The house was quiet, save for the steady drumming of rain against the windows. Daniel's breathing had already slowed into sleep beside me, deep and even, the rhythm of a man unbothered by the storm outside or the one brewing inside his home.
I, however, lay rigid on my side of the bed, staring at the nightstand where the folded piece of paper waited. My name, written in sharp, deliberate handwriting, slanted across the front.
Emma.
Not Daniel's writing.
Adrian's.
My throat tightened. I shouldn't touch it. Shouldn't even acknowledge it. The smart thing, the safe thing would be to slip it into the drawer unread, or better yet, tear it into a hundred tiny pieces and flush it away with the rain.
But I couldn't.
My fingers trembled as I reached for it, careful not to wake Daniel. The paper felt warm against my skin, as though it carried Adrian's heat with it. Slowly, silently, I unfolded it under the thin wash of moonlight seeping through the curtains.
Four words.
I see you, Emma.
A shiver skated down my spine. Simple, direct, yet devastatingly intimate. He could have written anything, something polite, something teasing but no. He chose words that pierced. Words that stripped away the walls I had so carefully built.
I see you.
The real me. The restless woman beneath the perfect-wife facade. The one who still ached to feel wanted.
My heart thudded. I folded the note quickly, slipping it under my pillow just as Daniel shifted beside me. He mumbled in his sleep, rolling onto his side, his arm brushing mine. For a moment, guilt speared through me, hot and sharp.
What was I doing? This was Daniel. My husband. The man I had promised forever to. The man who had once made me feel safe, loved, whole.
But the note burned against my skin through the pillowcase, and I knew terrifyingly that something had already shifted.
The morning was bright, deceptively calm. Sunlight streamed through the windows as though the storm had never happened. Daniel rushed out early, muttering about meetings and deadlines, kissing my cheek absently before disappearing into the blur of his day.
Leaving me alone with the note.
I carried it downstairs like contraband, folding and unfolding it, my hands restless. I should throw it away. Burn it. Pretend it never existed.
Instead, I tucked it into the drawer beside the oven, as though hiding it would also hide what it meant.
"Coffee?"
The voice behind me startled me so badly I nearly dropped the mug in my hand.
Adrian leaned against the doorway, shirt rumpled, hair damp from a shower, looking too at ease in a house that wasn't his.
I swallowed hard. "There's a pot on."
He crossed the room, moving with the same lazy confidence he always had, and poured himself a cup. He didn't ask how I slept. He didn't mention the storm. Instead, he set the mug down, leaned closer, and said softly, "Did you read it?"
The floor seemed to tilt under me.
I forced a frown. "What are you talking about?"
His lips curved, slow and dangerous. "You know."
I busied myself with dishes, but my hands betrayed me, trembling slightly as I rinsed. "You shouldn't have done that," I whispered.
"Why not?" His tone was calm, curious, like he genuinely wanted to hear the answer.
"Because Daniel..."
"Daniel doesn't see you," Adrian cut in, his voice firm. "Not the way I do."
I spun, glaring. "You don't know anything about our marriage."
His eyes held mine, dark and unflinching. "I know enough. I know what silence does to a woman. I know what loneliness feels like." His gaze swept over me, too intimate, too knowing. "And I know you're starving for something you've forgotten how to name."
My pulse raced. I wanted to scream at him, to throw him out of the kitchen, out of the house, out of my life. Instead, my words tangled into a whisper.
"You should leave."
But I didn't sound convincing not even to myself.
He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the clean, sharp scent of soap on his skin, mixed with the faint trace of whiskey still lingering from last night. His hand lifted, hovered near my cheek, not touching, just close enough to make my body ache with the anticipation of it.
"Say the word," he murmured. "Tell me to stop, and I will."
I froze. My heart thundered. My lips parted, ready to push him away but the sound of the front door opening shattered the moment.
"Emma?" Daniel's voice called from the hallway. "Forgot my briefcase."
I jumped back, heat flooding my cheeks, fumbling for a towel just to have something to do. Adrian leaned casually against the counter, sipping his coffee as though nothing had happened, his expression unreadable.
Daniel appeared a moment later, his tie askew, eyes narrowed slightly as he looked between us. "Everything okay?"
"Of course," I said too quickly. "Just breakfast."
Daniel's gaze lingered on me, sharp, suspicious, before he grabbed his briefcase and kissed the top of my head. "Don't forget we're having dinner with the Crawfords tonight."
I nodded, though my chest was still tight, my nerves raw.
When the door closed again, silence rushed back in.
Adrian smiled faintly, setting his cup down. "Saved by the husband."
I glared, but my voice shook. "This is dangerous, Adrian."
His smile deepened, almost predatory. "That's the point."
The day crawled by, each hour thick with tension. Adrian spent most of it upstairs, unpacking in the guest room or at least pretending to. I moved through the house like a shadow, restless, unable to focus. Every sound set my nerves on edge, every creak of the floorboards making me wonder if he was behind me.
By afternoon, I found myself standing in the doorway of the guest room, tray of folded towels in hand. He was sitting on the bed, leaning back against the headboard, flipping idly through a book he must have pulled from our shelves.
He looked up when I entered, his gaze steady. "Domestic goddess," he teased lightly.
I set the towels down too quickly. "I thought you might need these."
"Always taking care of people," he said, closing the book. "Does anyone take care of you, Emma?"
I opened my mouth, but no answer came.
He rose slowly, each movement deliberate, and crossed the room until he stood in front of me. Close. Too close. My breath hitched, but I didn't move.
"Adrian…" My voice was barely a whisper.
His hand lifted, brushing a strand of hair from my face, fingers lingering a heartbeat too long against my skin.
My knees weakened. The world narrowed to the space between us, to the storm brewing again, not outside this time, but within.
I should have left. I should have run. But instead, I stayed rooted to the spot, trembling, waiting.
Then, with devastating calm, he bent his head, his lips brushing close to my ear.
"Don't lie to yourself, Emma. You've been waiting for this."
The words seared through me.
And then, just as suddenly, he stepped back, leaving me reeling.
"Dinner with the Crawfords," he said casually, as though nothing had happened. "You'd better get ready."
I stared at him, breathless, undone.