Even after I turned off the water and dried myself, I didn’t feel clean—just exhausted and hollow. The fire in my chest hadn’t gone out. The guilt clung, too deep for even the hottest water to scour away.
It was absurd to just walk back into the bedroom and pretend nothing had happened. As if Carter wasn’t lying there unaware while I’d been with another man. As if the weight of this night didn’t now stand between us like an invisible wall. My throat tightened. My feet moved almost on their own as I walked down the hall—away from our bed, away from the lie I’d created tonight.
In the living room, I pulled a blanket over myself and sank onto the couch. I couldn’t climb into our bed, couldn’t lie beside him and pretend I was the same woman I’d been yesterday.
Because I wasn’t.
I stared into the darkness, but it offered no answers. Only the relentless echo of the past hours, the weight of my own choices, the tearing conflict between what I'd experienced and what I'd built.
As the pale morning light slowly seeped through the curtains, I blinked, still caught between past and present. My body felt heavy, as if the guilt was pressing me deeper into the couch.
Then I heard it.
"Fiona?"
Carter's voice was soft, sleep-roughened, full of familiarity. It took me a moment to anchor myself back in reality, to remember where I was. The night came crashing back—the scalding water on my skin, the desperate attempt to wash Alessandro off me. But nothing could rinse him away.
Carter stepped closer, sinking onto the edge of the sofa and brushing a gentle hand over my shoulder. His affectionate smile hit me like a punch. I swallowed hard.
He knew nothing. Nothing of the lie between us, nothing ofthe marks another man had left on my skin. And as his eyes scanned me with all the tenderness he'd ever shown me, I knew I could never look at him the same way again, as if nothing had happened.
"Hey, sleepyhead," he murmured, kissing my forehead. His gaze was warm, full of love, and I had to force a smile to keep my discomfort from showing.
"Sorry," I mumbled, sitting up and pressing my fingers to my temples. "I think I overdid it last night."
He chuckled softly. "That’s what happens when you go out with Rachel." His hand trailed over my back, and the gentle caress felt like a betrayal of every cell in my body—unbearable, almost painful, because I knew what I was hiding from him.
"Yeah… a few too many drinks," I added quickly, avoiding his eyes. "I think I’ll stay here a little longer this morning. Maybe go into the office later."
"Don’t worry, take your time." He stood and headed to the kitchen, and soon the familiar scent of coffee filled the apartment. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and tried to ease the weight on my chest, but every thought that returned only deepened the guilt.
A moment later, Carter came back with a cup of coffee, set it on the table in front of me, and sat beside me. He reached out, cupped my chin, and gently turned my face toward his. "You’re still beautiful," he said with a smile, brushing his thumb over my cheek.
The compliment struck like a blow, and I forced myself to smile back. "Thanks," I whispered, my heart twisting at the thought that he had no idea how deeply I’d betrayed him last night.
"Call me if you need anything," he said before standing and heading for the door. "And don’t let Rachel talk you into so many drinks next time." He grinned, his face bright with genuine affection, and I barely managed a weak smile in return. He gaveme one last warm look and quietly closed the door behind him.
The moment the front door clicked shut, I let the mask drop. I sat in the silence of the living room, which roared in my ears like an accusation. Carter’s touch, his kind words, the soft smile on his lips—they all stabbed into my heart like knives. He had no idea what I’d done last night, how I’d crossed the line between us and plunged into a world so intense, so consuming, it had devoured me whole.
The apartment suddenly felt unbearably quiet, and the familiar scent of Carter’s coffee only made the suffocating guilt worse. I knew I’d betrayed him—but I’d also betrayed myself.
I reached for my phone on the coffee table and unlocked the screen. A series of missed calls and messages flashed up—all from him. My pulse quickened, and against my will, a shiver ran through me, proof that his hold on me hadn’t faded.
I opened the first message and read:
"Where are you?"
Just three words. No explanations, no pleas. Just a blunt, unadorned demand for an answer. My pulse quickened as my thumb scrolled down. A second message, nearly an hour later:
"Don't even think about ignoring me."
My stomach twisted. My finger hovered over the last message—sent barely twenty minutes ago. Another jolt shot through me, leaving me trembling inside.
"No matter how far you run—you won’t escape me."
For a moment, I clutched the phone, my gaze locked on those final words as they seared into my thoughts. He was right—I couldn’t just disappear, not after last night. It hadn’t been some reckless mistake, some drunken slip that lost meaning in the harsh light of day. It had been a storm, unstoppable and all-consuming—and I had surrendered to it. Completely.
I closed the messages and took a deep breath, but the ache in my chest remained. My muscles tensed, as if he still had a holdon me even now, every memory of him a quiet pull, dragging me back toward him. Every part of me screamed to reply. One word, one reaction—just the certainty that what had happened between us wasn’t over.
