Chapter 43

Rani’s Point Of View

The morning light was pouring in through the full-length windows of the penthouse, soft and golden, casting long shadows across the marble floor. The AC hummed gently in the background, but it was the sound of Faisal’s tiny feet pounding across the rug that filled the air the most, along with his giggles as he tried to outrun my mother.

“Faisal, come back here!” My mom, Margaret said, laughing, arms outstretched as she chased after him, the two of them weaving around the couch like it was an obstacle course. “Give me the car, anak! Lala will fix it!”

Faisal clutched his toy car tighter to his chest, screaming in delight as he zoomed around the ottoman, his curly hair bouncing with every movement.

I smiled lazily, still seated on the couch, my robe loosely tied over my nursing slip. Rebecca was nestled against me, her mouth softly latched, her little fingers resting on my chest. She was warm and still a little sleepy, her tiny breath rising and falling gently as she fed.

Watching Faisal and Mom together felt like watching two versions of joy, one full of energy, the other full of wisdom and patience. My mom had always been good with kids. But there was something extra tender in the way she looked at Faisal, like he was her second chance at slowing down and soaking everything in.

“You look like you haven’t moved since sunrise,” Mom called out, glancing at me with that teasing look only mothers can perfect.

I chuckled, brushing Rebecca’s hair softly. “I haven’t. Rebecca’s feeding like it’s her full-time job. I feel like a milk bar.”

Mom plopped onto the other end of the couch, still catching her breath. “You are a milk bar, anak. For at least the next few months.”

“I didn’t sign up for this subscription,” I joked, shifting slightly to support Rebecca’s weight better on my arm.

“She signed up for you the moment she kicked inside you,” Mom said, smiling as she watched my daughter. “Look at that… so peaceful.”

I glanced down at Rebecca, and my heart squeezed. “She looks just like Lamia when she sleeps.”

Mama tilted her head, thoughtful. “You really think so?”

I nodded. “Same lashes. Same little pout. Even the forehead wrinkle when she’s annoyed.”

“Hmm.” Mom settled back, her smile growing softer. “Speaking of Lamia…”

Here we go.

“She’s changed,” Mom said after a pause, voice low but warm. “I never thought I’d say it, but she’s really changed.”

I glanced at her from over Rebecca’s soft head. “I didn’t like her at first.”

Mom laughed under her breath. “Who would if your wife’s attitude is like that?. She was cold. Proud. Like she was always looking for an exit.”

“She was,” I admitted, gently switching Rebecca to the other side with practiced ease, using the towel beside me to cover up again. “We both were. That first year… we didn’t think we’d make it. We didn’t even want to.”

“I remember,” Mom said softly. “You used to shout your frustration in your old room. You said it felt like being married to a demon.”

“It did,” I murmured. “She never looked at me. Not really. She was grieving. Angry. Forced into everything. And I… I was bitter.”

There was a silence that settled between us for a while, filled only by Faisal’s babbling on the carpet, now attempting to drive his car up the side of the ottoman.

“And now?” Mom asked.

I blinked, breathing in slowly. “Now she’s… soft. Attentive. She’s not perfect… God knows we still argue, but she tries. She comes home early. She holds Rebecca like she’s holding the future. She listens when I talk. She kisses my forehead when I’m too tired to think.”

Mom reached across the couch and rested her hand gently on my knee. “She loves you, anak.”

I looked away, my voice quieter now. “I think… she’s learning to.”

“That’s what matters,” Mom said. “The trying. The staying. The growing.”

Faisal crawled up onto the couch between us, out of breath and holding his car triumphantly. “Lala fix,” he said, shoving it into Mom’s lap before climbing into mine, right next to his sister.

I adjusted to accommodate both babies, my arms full, heart fuller.

“She used to be the unwanted wife,” I whispered, more to myself than anyone. “And now… she’s the one I wait for. Every single day.”

Faisal had started humming something under his breath while playing with the now semi-fixed toy in my lap. Rebecca was slowly dozing off again, one hand curled against the towel covering my chest. The peace in the living room was that rare kind, fragile but whole. Like if you moved too fast, it would shatter.

