The next morning, Miranda stood in her bedroom, staring at her reflection while fastening her clothing. Her movements were slow, distracted, functioning on autopilot.
But her mind?
Her mind was a battlefield.
Her hands stilled on the knot of her apron as she whispered to the woman in the mirror:
"What is wrong with me?"
Her reflection offered no comfort. Just tired eyes.
Soft features worn from years of emotional drought. A heart that felt too quiet… until yesterday. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the ghost of a sensation that refused to fade. Rafael's eyes, His smile, His voice curling around her name like silk. Miranda. Her cheeks warmed at the memory.
"Stop," she murmured harshly to herself. "Just stop."
She wasn't this woman. She wasn't foolish. She wasn't unfaithful.
She was married. A wife. Bound, even if the rope was fraying.
But the truth pressed against her ribs with painful honesty:
She had never felt desire like that before.
And that single moment—those few stolen glances—echoed inside her like a forbidden melody she couldn't get out of her head, pushing the thoughts aside, she went about her usual routines, giving the maids several instructions on the thing they had to do for the day.
The house felt colder than usual as she walked toward the kitchen. Every surface was pristine. Every decoration was meticulously arranged. Every corner felt lifeless.
A museum.
A showcase.
Not a home.
Miranda set a cup on the kitchen counter and made tea, the kettle whistling sharply. The empty hallway amplified the sound, turning it into something hollow, like a cry swallowed by silence.
She stood by the dining table, staring at her husband's untouched chair.
She remembered their early days—how she once believed their love would grow, deepen, bloom.
But years passed. His kisses faded, His touches grew rare. Their conversations turned into polite exchanges—pleasant, distant and empty.
She tried everything to revive it or so she told herself, Surprises, Cooking his favourite meals, Reaching for him at night but he always drift away gently, like someone easing out of a room without wanting to alarm anyone.
Now, she couldn't recall the last time he said she looked beautiful.
The last time he held her waist.
The last time he made her feel something.
Her phone chimed. A text from Benjamin, came in:
"Landed safely. Meetings today. Talk later."
No "I miss you."
No warmth or even heart emoji.
Miranda stared at the message until her chest tightened with familiar disappointment.
She typed a response:
"I'm glad you arrived safely. Take care."
She deleted "I miss you," because she wasn't sure he would understand the sentiment anymore.
As she approached the café earlier than usual that morning, the sign "Stone & Steam" swayed gently in the breeze. The sight usually gave her comfort.
Today, she wanted to keep herself actively busy, She unlocked the door, inhaling the familiar scent of roasted beans and cinnamon.
"This is your place," she whispered. "Your world. Keep it together."
She needed normalcy. Routine. A steady rhythm to drown out the chaos in her mind.
She switched on the lights. Swept the floors, prepared the pastries, arranged the chairs.
Her body knew the dance well—her hands moving with practiced grace.
But her thoughts strayed. What if he came back? She shook her head, setting cups on the counter with unnecessary force.
"He won't," she whispered.
After all, he was probably a tourist or a traveller passing through the city. He looked like the kind of man who carried stories in his eyes and left them scattered in cafés like this one.
He wasn't meant to stay and she wasn't meant to remember him.
By mid-morning, the café buzzed with activity. Students crowded the corner tables.
A group of office workers laughed over pastries. The elderly couple held hands as they sipped their tea. Miranda moved among them effortlessly, greeting regulars, delivering orders, smiling when required.
But behind every smile, her chest tightened with unseen tension. Every time the café door chimed, her heartbeat stumbled—expecting eyes, the color of grey smoke And every time it wasn't him, she felt… something strange, Relief mixed with a tiny, shameful disappointment.
Around noon, Camille slipped in again, her presence soft and grounding.
"You look tense," she said immediately.
"I'm fine," Miranda lied.
Camille raised a brow. "Your 'fine' looks like you haven't slept."
Miranda wiped the counter, avoiding her gaze. "Just tired."
Camille moved closer. "Is it Benjamin?"
A sigh escaped her, unplanned. "It's everything."
Camille touched her arm gently. "You can talk to me."
Miranda hesitated.
She couldn't tell her sister about the way her body reacted to a stranger. She couldn't confess the spark that lit inside her yesterday—wrong, dangerous, intoxicating.
So she said the safe version.
"I just feel… lonely."
Camille's expression softened. "You've felt lonely for years, Minnie."
Miranda's throat tightened as she whispered, "I don't want to be."
Camille hugged her tightly. "Then someday, you won't be. You deserve more than empty rooms and cold goodbyes."
But Miranda wasn't sure she believed that.
When the afternoon lull hit, Miranda sat alone at a table, her gaze unfocused. Her fingers traced circles on the wooden surface.
Her mind drifted to the way Raphael looked at her —like he noticed every detail or maybe that was just her imagination…
Benjamin had stopped noticing long ago.
The realization stung. She pressed her palms to her eyes, grounding herself.
"You're married," she whispered fiercely. "Stop thinking about him."
But her heart didn't obey.
Something deep inside her had been shaken awake, and the feeling refused to settle.
Around four o'clock, when the sun dipped low and cast warm amber light across the café floor, the bell chimed again. Miranda looked up automatically. Her heart slammed against her ribs.
It wasn't Raphael.
It was Benjamin's mother, Mrs. Blackwood, elegantly dressed and carrying judgment like perfume. Miranda straightened immediately, as she composed herself.
"Mother-in-law," she said politely.
The older woman approached, her expression tight, her posture stiff.
"I came to check on you," she said—not out of concern, but obligation. "Benjamin said you seemed… emotional lately."
Miranda forced a thin smile. "Everything is fine."
Her mother-in-law's gaze swept the café.
"So you're still doing… this." She waved her hand
Miranda's jaw clenched. "Yes. I enjoy it."
"It seems like such a waste of your education," the woman said lightly, but with the sharp edge of disapproval.
Miranda swallowed. "It makes me happy."
Her mother-in-law gave a brittle smile.
The woman continued, "Benjamin works very hard, Miranda. He needs stability. Not a wife who loses herself in hobbies."
The words sank into Miranda like stones.
She looked down. "I'm trying."
"I know you are." Her tone softened—not kindly, but condescendingly. "Just… don't trouble him. He already has so much on his plate."
Something inside Miranda cracked, because she had been carrying everything alone for years, Yet here she was, being told not to trouble him.
The woman left shortly after, her perfume lingering like a reminder of Miranda's place—small, quiet, invisible. In the beginning, she used to like Miranda and took her out to several gatherings to socialize with other women of high society but when she saw that Miranda was reclusive and preferred simple life, her attitude towards Miranda changed.
Miranda sank into her chair, a storm gathering inside her chest.
After a few hours, she closed the café late, exhaustion heavy in her bones. The moment she locked the door, her shoulders slumped. She leaned against the glass, breath shaky. She wanted someone to ask how she was.
But no one did. Not her parents. Not Benjamin. Not his family. At least not truly, she couldn't confide in anyone, they were just asking for formality sake, they would just judge and make her feel guilty if she ever did and that terrified her.
At home, she showered, letting the hot water soak into her tense muscles and wash away the fatigue. She changed into her soft pyjamas. She lit a scented candle and tried to read but her mind wandered, to the look in Raphael's eyes. To his voice, To the way her body reacted with a startling honesty she had long forgotten she possessed.
She curled into herself on the couch, hugging a cushion.
"I'm losing control," she whispered.
The admission trembled through her.
Because the truth—now undeniable—was this:
Raphael was slowly turning into an obsession, nothing had even happened between them yet and it was already like this. It seems that once a heart tastes life again… It doesn't want to return to sleeping.