"Isabella's POV":-
The house was too quiet when Isabella walked in.
Not the comforting kind of quiet—but the kind that presses against your skin like something's off. Like you just stepped into a scene already halfway to breaking.
She closed the door gently behind her, heels clicking softly on the polished floor. Maybe if she moved quietly enough, Richard wouldn't notice how late she was.
But of course, there he was.
Sunk into the couch like part of the furniture, surrounded by paperwork and legal pads, the glow of his laptop throwing a pale cast over his face. His glasses were crooked, half-off his nose, and he didn't even look up.
"You're home," she said, voice calm, placing her bag on the entryway table.
He didn't look up. Just nodded absently, scribbling something in the margin of a page.
"I got held up with meetings," she offered, hoping for… anything.
Another distracted grunt. "Hmmmm." That was the only response from him.
No "How was your day?"
No "You look exhausted."
Not even a glance.
(Isabella's thoughts)
Why did I even bother? He doesn't care.
She stood there a moment longer, then turned and walked upstairs. The weight of another silent evening pressed down on her shoulders like a damp coat. Her throat tightened, her heart heavier than she could admit.
She was tired—mentally, physically. The kind of tired that made everything feel slow, heavy, muted. Like she hadn't taken a full breath in days.
The day had settled on her like a second skin—heavy, clingy, refusing to let go. Everything felt frayed at the edges.
She needed release. Escape.
Without thinking too much, she decided to take a bath. Not just to unwind, but to clear her head. To let the steam and silence soothe the storm inside her.
She undressed slowly, without thought, letting each piece of clothing slide off her like layers she no longer wanted to carry. The air touched her bare skin—cool and quiet. As she moved toward the bathroom, her eyes caught on the mirror, and she stopped.
There she was.
Still. Silent. Bare.
Her gaze wandered over the familiar yet distant figure staring back at her. She lifted a hand, fingers brushing the hollow of her neck, skimming down the dip of her waist. Her skin was soft. Still beautiful.
Her body was a masterpiece—forgotten. Neglected. Revered in silence.
Her lips parted, and the words came out softer than breath.
"This body… it's started to feel like a statue in a museum. Beautiful—but untouched. Untouchable."
She didn't know if the ache in her chest came from longing or from loss.
She stepped into the shower and turned the water hot.
It poured over her skin, drawing a long, slow breath from her lips. Steam rose around her in heavy clouds, wrapping her in warmth, softening the sharp edges inside her.
She tilted her head back and closed her eyes, letting the heat melt through the tension clinging to her bones. The water flowed over her face, down her neck, over her chest.
For a while, she allowed herself silence.
For a moment, it worked.
Her shoulders relaxed. Her thoughts slowed.
But silence never lasted long.
Her mind began to wander… and stopped right where it always did lately.
Uninvited, unrelenting—he returned.
Evan.
His smirk still lingered in her mind.
Just remembering his name sent a shiver through her.
He was a student. Younger.
A perfect body. Sexy eyes.
Off-limits in every possible way.
Too hot.
He wasn't supposed to matter. Wasn't even supposed to register.
But ever since that parent-teacher meeting, he had lingered in her mind like a whisper she couldn't shake. There had only been a few words exchanged. His voice—low, calm. Too calm. His eyes—watching her just a second too long.
Something about him had grabbed her before she even realized she'd been pulled.
And now…
She remembered how his gaze had held hers.
How his lips curved like he was keeping a secret—one meant for her.
Her breath slowed again, heavier now.
Her chest tightened—not with stress, but something else. Something lower. Deeper.
She bit her lip. Her thighs pressed together without thought.
Her hand slid slowly down over her stomach, fingers grazing the edge of heat building deep inside her.
Her fingers moved lower. Slower.
The warm water made her skin feel awake—alive. Every nerve responded, eager at the slightest touch.
She let out a soft sound, breathy and surprised at how quickly the feeling bloomed inside her.
Her other hand moved up, cupping her round breast.
Her thumb brushed gently over her nipple—pink and tender beneath her touch.
Her head tilted back again. Her lips parted. Eyes closed.
The scent of her shampoo made her think of him—like he was there, touching her.
The way he might touch her… not rushed. Not shy. Just intentional.
Her hips shifted, responding to her own rhythm, her breath coming faster, deeper.
The heat inside her unfurled like fire licking at her skin from the inside out.
It grew—sharp, focused—centered low in her belly. Her fingers moved in slow, urgent circles, lost in rhythm, in want, in him.
This is wrong, a voice whispered faintly.
He's a student. You're his lecturer and also married.
But that voice was far away.
All that existed now was the steam. The ache.
Her body alive in a way it hadn't been in a long, long time.
And behind her eyelids, Evan's eyes were still watching her—like he knew.
Her fingers slowly moved inside her—deeper.
She started slow… then faster. Her breath turned heavy, sharp.
She was close.
About to explode—
Then—
"Isabella?"
"Isabella?"
Richard's voice cut through the moment like cold air.
She froze.
Her eyes flew open.
Heart thudding.
Body stiff. The spell shattered in an instant.
What am I doing?
She removed her fingers from between her legs, yanking her hand back like she'd been burned.
Her breath shook. Her chest was tight.
She reached for the tap and turned off the water too fast. The knobs clicked hard. The water vanished in an instant, leaving only silence.
"I'm taking a shower," she called out, trying to make her voice sound steady. "Just give me a minute."
She stood there, still wrapped in steam and guilt.
Then she stepped out, dripping, grabbing a towel and pulling it tightly around her.
It covered her breasts. Her thighs. But not the truth written across her skin.
Her cheeks were flushed. Her pulse hadn't settled.
Her wet hair clung to her chest like silk. A vision of hunger. Of need. A goddess of lust.
She didn't know if it was the heat… or everything else.
But—
Richard passed her without a glance, already halfway out of his shirt like she wasn't even there.
He was looking for something.
"Have you seen the blue file?" he asked.
"You kept it in the locker yesterday," she replied, voice flat.
He said, "Thanks," grabbed the file, and left.
She didn't move. Didn't speak.
She was breaking.
She wanted him to see her.
Touch her.
Fuck her.
But he didn't care.
She stood there, bare feet on cold tile, as the last steam faded from the mirror.
She thought about her life.
Then let herself fall onto the bed—still wrapped in the towel.
She didn't dress.
She didn't even dry off.
She fell onto the sheets and closed her eyes, the ache in her chest heavier than ever.
Sleep came—not as comfort, but escape.