Mom glanced over at me again. She was quiet for a bit, but her eyes, those wise, steady, mothering eyes, were searching mine, like she’d been holding a question in her mouth for a while and was only now ready to let it go.

“Rani,” she said gently, folding her hands on her lap. “Do you still resent your dad?”

I looked up at her, caught off guard by the softness in her voice. It wasn’t an accusation. It wasn’t even a judgment. It was more like… curiosity laced with concern.

My fingers moved slowly against Rebecca’s back as I blinked at Mom. “For arranging me and Lamia?”

She nodded. “You used to say he took away your choice.”

I did. God, I remember that version of me so clearly. The one who sat on the edge of the bed in my old room, heart splintered with disbelief, fury bubbling under my skin. The one who didn’t speak to Dad for weeks. The one who believed she was being handed over like some political pawn.

“I did resent him,” I admitted, eyes on the floor now, voice quiet. “I was angry for a long time.”

Mom stayed silent, just watching me. She knew when to wait.

“I hated the feeling of being pushed into a marriage I didn’t choose,” I said, swallowing thickly. “I felt betrayed. I kept asking myself why he didn’t trust me to find love on my own.”

“And now?” Mom asked, voice still soft.

I let out a slow breath and looked up at her again. “Now… I’m thankful.”

Mom’s brows lifted slightly. She wasn’t expecting that. “Truly?”

I nodded.

“I still don’t agree with how it happened,” I clarified. “But I understand it now. I understand why Dad did it. I was stubborn. Lost in my own little world. I didn’t see what he saw in Lamia. All I saw was a cold girl with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue.”

We both chuckled lightly at that.

“But he saw something else,” I continued. “He saw her strength. Her potential. Her capacity to love, even if it was buried under grief and walls. He saw the woman she could be. And he believed I could bring that out in her. Or maybe… that we could bring it out in each other.”

Mom was quiet, letting me speak freely, her eyes misty now. I knew how much she loved Dad, even in his strictness, even in his tradition-bound decisions. And I knew she was trying to make peace with it all too.

“There were days I wanted to walk out, Mom,” I said, stroking Rebecca’s back. “Days when I’d cry in the shower just to keep Lamia from hearing. Days when I’d hold Faisal and wonder if we’d ruined his future by giving him parents who couldn’t even look each other in the eye.”

“And now?” she asked again, like a soft echo.

“Now I look at Faisal’s face when he hears Lamia’s footsteps,” I smiled, tears stinging my eyes. “I look at how Rebecca calms the moment Lamia carries her. I look at how Lamia kisses my shoulder in the mornings when she thinks I’m asleep. I look at the woman who once said she didn’t believe in love… now doing everything in her power to protect it.”

I paused, letting that truth sink in.

“And I think… maybe Dad gave me something I didn’t know I needed. Not the perfect love story. But the right one. The one that made me grow. The one that taught me patience. Grace. Strength.”

Mom smiled, brushing a tear from her cheek. “He’ll be happy to hear that, anak.”

I smiled too, eyes still wet. “Maybe I’ll tell him myself next time he visits.”

She reached for my hand again and held it tightly. “You’ve always been brave, Rani. But loving someone through the hard parts? That’s a different kind of courage.”

I looked down at my babies, Faisal now curled against my thigh, mumbling to himself, and Rebecca sleeping softly in my arms… and nodded.

“I learned that from being her wife,” I whispered. “And from being their mother.”

And in that quiet, between the sun-drenched walls of our living room and the thrum of our slow morning, I felt something ease in my chest. A forgiveness. A softness. A knowing.

Everything in its own time.

Mom was still holding my hand when she gently asked, “So… when are you coming back to work?”

Her voice was casual, but I knew her. It wasn’t pressure, just curiosity, maybe even concern that I might be putting myself on pause too long.

I shifted slightly, careful not to wake Rebecca, who was still nestled peacefully on my chest, her small mouth having gone slack after her feeding. My robe was still wrapped around me, slightly rumpled now, but warm. Familiar. Home.

