7. Victoria
— ? —
Victoria
I waited as long as I could before going upstairs.
The room was beautiful, which somehow made it worse. White linens, balcony doors open to the ocean breeze. And in the center of everything, one king-sized bed, mocking me.
Timothy was already there, standing at the window. He turned when I walked in.
“You’re sleeping on the floor.”
“I know.” He was already pulling extra blankets from the closet.
“And you’re not going to use this as some kind of-”
“I’m not going to touch you, Victoria.” He set the pillow on the carpet, met my eyes. “Not until you want me to.”
I hated how that landed. Hated the part of me that wanted to ask what if I want you to.
I changed in the bathroom, climbed into the massive bed, and turned off the lamp.
The storm woke me at two in the morning.
Lightning strobed through the balcony doors, turning the room white-blue-white in rapid succession. Thunder cracked so loud the windows rattled, and I sat up in bed, heart slamming against my ribs, disoriented and gasping.
I couldn’t see anything. The power had gone out, and the room was pitch black between the lightning flashes. Just darkness and noise and the howling wind.
“Victoria.”
His voice in the dark, closer than the floor.
“It’s just a storm.”
“I know it’s a storm.” My voice came out sharper than I meant, edged with the panic I was trying to swallow. “I’m not a child, I just-”
Lightning flashed again, and I saw him. Standing beside the bed. His eyes on my face.
Then darkness.
His hand found my jaw.
I stopped breathing.
His palm was warm against my skin, his thumb resting just below my cheekbone. I couldn’t see him, but I could feel him everywhere - the heat of his body close to mine, the careful pressure of his fingers, the way he held me like I might shatter.
“Tell me to stop.”
His voice was low. Rough. Nothing like the polished businessman I’d married.
I should tell him. I should say the word and mean it and push him away, because this was exactly what I’d promised myself wouldn’t happen. I was leaving him. I was done. I wasn’t going to let one dark room and one moment of weakness undo four months of rebuilding myself.
But his thumb traced my cheekbone, and my whole body betrayed me.
“Go to sleep, Timothy.”
My voice came out wrecked. Barely a whisper.
He held there for one more heartbeat. Two. His breath warm on my lips, close enough that if I leaned forward even an inch-
He released me.
Stepped back.
Returned to the floor without a word.
I lay in the dark, untouched, burning.
***
The storm raged for another hour.
I didn’t sleep. Couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt his hand on my jaw again. Felt how badly I’d wanted to close the distance. Felt the mortifying truth of my own desire, still alive after everything he’d done.
You’re supposed to hate him.
The thought was accusatory. Desperate.
You’re supposed to be over this.
But my body didn’t care about what I was supposed to feel. My body remembered five years of his touch, his mouth, the weight of him in our bed. My body was a traitor, and it wanted him even now, even after the empty chairs and the missed dinners and Michelle’s hands on his chest.
***
Gray light crept through the balcony doors.
I must have slept eventually, because I woke to find the room transformed by morning. The storm had washed everything clean - the sky was pale blue, the ocean calm, birds singing somewhere outside.
Timothy was sitting up, his back against the wall, watching me.
I blinked at him, still fuzzy with sleep.
“How long have you been awake?”
“A while.”
“That’s creepy.”
“Probably.” He didn’t smile. Didn’t look away. “I couldn’t sleep. Kept thinking about what I should have said last night.”
I pushed myself up against the headboard, pulling the sheet with me. The room felt too small suddenly. Too intimate.
“There’s nothing to say.”
“There’s everything to say.” He shifted, and I noticed the shadows under his eyes. The lines of tension in his shoulders. “I don’t know what happened that night, Victoria. I don’t know what you think you saw. But I know what I did for five years.”
My chest tightened.
“I’m talking to someone,” he said quietly. “A therapist. Learning why I never could say things out loud.”
I blinked. That wasn’t what I’d expected.
“Since when?”
“Since the week you left. Since I saw your face in Daniela’s window.” He swallowed hard. “I’ve never said a feeling out loud in my entire life. I didn’t even know that was a problem until you were gone.”
I didn’t know what to do with this information. It felt too vulnerable. Too real. Like he’d handed me a weapon and trusted me not to use it.
“Let me answer for the right crime,” he said. His eyes held mine, steady and serious. “Whatever you think happened at that party - let me answer for the five years, not the night.”
Ask him about Michelle.
The question sat on my tongue, heavy and bitter.
Ask him what really happened.
But asking meant caring about the answer. Asking meant admitting that I still wanted him to be innocent. That I still wanted a version of this story where he chose me.
A knock at the door cut the moment in half.
“Victoria! Breakfast in ten minutes, the aunts are waiting!”
His shirt was still on the floor between us. The bed unmade. My heart still pounding from almost.
I didn’t ask the question.