The screen glowed in Isabelle's hand.
Elijah Wolfe.
The name pulsed like a bruise she'd never let fully fade.
She hadn't heard from him in almost five years. Not since she blocked him after finally choosing Nathan—the man who offered her stability, vows, a ring.
Elijah, on the other hand, had only ever offered chaos wrapped in poetry, unfiltered lust, and a maddening kind of attention that made her feel like a goddess and a storm.
Her thumb hesitated.
Then… she opened the message.
> Elijah:
I saw your name on a newsletter for the gallery next week. Couldn't help myself.
Still painting your curves in my mind.
If he's still sleeping on gold, tell him it won't stay buried forever.
No reply needed. Just... felt you.
Her stomach twisted. That old ache. The ache of being seen completely. Too completely.
She set the phone down like it burned.
Nathan was upstairs, humming softly in the shower. After all last night's intensity—after all her words—he was trying. Acting light again. Casual. As if he'd broken through the wall between them.
But now another wall had risen in front of her. And this one had Elijah's voice echoing behind it.
She walked to the kitchen window, needing fresh air, needing distance.
Her hands trembled.
Because the worst part?
She didn't hate the message.
She felt it.
She remembered what it was like with Elijah. No guessing. No fading. He looked at her like her breath held gravity. He undressed her with his pen before ever touching her body.
Their affair had burned too hot. That's why she left. But even now, married and tamed, part of her still smoldered.
She hadn't cheated. But emotionally? She had teetered once—too close. Until Nathan proposed and she made her choice.
Had he ever sensed that history?
Would he sense it now?
She reread the message. "Still painting your curves in my mind." Elijah always had a way of making compliments sound like confessions.
Her phone buzzed again.
> Elijah:
You probably won't reply. But if you ever want to be remembered the way you deserve, you know where to find me.
New studio. Same eyes.
Her breath caught.
Same eyes.
Those eyes had once seen her naked and crying, laughing and wild, weak and worshipped. They didn't ask permission. They drank her in.
Nathan's love was patient.
Elijah's love had been possession.
And here she was again—on the edge between the man who was trying… and the man who never stopped wanting.
The door creaked upstairs.
Nathan came down, freshly showered, towel around his neck, looking unusually relaxed. "Breakfast?" he asked, voice hopeful. "I thought maybe we could—"
"I'm going out," Isabelle said quickly, phone slipping into her pocket like a secret.
"Oh." His face shifted, unreadable. "Errands?"
She nodded. "Something like that."
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You okay?"
"I will be."
She kissed his cheek.
It was the kind of kiss you give someone you're trying not to lie to.
Ten minutes later, she sat in her parked car outside a familiar brick building—the gallery Elijah had mentioned. His old studio space had once been in the alley behind it, filled with giant canvases and even larger emotions.
Her finger hovered over the call button. She didn't press it.
Instead, she typed one line:
> Isabelle:
You don't get to show up and light fires. Not after the ashes I had to sweep away.
But she didn't send that either.
Instead, she typed:
> Isabelle:
What do you want, Elijah?
Delivered. Read. Instantly.
His reply came seconds later:
> Elijah:
The truth?
Just to see if your fire still burns.
But I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to feel the heat again.
Isabelle closed her eyes, head falling back against the seat.
Her pulse was a traitor. So was her memory. So was her curiosity.
She could walk away. Delete him. Re-center on Nathan.
Rebuild what they had almost lost.
But Elijah had touched something that Nathan hadn't in years.
The part of her that wanted to be dangerous. Desired. Devoured.
And Isabelle, for the first time in a long time, wasn't sure if she was the devoted wife anymore…
Or if she was becoming the seductress again.