“I’m still working,” I said, brushing my fingers through Rebecca’s fine hair. “Just… from here. I’ve been handling the Paragon reports remotely. The export figures for the second quarter just came in last night.”

Mom tilted her head knowingly. “Of course you are.”

I smiled. “But I’ll be physically back in two months. That’s the plan.”

“Two months?” she echoed, a slight arch of her brow. “Not sooner?”

“Lamia won’t let me,” I said with a small laugh, not even trying to hide the fondness in my voice. “She keeps saying I’m still healing. That I should be resting, enjoying the newborn phase while it lasts.”

Mom smiled. “She’s not wrong.”

“I know. But I feel useless sometimes,” I admitted. “Like I’m watching the company keep spinning without me. But Lamia’s been very… firm about it.”

“That’s good,” Mom said after a beat. “That she’s protecting your time like this.”

I nodded, then glanced over at Faisal, who had crawled halfway toward his wooden puzzle set and was now trying to fit a triangle into a circle slot with all the determination of a tiny engineer. “Yeah… she really stepped up.”

Mom’s eyes didn’t leave mine. “How is she, by the way?”

I hesitated… just for a second.

“She’s okay,” I said carefully, shifting Rebecca slightly against my chest. “Ever since she went back to work, she’s been coming home really late.”

Mom’s brows furrowed, but she didn’t interrupt. She was listening the way only mothers can, reading between silences.

“It’s not like her,” I added, my voice low. “Lamia’s always been… efficient. She works hard, but she’s never the type to stay out unless there’s a reason. And now she’s… well, she barely makes it home before ten.”

“Have you asked her about it?” Mom asked, not accusing, just gently probing.

I nodded. “She said she’s just clearing everything she missed while she was with me in confinement. She was out for two whole weeks, so maybe she’s just playing catch-up.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Mom replied, though her tone was laced with that maternal caution that never really goes away.

“Yeah,” I said, trying to believe it. “I mean, she’s not acting off. She still kisses me when she gets home, even if I’m half-asleep. She checks on the kids right away. She tells me about meetings and project delays and contractors messing up permits. She’s still Lamia.”

“But something feels different?” Mom asked softly.

I didn’t answer right away. I looked down at Rebecca, who was now fully asleep, her little fists curled near her chin. My fingers found the hem of the towel I’d draped over myself earlier, absently smoothing it down.

“It’s just a feeling,” I said finally. “Maybe I’m overthinking. Maybe it’s the hormones, or the adjustment, or me being overly sensitive because I’ve been cooped up at home while she’s back out there, doing everything again.”

Mom’s gaze was gentle. “You’re not being dramatic, anak. You’re being aware. That’s different.”

I met her eyes. “I don’t want to read into things. I don’t want to ruin something that’s finally good.”

“You won’t,” she said firmly, squeezing my hand. “But don’t be afraid to ask for more clarity. Even the strongest marriages need honesty to breathe.”

I let that sit between us for a moment, the quiet ticking of the living room clock marking time.

“She’s trying,” I said. “I know she is. She’s doing so much. She was with me every single day during postpartum. She massaged my legs, brought me water while I nursed, even learned how to steam my belly.”

Mom chuckled. “Really?”

“She was so awkward about it at first. Like she thought the herbs were going to explode.”

We both laughed, and for a moment, the tension thinned.

“She loves you,” Mom said after the laughter faded. “I see it in her eyes. In the way she looks at you when she thinks no one’s watching.”

I nodded, swallowing the small knot in my throat. “I love her too.”

“Then just… talk to her,” she said gently. “Not as the CEO of Rani Paragon Enterprises. Not as the girl whose life was planned for her. Just as you. Just as her wife.”

I looked at her then, and I smiled.

“I will,” I said. “Maybe tonight.”

Mom gave my hand one final squeeze and stood, moving over to check on Faisal, who had now decided to crawl under the coffee table in pursuit of his runaway puzzle piece.

