A few days slipped by in deceptive quiet. The penthouse felt the same on the surface—same soft lighting, same scent of Clara's jasmine perfume lingering in the air—but Fin could feel the shift like a slow tide pulling at his ankles.
Clara came home later now. Not dramatically so; just fifteen minutes here, twenty there. She'd say "client ran over" or "traffic was brutal," and Fin would nod, kiss her cheek, tell her he'd saved dinner in the warmer. But the excuses carried a new lightness, almost rehearsed. Her phone, once left carelessly on the kitchen island, now traveled with her everywhere—bathroom, bedroom, even the short walk to the wine fridge. When it buzzed, she'd glance at it, lips curving into a small, private smile before she tilted the screen away or silenced it with a quick thumb.
Fin noticed. He noticed everything these days.
He told himself it was nothing. Work stress. New energy from whatever project she was on. But the smiles were different—sharper, secretive. And at night, when they lay in bed, her body felt… distant. She still curled against him, still let him hold her, but there was a subtle withholding. A sigh when his hand drifted lower. A gentle redirection—"Not tonight, babe, I'm wiped"—that hadn't been there before the gala.
One evening, five days after the lift incident, Fin came home early from a late-afternoon meeting. Clara's coat was already on the hook, her heels kicked off by the door. The bedroom door was ajar, soft lamplight spilling into the hallway. He heard water running in the en-suite bath—shower, maybe. He set his briefcase down quietly, loosened his tie, and padded toward the bedroom on instinct.
The shower wasn't running anymore. Just the faint drip of water from the rainfall head.
Fin paused in the doorway.
Clara stood in front of the full-length mirror, naked, towel forgotten on the vanity. She was touching herself.
Not frantically. Not desperately. Slowly. Deliberately.
One hand cupped her breast, thumb circling the nipple until it peaked, dark and tight. The other hand was between her thighs—two fingers sliding in and out with a wet, rhythmic sound, her hips rocking in tiny, controlled circles"Ahh..Ahhhh". Her head was tilted back slightly, eyes half-closed, lips parted. She looked… focused. Lost in something private and precise.
Fin froze. He should have announced himself. Should have stepped in, wrapped his arms around her from behind like he used to, murmured something sweet. Instead, he stayed in the shadowed doorway, breath shallow, watching.
Clara's movements quickened. Her fingers curled deeper, thumb finding her clit in tight, practiced strokes.
"Ohhh...Yesss"
A soft moan escaped her—low, throaty, nothing like the polite sighs she gave him during sex. Her free hand slid up to pinch her nipple harder, twisting just enough to make her gasp. Her hips jerked forward, chasing the pressure.
Fin felt himself harden instantly, painfully, against his trousers. Shame burned in his chest, but he couldn't look away.
She was beautiful like this—raw, unselfconscious. But something was missing. Her brow furrowed faintly, concentration deepening into frustration. She changed angles, pressed harder, added a third finger. Her breathing grew ragged, small whimpers slipping out. She was close—Fin could tell by the way her thighs trembled, the way her toes curled against the rug—but she wasn't quite there.
"Come on," she whispered to her reflection, voice strained. "Come on…"
She tried again—faster circles on her clit, deeper thrusts. Her mouth opened in a silent cry, body arching. For a moment it looked like she might make it. Then—
Her hand stilled.
A frustrated exhale. Almost a growl.
Clara's eyes opened fully. She stared at herself in the mirror—flushed, glistening between her legs, nipples swollen—and something like disappointment flickered across her face. Not anger. Not sadness. Just… dissatisfaction. A quiet acknowledgment that whatever she was chasing wasn't arriving tonight.
She withdrew her fingers slowly, slick and shining. Brought them to her lips, tasting herself absently, then let her hand drop. She reached for the towel, wrapped it around herself with efficient movements, as if the moment had been routine. Mechanical.
Fin backed away silently before she turned. His heart pounded so hard he thought she might hear it. He retreated to the living room, poured himself a drink with shaking hands, and sat on the couch pretending to scroll emails when she emerged ten minutes later.
She'd changed into soft lounge pants and one of his old T-shirts. Hair damp, face fresh-scrubbed. She smiled when she saw him—warm, familiar.
"Hey, you're home early." She crossed to him, leaned down, kissed his forehead. "Missed you."
Fin forced a smile. "Missed you too."
She curled up beside him, head on his shoulder, phone face-down on the coffee table. It buzzed once. She didn't reach for it immediately. When she did—casually, a minute later—Fin caught the quick flash of her screen lighting up before she angled it away.
A new message. A new hidden smile.
Clara sighed contentedly against him, as if everything was perfect.
He didn't touch her that night.
He didn't dare.