Sharon Countbell understood the fragility of a man's hunger. Desire was not simply physical; it was a raw need to be seen, to be understood, to be forgiven.
And Arga Bridgman, for all his polished suits and inherited empire, had never hungered more in his life.
She could see it in his eyes when he looked at her now — as if she were both salvation and poison.
So she decided to give him what he craved most. Not absolution. Not forgiveness.
An illusion.
***
It came on a Thursday night. Arga was in his office, glass of whiskey trembling in his hand, when his phone buzzed.
Her name lit up the screen.
For a moment he thought it was a hallucination. But no — the call was real.
"Sharon," he breathed when he answered.
Her voice was calm, measured. "Meet me. Tonight."
He stood instantly, heart racing. "Where?"
"My place. Midnight. Don't be late."
The line went dead.
***
Arga arrived early. Too early. He sat in his car outside her building, his pulse hammering, his palms damp. He rehearsed words in his head — apologies, confessions, declarations — none of them sounding right.
Finally, at midnight, he rode the elevator to her floor. The door opened to reveal Sharon herself, barefoot, wrapped in a silk robe the color of ivory. Her hair was loose, cascading over her shoulders.
For a moment, Arga couldn't breathe.
"Come in," she said softly.
***
She poured him a glass of deep red wine, leading him into the living room where candles flickered against the walls. The room smelled faintly of jasmine.
He accepted the glass with trembling hands.
"Why am I here?" he asked hoarsely.
Sharon smiled faintly, settling onto the couch. "Because I wanted to see what you'd do."
He sat opposite her, every muscle taut. "You're torturing me."
Her eyes gleamed. "Am I?"
"Yes." His voice cracked. "You haunt me. Every night. Every hour. I can't—" He broke off, pressing a hand against his face.
Sharon leaned forward slightly, her voice low. "And yet, here you are."
***
The silence between them stretched. Finally, Sharon rose and crossed the room, standing just behind him. He felt the warmth of her presence, the faint brush of her robe against his shoulder.
His breath caught.
She leaned down, her lips almost grazing his ear. "Do you want me to forgive you, Arga?"
"Yes," he whispered. "God, yes."
Her hand rested lightly on his shoulder. "Do you want me to want you?"
He closed his eyes, his entire body trembling. "More than anything."
Her fingers trailed down his arm, feather-light, sending shivers through him. He turned slightly, desperate to catch her hand, but she pulled away before he could.
When he looked up, she was standing across the room again, her expression unreadable.
***
"You think this is desire," Sharon said coolly. "But it's not. It's guilt dressed in silk. You don't want me. You want to erase what you did to me."
Arga shook his head, desperate. "No. It's more than that."
"Is it?" She tilted her head. "When you close your eyes, do you see me as I am now? Or do you see the girl you broke?"
He flinched. The answer was in his silence.
Her voice softened, but it cut sharper than any blade. "You'll never escape her, Arga. She'll follow you into every mirror, every shadow. You destroyed her once. And now, she is destroying you."
Tears stung his eyes, though he fought them. "Please…" he whispered. "Please, Sharon."
She regarded him quietly, then turned away.
"Go home," she said. "You're not ready yet."
***
Arga left her penthouse in a daze, stumbling into the night like a man struck blind. He drove aimlessly, headlights cutting through the darkness, tears blurring his vision.
At a red light, he pressed his forehead against the steering wheel, his chest heaving. He hated her. He loved her. He needed her.
He was drowning, and she was the only one holding the rope.
***
Alone again, Sharon extinguished the candles one by one, the room fading into shadow. She stood at the window, watching the city lights glitter below.
Her pulse was steady. Her mind sharp.
Arga was teetering on the edge now — lost between desire and despair, unable to tell one from the other.
It was perfect.
Soon, when she struck in public, when she shattered him before the world, the fall would be absolute.
But first, she wanted him to believe — if only for a moment — that she might have given him what he craved.
That was the cruelest mercy of all.
In the days that followed, Arga spiraled further. He replayed every second of that night in his mind — her nearness, her touch, her words. He couldn't eat. He couldn't focus. He dreamed of her constantly, waking with her name on his lips.
His father raged at him for missed meetings. The board whispered louder. Investors grew wary.
But none of it mattered. Only she mattered.
He began writing letters he never sent, pages upon pages of apologies, confessions, declarations of love. He tore them up, ashamed, but the words never stopped spilling.
She had become his religion. His torment. His only truth.
***
Finally, Sharon sent him one more message.
A charity gala. Next week. Attend. Wear your best mask.
That was all.
Arga clutched the card in his hand, his pulse racing. He didn't know if it was a promise or a threat.
But he knew one thing: he would be there.
***
Epilogue – The Candle Before the Storm
In the quiet of her penthouse, Sharon lit a single candle and watched the flame dance.
She thought of Arga — unraveling, desperate, kneeling at the altar of her vengeance without even realizing it.
The candle flickered, casting shadows across her face.
Soon, she told herself. Very soon.
The stage was nearly set.
And when the curtain rose again, it would not be in private.
It would be before the eyes of the world.