I sat still on the couch, Rebecca warm against me, my heart both calm and slightly restless. Lamia was doing her best, I knew that. But something inside me told me we needed to talk soon. Before the spaces between us widened too far.

——

Dinner was quiet. Too quiet.

Nina sat beside Faisal’s booster seat, patiently feeding him spoonfuls of rice and munggo, slipping in bits of soft chicken in between. He was being his usual dramatic self, pushing aside the steamed okra with a scowl like it had committed a personal offense.

“Ew, Ninaaa,” he whined, face scrunched. “Why is it green and squishy?”

“It’s healthy, Faisal,” she said with the patience of a saint. “Para lumakas ka, ‘di ba gusto mong maging superhero?”

Faisal squinted at the okra, visibly considering this compromise. “Can superheroes eat chicken instead?”

I couldn’t help the small laugh that left me as I sat at the head of the table, a soft robe tied loosely over my nursing camisole. Rebecca was asleep again in her bassinet near the window, finally dozing off after a full hour of feeding and fussing. The warm overhead light made her cheeks look even rounder, even more peaceful. I’d swaddled her just the way Lamia liked it, tight, secure, like a little burrito.

But Lamia’s seat… still empty.

The untouched plate of rice and chicken adobo beside mine made her absence feel heavier than it should. A full plate, still steaming. A favorite meal, going cold.

It was almost 7PM.

I stared at the plate a little too long. The chicken thighs were the way she liked them, tender, just a bit browned on the edges. The garlic in the sauce was soft enough to melt. I’d asked Manang Sally to cook it today, hoping Lamia would come home earlier than usual. Hoping we could eat together. Talk. Something.

I didn’t realize how deep I was in thought until Nina’s voice brought me back.

“Ma’am Rani?” she asked carefully, glancing at me from across the table. “Gusto niyo po ba ng calamansi juice?”

I blinked, nodded. “Yes, please. Thank you, Nina.”

She stood and moved toward the kitchen, leaving Faisal momentarily preoccupied with stabbing the rice like it was a dragon.

My eyes drifted back to Lamia’s untouched food.

I took a quiet breath and turned toward the door. “Manang Sally,” I called gently.

The maid appeared from the hallway, wiping her hands with a towel. “Yes po, Ma’am?”

“Did Lamia eat anything this morning before she left?”

Her brows furrowed slightly. “Naku, Ma’am… hindi po.”

I straightened slightly. “She didn’t?”

“Hindi po siya kumain kanina. Inabot ko po ‘yung pandesal sa tray, tapos nag-alok ako ng gatas… pero nagmamadali raw po siya. Sabi niya, ‘wag na raw akong mag-abala.”

I looked down at my lap, trying to make sense of it.

Lamia never skipped meals. Even when we weren’t close, when our marriage felt more like a tense treaty than a bond, she still took the time to eat. Even on her busiest days. Even when we were fighting. She was the one who used to remind me not to skip breakfast. She said it grounded her.

Now she was skipping?

“Thank you, Manang,” I said, trying to keep my voice even.

She gave a respectful nod and quietly returned to the kitchen.

I sat back in my chair and exhaled through my nose. The adobo still gave off a faint warmth, like it was waiting. Like I was.

No call. No text. No ‘on my way.’ Nothing.

I picked up my phone. The screen lit up with the time, 6:58 PM. No messages.

I set it down again.

Nina returned and set a glass of calamansi juice by my plate. I smiled at her in thanks, but I could tell she felt the shift in the room too. She glanced at Lamia’s chair, then back at me, before returning to her seat beside Faisal.

“Mama, look,” my son suddenly piped up, holding a piece of okra in the air with the kind of disgust only toddlers could summon. “It’s like a green spaceship!”

I blinked, forced a smile, and brushed a kiss onto the crown of his curls. “You’re right, baby. A very slimy spaceship.”

He giggled, delighting in his own metaphor, and dramatically dropped it back onto his plate with a tiny explosion sound. “Boom!”

I smiled again. But it faded quicker this time.

