. My apartment was a mess of blueprints and pens. James stretched behind me, his tie askew, exhaustion darkening his eyes but desire burning hotter. He leaned close, lips brushing my ear. “Tonight,” he whispered, “I want you, too.”
I barely had time to shiver before he caught me up, fingers threading in my hair. He lifted me onto the desk with a strength that left me breathless. My shirt buttons scattered like coins, his mouth finding mine in frantic, shattering kisses. His hands were everywhere, rough then gentle, making my skin sing. I tried to stifle my moans, afraid of the neighbors, but he silenced me with his mouth, swallowing every sound, every plea. Outside, the city glowed neon, indifferent; inside, we burned—wild, unrestrained, desperate to consume each other. I gave him everything. He took it as if it was his due.
Another night: the backseat of his car, after an event. The windows fogged, our breaths painting the glass in frantic bursts. My dress gathered at my waist, his hands strong and certain, mouth trailing fire along my throat. His suit jacket was lost somewhere, tie discarded. He pressed me down, his weight a promise, his lips finding the softest part of my shoulder. I moaned, tears slipping down my cheek—overwhelmed, undone, loving him with a wildness that bordered on pain.
He slowed, brushing damp hair from my face. "Look at me," he ordered, his voice like velvet and steel. I obeyed, heart pounding, lost in the blue of his gaze—so sure, so certain. "You’re mine, Emily," he said, and for one dizzy, perfect moment, I believed it. I believed I could be enough.
But as I lay alone now, the taste of those nights sharp as glass in my mouth, I wondered: Had it all been a lie? My fingers curled around the edge of our wedding photo. My reflection stared back, hollow-eyed and lost. Somewhere in the distance, a storm rumbled—a promise of truths still hidden, waiting to break over me.
I closed my eyes, grief and suspicion warring inside me. The past shimmered, seductive and cruel, as I braced myself for what I might uncover next.
