She wouldn't whisper for attention anymore. She'd make him crave her.
Isabelle didn't cook often anymore—Nathan usually beat her to ordering takeout or zapped leftovers into something edible. But tonight, she cooked. Slowly. Sensually. Purposefully.
The scent of garlic butter and rosemary lingered in the air, thick and warm. Candles flickered on the kitchen counter, not for light but for mood. Every detail was intentional. The music playing in the background was subtle jazz—just enough rhythm to thrum beneath the silence.
She had changed out of her usual soft cotton loungewear.
Tonight, she wore a dress she hadn't dared wear since before their wedding. Silk. Black. Plunging in the back. It clung to her like a secret, whispering across her curves with every breath. No bra. No panties. Just her—bare, bold, and pulsing with quiet determination.
She caught her reflection in the oven's glass door and smirked.
This wasn't for him.
This was for her.
When she heard his keys in the lock, she didn't rush to greet him. She kept stirring, the slow drag of the spoon across the pan echoing through the dimly lit room.
Nathan stepped in, briefcase slung over his shoulder, the stress of the day still stitched into his brow. He paused in the entryway, surprised.
The scent. The light. The music.
And then—her.
"Wow," he said, dropping his bag more gently than usual. "What's all this?"
Isabelle turned to him, meeting his eyes for the first time in what felt like weeks. "Dinner," she said, voice soft but steady. "And me."
Nathan blinked, gaze drifting over her—slower now. Confused, but undeniably drawn in.
"You look…" He cleared his throat. "You look amazing."
She smiled. "I know."
He chuckled under his breath. "Did I forget something? Our anniversary's not until—"
She walked over to him, heels clicking like punctuation. She took the briefcase from his hand and set it down.
"No," she murmured, brushing her fingers lightly across his chest. "No occasion. Just a woman reminding her husband what he used to lose sleep over."
His breath hitched.
Her hands moved with elegant ease—loosening his tie, unbuttoning the top of his shirt. Her eyes never left his.
He tried to speak. "I—Issa, I've had a long day. Can we just—"
She pressed a finger to his lips. "So have I," she said, voice dipped in heat. "Longer than you think. Tired of waiting. Of feeling invisible."
Nathan looked at her then—really looked. The hurt in her eyes was real, but so was the challenge. The hunger. The power.
"I miss us," she whispered. "But I'm not here to beg you to remember me. I'm here to make sure you never forget."
She guided him to the dining table, where two plates were already waiting. Wine breathed in the glass. Soft music danced in the air between them. She sat across from him, crossing her legs slowly, letting the silk part just enough to catch his eye.
For the first ten minutes, they ate in silence.
But his eyes never left her.
They darkened. Traveled. Studied.
By the time he reached for his wine, his hands were slightly trembling.
"You planned this?" he asked, voice low.
"I planned to stop being passive," she said plainly. "I've been patient, Nathan. Loving. Quiet. But I won't shrink myself to fit inside your shadow anymore."
She leaned forward, placing her hand gently on his. "I want my husband. The man who used to tear off my clothes in the hallway. The one who couldn't wait to undress me with his mouth."
Nathan exhaled—sharp, restrained.
"Issa…"
"I'm not asking," she said, eyes narrowing with playfulness and power. "I'm offering. One night. All of me. But only if you're man enough to take what's yours."
A pause. Heavy. Hot.
Then, something flickered in him.
Desire. Memory. Possession.
He stood.
So did she.
When he kissed her, it wasn't soft. It wasn't slow.
It was the kind of kiss that reminded her of who she was before the silence. Before the distance. Before she became background noise.
And as he lifted her onto the dining table—plates clattering, wine spilling—Isabelle closed her eyes and smiled.
He remembered.