Because no matter how sweet Faisal was, no matter how grateful I was for Nina’s quiet help or Rebecca’s peaceful sleep, there was still a part of me that kept drifting to the empty seat beside mine.

Lamia’s silence had never been this loud.

And the longer I sat there staring at her untouched plate, the tighter something wrapped itself around my chest. A kind of worry I couldn’t name yet, but one I could feel growing, hour by hour.

She didn’t eat.
She didn’t say goodbye.
She’s been late every day.
And she still hasn’t called.

And this time, I wasn’t just wondering where she was.

——

It was nearly 11PM.

The house was silent, the kind of silence that wraps itself around your shoulders like a shawl. Still and weighty.

Faisal had fallen asleep an hour ago, his cheeks flushed from all the running he did before bedtime. Nina carried him upstairs and tucked him into bed with his dinosaur plushie clutched tightly in one arm. Rebecca, for once, didn’t fight her sleep. She was knocked out in her crib, tiny fingers curled around the edge of her blanket, her little breaths steady and soft.

Even the help had gone to bed.

But me?

I sat there in the dimly lit living room, robe still draped over my nursing camisole, arms folded tightly across my chest, not from cold, but from the pressure building inside me.

The TV was on mute, flickering quietly across the walls, casting moving shadows on the ceiling. My phone was on the coffee table, screen dark, no messages.

Again.

I had replayed every possibility in my head. Maybe she was finishing up backlogs. Maybe she was in a meeting that ran too long. Maybe she was exhausted and didn’t want to answer while driving. Maybe. Maybe.

But that was the third “maybe” this week.

And I was tired of maybes.

The front door clicked open.

My breath caught.

Keys jingled, then stilled. Then… footsteps. Familiar ones. I didn’t even need to look to know it was her. I could feel her presence fill the room, the way it always did, like a shifting of gravity.

I stayed seated, arms still folded.

When Lamia turned the corner and saw me, her steps faltered.

She looked surprised.

Her hair was messier than usual, a few strands clinging to her forehead. Her black blouse was slightly wrinkled, sleeves rolled halfway. She looked… drained. Tired. But her eyes still met mine with that unreadable calm I knew too well.

“Hey,” she said softly, offering a smile. “You’re still up?”

I didn’t smile back. I didn’t even blink.

Instead, I stood. Slowly.

And crossed my arms tighter across my chest.

“Where have you been?”

Her eyes flickered. “Rani…”

“You’ve been coming home late every single night,” I said, voice low but sharp. “You leave before breakfast. You come home after dinner. You don’t call. You don’t text. And I’m just supposed to sit here and wait?”

She exhaled slowly, like she expected this, maybe even rehearsed for it.

“I had to stay late. We’re catching up on operations. I’m handling approvals, reports, supply contracts…”

“You’re always handling something.” My tone bit without needing to raise my voice. “Even during your leave, you were checking emails every day. But at least you told me when you’d be late.”

There was a pause between us. A space where the words should’ve gone. But she didn’t say anything yet.

I hated that I still searched her face for signs of softness. For that version of her who would wrap me in her arms and say, “I’m sorry I made you wait.”

Instead, she stepped forward. Slowly. And kissed me.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t cold. But it wasn’t full of warmth either. It was just… enough to disarm.

Then she pulled back and said gently, “I just worked overtime. That’s all. Nothing to worry about.”

I didn’t move.

Her kiss still lingered on my mouth, but my jaw was clenched too tightly for it to soften anything. My arms were still crossed over my chest, and I could feel the pulse at my wrist throbbing, like my body knew I was holding back the flood.

Lamia stood in front of me, calm, composed, maybe even a little tired but her expression was unreadable. As always. That blank calm she wore like armor. The kind that made you question if she even cared that you were upset.

And that?

That was the final straw.

I tilted my head slightly, eyes narrowing, voice dropping lower, firmer, colder than I intended.

“Don’t try to lie to my face, Lamia.”

She blinked.

“I’m serious.”

Her brows furrowed just slightly, barely even a twitch, but I saw it.

