Richard's POV
"He wanted her. But silence had become their language".
The living room was dark, lit only by the dim glow of his laptop. Legal briefs lay scattered across the coffee table beside a cup of cold coffee he'd forgotten to drink. Richard sat hunched forward, pen tapping against the page, mind restless.
Then he heard it—the soft click of the front door closing.
Isabella.
He didn't turn around.
Not because he didn't care.
But because he did—more than she probably knew.
He just never knew how to show it.
She walked slowly through the hallway with quiet steps. Careful. Like always. As if her presence might disturb him.
She said something about meetings. Her voice soft. Maybe tired.
He didn't look up. Just muttered, "Hmm."
And just like that, another chance passed by.
They hadn't had a real conversation in weeks. Probably months.
Their marriage was never built on love. It was an arrangement—names and families stitched together for legacy and appearances. A smart match, they all said. Respectable. Ideal.
They were the perfect couple on the outside.
But behind the walls, they were hollow.
They had slept together once. Drunk. Awkward. It never happened again.
Intimacy just… never found space between them. Not through words. Not through touch.
But still… sometimes, in the middle of the night, when his mind drifted away from his work, Richard would look at her and ache—feel a hunger so sharp it stunned him.
Those skirts she wore, hugging her hips. The way her red-streaked hair caught the light when she walked by. The way her blouse pulled just enough to show the curve of her chest when she stretched.
She had no idea what she did to him.
God, I want her, he thought.
I want to fuck her. Badly.
But he never reached out. Never made a move.
Not because he didn't want to—but because he was sure she didn't.
Because deep down, he didn't think she ever wanted him back. Not in that way. Maybe she never had. Their marriage was arranged, not chosen. She was beautiful, and he… was always elsewhere.
Always in court. On planes. In meetings.
He told himself it was work.
But the truth was—he had never made her feel wanted.
And every time he passed her now, she felt further away.
That night, he saw her again in the bedroom.
She was wrapped in a towel, still damp from the shower. Steam curled behind her like a shadow. Her cheeks were flushed, her chest rising and falling gently. Her wet hair clung to her neck, her collarbone, her breasts.
For one long moment, he almost stopped.
Almost touched her. Almost whispered her name. Almost pulled her into his arms and tore that towel away.
But he didn't.
He looked straight past her and said, "Have you seen the blue file?"
She answered quietly. Flat.
And he walked away.
Behind him, the woman he once could've loved stood perfectly still—unseen, untouched.
Later That Night
It was past midnight when he came back to the bedroom to grab his suitcase for his flight.
The light was off, but the moonlight through the window lit the room in silver.
The room smelled faintly of shampoo and warm skin.
Isabella was asleep.
She was still lying on the bed, still in her towel. It had loosened as she slept, twisted around her body. It had slipped open slightly, revealing one of her breasts—the curves so perfect. A pale thigh was exposed beneath the soft folds. Her nipple—pink, delicate—peeking into the moonlight.
The soft part of her inner thigh.
He froze in the doorway.
She looked… God, she looked like something from a dream. Like something precious he hadn't touched in years.
Vulnerable. Soft. Glowing in the moonlight.
And for a moment, something inside him snapped loose.
He walked to her quietly. Sat beside her on the edge of the bed.
She didn't stir.
He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Gentle. Long.
Then his eyes drifted lower. To her lips. Her chest. The soft rise and fall of her breathing. That towel barely covering her.
I could have her right now, he thought.
Just slip the towel away. Press into her. Finally feel what he'd been aching to feel for years.
His hand trembled.
He didn't wake her.
But he did what he hadn't done in years—he leaned down and kissed her breast. Just once. Slow. Soft. His lips lingered there, breathing her in.
She shifted slightly but didn't wake.
And then… he covered her with the blanket.
Tucked it gently around her body. Brushed her hair back from her face.
And walked out—quietly locking the door behind him.
Without saying a word...