The dining room seemed colder than normal that night. The long mahogany table, laid out with precision with silver and porcelain, stretched between Victor and Maria like an ocean. Candles flared, throwing tall shadows against the walls, but they gave off no heat.
Victor carved into his steak with mechanical precision, his phone ever ready and within arm's length. He had gotten home early, but not for her—not actually. A deal had fumbled on one of his businesses and he needed to have the serenity of his home office to make late calls. His presence was corporeal but absent, his essence having been left in some place in a conference room on the other side of town.
And still, however, Maria sensed his gaze.
Not always—Victor was not a man who stared—but now and then, she felt his eyes traverse her, hard and assessing. It unsettled her. Had he noticed something? Or maybe she was imagining things. Her nerves were too raw after what had almost happened outside with Richard.
She raised her wine glass and attempted to hide the shake of her hand.
"You seem absent-minded this evening," Victor exclaimed abruptly. His tone was smooth, but with an underlying toughness
Maria checked -stock with attention. "Do I? Or maybe I'm exhausted."
His fork suspended midair. "Tired of what? You don't work."
The words stung, but she'd been through that before. Maria set her face into a smile. "From managing the estate, of course. You know how much planning and forethought." she said .
Victor looked at her for a moment and nodded roughly as if trying to reflect on her answer. He returned to eating, but hunger ceased to exist within Maria. Her heart pounded with the memory of the fingertips of Richard tracing her wrist, of being too close—they had been too close.
After the meal, Victor excused himself, grumbling about urgent calls. Maria stayed sitting silently as her unfinished meals stared at her. The echo of Victor's footsteps came vanishing down the hall, then did she breathed a sigh, her chest releasing her.
Yet the comfort was temporary. The image of Richard persisted, smoldering like an ember that could not be suppressed.
The next morning came golden and thick with heat. Maria rose early, unable to sleep, the sheets rumpled around her bed as proof of her agitation. Victor was already up and gone, his side of the bed cold. She dressed with care, selecting a sundress that was flowy but close enough to keep her aware that she was not just a wife trapped within routines.
When she came down into the garden, Richard was busy, his shirt sticking to his chest as he hoisted beams into position. He looked up to her coming and their eyes locked—only briefly, but long enough to make blood run through her veins.
Maria stopped and then approached, her footstep crackling on the gravel.
"Good morning," she told him, her voice bright, calm, and rehearsed.
"Good morning," Richard replied. He spoke with a resolute voice, but his jaw was fixed. He had not forgotten the diary. He had not forgotten the near-kiss. He could even now savor her name on his lip.
Maria glanced about to see the other workers. They were working on the other side of the garden and were out of hearing. The area between herself and Richard was intimate, even though they were standing in open light.
"Victor must be so lucky to have you as a worker," Maria said smiling
Richard's mouth curled upward just like a fraction, but his eyes were turbulent. "It is just a job."
"More than that," Maria told him. "It's—" She stopped herself, swallowing the words. The words she was about to say were too risky and too revealing.
Richard leaned his head, studying her. For a heartbeat, silence stretched, thick with what neither dared say.
Then one of the workers called his name, breaking the moment. Richard waved her and turned away, leaving Maria with her pulse and pacing heartbeat hammering in her ears.
Maria had gone into the library by noon, to wander in her thoughts in the cold silence of the library's tall ceilings and unending shelves. She attempted to read, but words ran together. She thought of Victor—his doubts, his sizzling words—and of Richard, his unspoken emotions. Torn between two worlds: the one with Victor, comfortable but suffocating, and the other that Richard represented, dangerous but vibrant.
Her eyes shifted to the window. She could see Richard outside, his movements fluid, powerful. He was a temptation carved into flesh, and she was a moth circling ever very close to the flame.
She had not seen Victor until his face reflected in the mirror.
Maria stood up, turning to see that her husband was standing by the door with his hands clasped behind him.
You devote a considerable amount of time observing the workers," he stated flatly.
Her throat constricted. "I like to see the improvements. It's my home too, Victor."
He entered the room, his eyes quick, observing. "Of course. But do you observe the workers—or the work?"
Maria chuckled, but her heart raced. "Don't be ridiculous Victor"
His eyes remained fixed on her, without any words as if assessing her body language and expression. He then turned and left without uttering anything.
The silence he left behind was suffocating. Maria put a hand over her heart, racing. He knew or guessed. Either way, the rules of her painstakingly built world were already coming apart.
That evening, Maria wandered through the garden once again. The men had finished their work, but Richard stayed back to clean up their working tools. The air that evening was cold, with the mixed scent of lavender and wet earth. The shadows were long across the grass.
Maria came quietly, her heart a thudding drum within her.
"You stayed late again," she whispered.
He looked up, his eyes blackening in the diminishing light. "There is someone to finish the job," Richard said.
She came forward, her hand caressing the wooden handle of a shovel that was close enough to grasp to keep herself stable. "Why do you avoid me?" Maria asked him while maintaining eye contact.
His jaw clicked shut. He dropped the tool, maintaining a passionate look, and said "Because I know the things that I shouldn't know."
Maria froze. She caught her breath. "What? What are you saying?"
He stared at her steadily. "I read what you wrote in your diary Maria. I shouldn't have read it but I did. And you want me."
The world spun. What was her secret—her greatest desire, her confession inscribed with trembling strokes—wasn't hers anymore. Desire and shame collided within her, and she trembled.
She stepped closer again, tears streaming down her face. "And now that you know, what will you do?"
Richard's breath was heavy, his control unraveling. He reached, his hand grazing her arm. The contact branded her. Maria shifted into it, her eyes fluttering closed. In that moment, the world narrowed to heat and hunger, and she felt—they would yield.
And then a voice interrupted the blackness.
"Maria…."
She froze, taking a step back at once. Victor's shadow reflected on the terrace, his eyes sharply scanning the garden.
Maria's heart pounded and beat faster. Richard took a step back, his jaw locked, his physique rigid with suppression.
"I'm here," she said, putting force into her words.
Victor descended the steps cautiously, glancing between them. The silence stretched, thick.
At last, he smiled—a thin, perilous smile. "It's late. Come inside."
Maria obeyed, her body trembling as she passed him. She didn't dare look back at Richard. And inside, fire burned more fiercely than ever. She realized this could not go on. Something had to break. And when it came, none of their lives would ever remain the same.