“I’ve given you room. I’ve given you time. I’ve been patient,” I said, words sharper now, slicing between us like knives laid on velvet. “But don’t mistake that for being stupid.”

“Rani…”

“No. Listen to me.” I stepped closer, just enough that the hem of my robe brushed the top of her thigh. “Because the second I find out you’re doing something stupid behind my back… if you so much as think about messing with my trust… I swear on every ounce of dignity I have…”

I paused. Letting the fire in my throat burn before I said it.

“I will use every single one of your heels and every single Birkins you ever bought to slap you across the face.”

Her lips parted slightly. Shock? Amusement? Guilt? I couldn’t tell. She was too good at hiding.

But my voice didn’t shake.

“You think I won’t?” I added, eyes flashing. “Try me. I’ll use the red Birkin first. The one you hide in the back of your closet because you said the shade doesn’t match anything. That one’s going straight to your cheek.”

I could feel the heat crawling up my neck, but I didn’t flinch.

“Then the Manolo Blahniks with the satin strap, you know, the pair you only wear for gala nights? I’ll make sure that heel hits your jaw so gracefully you’ll hear every carat of disappointment I’m holding back.”

Lamia blinked. Her jaw clenched, but her mouth stayed shut.

Good.

Because I wasn’t finished.

“And after that?” I said, lowering my voice. “After I’ve beat the lies out of you with every overpriced luxury item you’ve ever flaunted in this house, I’ll go back upstairs, breastfeed our daughter, kiss our son goodnight, and sleep peacefully knowing I put you in your place.”

She stared at me.

She stood still. That unreadable look on her face didn’t change right away, but I saw something flicker in her eyes, hurt, maybe. Or guilt. I couldn’t tell. I didn’t want to assume.

Not when my chest was already heaving with too much guessing.

And then finally, Lamia exhaled, slow, heavy, and with it came the words I’d been waiting to hear… but not sure I could fully believe yet.

“Don’t be paranoid,” she said, voice low. Not defensive. Just… tired. “I’ll never cheat on you, Rani.”

My jaw tensed.

“You’re the only person I love.”

She said it like it was fact. Like I should have known. Like it was obvious. But it wasn’t obvious, not when I’ve been sitting up every night for the past week wondering what changed. Not when she left this morning without even coffee. Not when she didn’t even bother to send a single message all day, and now stands in front of me, trying to brush it off like I’m just imagining things.

I didn’t say anything right away.

I watched her.

Watched the way her hand flexed by her side like she wanted to reach for me but wasn’t sure if she should. Watched how her eyes, those stormy-gray eyes I used to think were made of stone, were now blinking slower than usual, like she was trying not to look away from mine.

“Then show me,” I said softly, but my voice cut through the space between us like a blade.

She blinked. “What?”

“Don’t just say it,” I said, stepping back half an inch, enough to breathe. “Don’t just say you love me, Lamia. Don’t just tell me you’ll never cheat.”

My arms were still crossed, but my voice trembled now. Just enough.

“Because I don’t care how expensive your shoes are or how rare your words are, if your actions don’t match them, they mean nothing.”

I felt something tighten in my chest as I went on.

“You’ve been distant. Absent. And not just physically, Lamia. You’re here, but not really. You hold the kids but I can see the clock ticking behind your eyes. You kiss me, but it feels like an afterthought. You leave before sunrise, come home long after dinner, and I don’t even get a message, not even one to tell me how your day went.”

I shook my head. “And I’ve been giving you space. Because I understand pressure. I understand deadlines and chaos and everything else that comes with the weight of work. But if you think I’m just going to stay quiet while you slip back into the shadows of who you used to be…”

My voice dropped lower. A whisper. A confession.

“I can’t. Not again.”

There. I said it.

And suddenly the air felt heavier. Like my own honesty had finally caught up with me.

Lamia stayed quiet.

But I could see her swallow hard. Her throat bobbed, like the words she wanted to say were stuck. Her fingers curled at her sides again, and this time she did take a step forward, but she didn’t touch me yet.

