Iris's POV
The drive home felt longer than it should have. Marcus had the radio tuned to that low jazz station he likes, humming off-key while he scrolled emails at red lights. I stared out the passenger window, watching streetlights smear past, but my brain was still stuck on the terrace.
I could still feel Victor's thumb brushing my wrist slowly like he was testing how fast my heart would race for him.
I could still hear he way he said my name like he'd already decided how it would sound when he whispered it in the dark.
That single, polite touch at the small of my back as I walked ahead of him, nothing overt, just enough pressure to remind me he was there, and that he knew exactly what he was doing.
I pressed my thighs together under my sundress and tried to breathe normally.
Marcus glanced over. "You okay, babe? You've been quiet since we left Dad's."
I turned and gave him the soft smile I've perfected, the one that says everything's fine without me having to lie out loud. "Just tired. I've had a long week of revisions."
He squeezed my knee once, quick and sweet. "You work too hard. Maybe take tomorrow off? We could sleep in and order breakfast."
"That sounds nice," I said, and a part of me meant it.
The rest of me was replaying Victor's voice on loop.
How the hell was his father hotter than him?
Marcus is attractive, I'm not blind.
He is tall and fit from his regular sessions at the gym. He has that boyish smile that makes people instantly like him. He is easy on the eyes, the kind of guy aunties call "a catch" while they pinch your cheeks.
But sitting across from Victor today had been like comparing a dependable sedan to a matte-black Aston Martin that growls when you touch the gas.
They had the same dark hair, strong jaw and hazel eyes but Victor had twenty extra years of knowing exactly what to do with every inch of it.
He had no gray hair, just thick, dark waves that looked like he'd run his fingers through them once and called it styled.
There was no softening around the edges, everything sharpened instead. The laugh lines at his eyes were proof he'd lived, laughed, won.
And the way he carried himself… Jesus. Like gravity bent around him. Like he walked into rooms knowing every woman in them would notice, and every man would measure himself against him and come up short.
Victor had Marcus at twenty. Victor was barely out of his teens when he got his high-school sweetheart pregnant and did the right thing.
He married Marcus' mom at twenty-one, built a life and turned a small real-estate hustle into a billion-dollar empire while raising a kid and apparently never letting himself go soft.
Marcus told me the story once casually over pizza: "Dad was young, dumb, and in love. Mom got pregnant when they were 19. They made it work until she passed from cancer when I was twelve."
He'd shrugged, like the edges had worn smooth from telling it so many times.
I'd felt sorry for them both back then.
Now? Now I just felt confused and guilty and way too warm between my legs for a Sunday afternoon.
We pulled into the apartment complex. Marcus killed the engine, leaned over, and pecked my cheek. "You were quiet today. Everything okay?"
"Yeah," I lied, smiling too brightly. "Just tired, I've had a long week."
He bought it. He always buys it. That's the thing about Marcus: he's sweet, steady and reliable.
He remembers anniversaries, birthdays and when there's nothing to celebrate, he still makes me feel special.
But never once made me feel like I might combust if he looked at me too long.
We met sophomore year at a mutual friend's twenty-first birthday party. I was the girl in the corner nursing one drink because I didn't like losing control.
He was the guy who noticed, came over, asked if I wanted to split nachos instead of doing shots. We talked until the bar closed. He walked me to my dorm, kissed my cheek, asked for my number like he was afraid I'd say no.
We dated two years before he proposed on our anniversary with the ring his mom left him.
I said yes because he was kind.
Because he never pushed for sex after I told him I was saving myself.
Because I'd spent my whole life being the good girl, straight-A student, church volunteer, the daughter who never gave her parents a single gray hair and Marcus fit that version of me perfectly.
No drama.
No fireworks.
Just quiet certainty.
And I'd been saving my virginity for our wedding night Not because I was waiting for perfection, but because I wanted the moment to mean something.
One perfect night, one perfect man and one perfect beginning.
I liked quiet certainty or at least I thought I did.
That night I showered longer than necessary, letting hot water pound my shoulders while I tried to scrub Victor out of my head.
It didn't work.
Every time I closed my eyes I saw hazel staring back, I felt that deliberate thumb on my pulse, I heard that low "You look flushed" like he was daring me to admit why my skin was hot and my breath was short.
I climbed into bed beside Marcus, who was already half-asleep with his phone on his chest. He rolled toward me, flopping his arm over my waist in that familiar, comfortable way.
I stared at the ceiling.
What kind of woman gets wet thinking about her future father-in-law?
What kind of woman keeps the business card instead of tossing it in the trash?
I slipped out of bed quietly, padded to the living room, and pulled the card from my purse. It was heavy stock with gold lettering. Just his name, a private cell number, and those three dangerous words 'Anything at all' scribbled in his writing.
I should've ripped it up.
Instead I opened my phone, added the number under "V(Emergency Only)" like that made it less sinful, then deleted the contact immediately after.
Then saved it again.
I locked my phone and shoved it under a couch cushion like that would stop the temptation.
I went back to bed, slid under the covers, and pressed my thighs together hard enough to hurt.
Marcus snored softly.
I didn't sleep.
Somewhere in the dark, that quiet, resigned voice in my head whispered again:
What's gonna happen gotta happen.
And apparently what was gonna happen started with me lying next to my fiancé, heart racing, wondering how long I could pretend Victor's voice wasn't still echoing inside my skull like a promise I wasn't supposed to want.
But I already did.