Instead, she met my eyes and said, firmer now, “I swear to you, Rani. I’m not doing anything behind your back. There’s no one else. There will never be anyone else.”

Her voice didn’t shake.

But mine almost did when I whispered back, “Then don’t make me feel like there is.”

Because love, in our house, had never been soft and perfect. It was full of edges and pauses and history. But if I was going to protect this family, our children, our marriage, I needed to know she wasn’t just saying the right things.

I needed to feel them.

See them.

And for the first time in days… I saw the flash of old Lamia again, the one who fought for me, the one who showed up, the one who didn’t hide.

She reached out slowly, finally resting her hand on my elbow.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”

Lamia just stood there for a second, her back still to the door she had closed behind her, the faint scent of her perfume trailing into the dim bedroom air like it had a life of its own. I was still sitting on the edge of the bed, arms crossed, silk robe cinched tight around my waist, and my hair clipped up in a way that was clearly more for utility than beauty tonight.

But my stare? That one had teeth.

Her eyes flicked toward me, slowly, like she already knew what was coming.

“I’m sorry,” she said before I could speak again.

That caught me off guard. Not because I didn’t want to hear it but because it came out soft. No defense, no sass, no smart retort. Just… real.

“I really am,” she added, stepping out of her heels, one click at a time. “I didn’t mean to make you feel ignored, Rani. I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

I didn’t say anything. Not yet.

She crossed the room slowly, ditching her clutch on the dresser and reaching up to pull the pins from her half-up hairdo, letting those soft waves tumble down her shoulders. Her eyes never left mine, like she was trying to read the temperature in the room with every step she took.

And when she was just in front of me, bare feet on the marble floor, blouse slightly wrinkled from the long day she bent down slightly and placed both her hands on my knees.

“Sweetheart,” she said gently, “I know I’ve been coming home late. And I know I haven’t been explaining things well. But it’s not because I don’t care. It’s because I care so much, I’m trying to get everything back in place at work. I thought if I just handled it all, you wouldn’t have to stress.”

I looked at her, jaw clenched, but something in me was already softening at how sincere her voice was.

“Still,” she added, “that wasn’t fair to you.”

She reached up and slowly uncrossed my arms with her hands, not forcefully just coaxing me with those long, manicured fingers until my arms dropped at my sides. Then she leaned in and pressed a kiss to my shoulder. Then another, up my collarbone, and one to my cheekbone, just barely brushing her lips against my skin like she was asking permission with every touch.

“I missed you,” she whispered.

I hated that I could already feel my heart twisting.

She slid onto the bed beside me, her legs folded underneath her, and rested her head on my shoulder. One arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me in gently, like I was something fragile she’d almost dropped.

“I’m really sorry, baby,” she murmured. “I hate seeing you upset… and I hate knowing I’m the reason.”

I didn’t speak yet, not because I didn’t have words, but because I was letting myself feel what she was saying. Letting the tension uncoil inside my chest, piece by piece, until the silence between us wasn’t icy… it was warm.

“You smell like printer ink and peppermint,” I finally muttered, my voice low.

She giggled softly against my neck. “Office survival combo.”

“And guilt.”

She looked up at me with a slight pout. “Guilt too.”

Then she reached for my hand and brought it to her lips, kissing the back of it like she was some charming villain in a telenovela who just realized she loved her wife more than she loved being right.

“Let me make it up to you,” she said, tracing her thumb over my knuckles. “Tomorrow… let’s do something just us. I’ll take the day off. No phones. Just you and me. I’ll even let you pick the playlist.”

I blinked at her. “Even if it’s all early 2000s girly pop?”

“Even if it’s a Britney Spears takeover,” she promised, dead serious.

I didn’t laugh, not fully. But my lips curled. Just a little.

She smiled like she’d won something sacred.

Then she got up and went over to my vanity, grabbed a bottle of lavender oil, and walked back with a look of pure mischief on her face.

“Lie down,” she said sweetly. “Let me give you a massage.”

“You look more tired than me.”

“Still,” she said, already rolling up her sleeves. “I’d rather be the tired wife than the emotionally unavailable one.”

That got a real smile out of me.

As I lay down on my stomach, feeling the mattress dip under her weight as she straddled my thighs and poured the lavender oil into her palms, I exhaled slowly into the soft pillows and closed my eyes.

It didn’t fix everything. But it reminded me why I stayed. Why I trusted her. Why I still wanted to believe every word she said.

Her palms were warm against my lower back, moving in slow, slow circles. The lavender oil smelled even stronger now that her skin was rubbing it into mine, rich and calming, but with the faintest flicker of spice every time her fingers dipped just a little lower than they were supposed to.

I exhaled into the pillow, hips sinking deeper into the mattress. I knew what she was doing.

“You’re not massaging,” I mumbled, my voice muffled.

“Excuse me?” Lamia said innocently, her hands still working small, lazy circles into my waist. “This is a very professional massage. Five stars on Yelp.”

I snorted, trying not to smile. “You’re tracing hearts.”

“Anatomical hearts,” she corrected. “I’m smart like that.”

I turned my face to the side, just enough to peek at her from over my shoulder. She was sitting astride me, long hair pushed over one shoulder, her blouse now unbuttoned at the top, like she’d done it absentmindedly to breathe better. Or to get a reaction. Probably both. Her lips were glossy again—how did she manage to find time to reapply anything?

“You think this’ll get you out of trouble?” I murmured.

She leaned down until I could feel her breath on my cheek, her fingers now trailing down the small of my back. “That depends,” she whispered, “is it working?”

I hated how my skin reacted before I even spoke. Goosebumps. Shivers. A little flutter in my chest.

“I’m still mad at you,” I muttered.

“Okay,” she whispered again, her lips brushing against my ear this time. “Be mad.”

She kissed my shoulder, her fingers sliding underneath the strap of my robe and pushing it aside gently. “Be mad… while I kiss this perfect skin.”

Another kiss. Lower this time. Slower.

“Be mad… while I remind you you’re the only girl I ever wanted to come home to.”

I swallowed thickly, not trusting my voice.

Her hands slid up again, this time massaging higher, my shoulders, the back of my neck, her thumbs moving with just enough pressure to make me arch slightly into the bed.

“Be mad…” she murmured, her voice a soft tease now, “while I take care of every part of you I missed all week.”

I bit my lip, hard.

“Lamia…”

“Yes, baby?”

“That’s not the massage you promised.”

“Oh,” she said innocently, kissing the spot between my shoulder blades. “Isn’t it?”

I could feel her smile against my skin. She knew exactly what she was doing. She was being a brat in the most seductive way. Playful, flirty, girly, like she was daring me to forgive her just so she could get away with more.

Her hands trailed back down, thumbs pressing into my hips now, the robe riding up slightly with every slow stroke.

“You smell like vanilla and trouble,” she whispered.

I half-laughed into the pillow. “And you smell like guilt and lipstick.”

“Mmm. My favorite combination.”

She bent down again, pressing kisses across my bare back, each one slow, each one lingering longer than the last. Her hair tickled my skin, her breath warm and steady, and I could feel the smile fading from my lips not because I was angry, but because I was… melting.

Again.

“Tell me to stop,” she whispered.

I didn’t.

Instead, I turned my head fully, eyes meeting hers under the soft bedside light. Her lashes were thick, her lips glossy, her cheeks a little flushed now not from guilt, but from heat.

I reached back blindly, grabbing a handful of her robe where it had loosened, and tugged her closer.

“You’re annoying,” I whispered.

“And you’re still obsessed with me,” she whispered back.

And the truth was… she wasn’t wrong.

Because even when she drove me insane… even when I wanted to scream at her for leaving me hanging all day with no explanation, no message, no call… I still wanted her. I still craved her kisses, her hands, her warmth curling around me like a secret no one else got to know.

Her lips brushed mine, soft, unsure this time, like she was waiting for a sign that I was done being angry.

And the worst part?

I already was.

To be continued…