Chapter 2 — Staged #4
We had wine in the living room. The conversation was stilted, awkward. Mark made an effort, but his attention was evenly split between me and Ben, constantly gauging Ben’s reactions. It was exactly what was supposed to happen. It felt like a bad audition.
Ben’s hand was on my knee, a possessive, directing touch. “Shall we move upstairs?” he asked, his voice too bright.
In the bedroom, the scene was set. The chair. The low light. Ben took his seat. Mark stood before me, his expression politely aroused.
“You’re even more beautiful up close,” he said, a line that sounded rehearsed.
He kissed me. It was technically proficient. His hands knew where to go. But it was like kissing a mannequin. There was no spark, no current. I closed my eyes, trying to summon the feeling from a week ago, but all I felt was a hollow ache.
Ben’s breathing from the corner was loud in the quiet room.
Mark undressed me with methodical care. He touched me, kissed my breasts, his movements smooth and calculated. I made the right sounds. I arched my back. I was performing. I was giving Ben his show.
But my body was unresponsive. My mind was elsewhere, with a text from an unknown number, with the memory of a shower at dawn, with the feeling of being seen, not watched.
Mark’s fingers dipped between my legs. I was dry.
He paused, glancing at Ben. A flicker of uncertainty crossed his face.
Ben shifted in his chair. “Is everything okay?”
“Fine,” I said quickly, my voice too high. “Just… nerves.”
Mark leaned close, his lips to my ear. “Relax,” he murmured, but it was a stage whisper, for Ben’s benefit. “Just focus on him. Imagine it’s him.”
That was the problem. I didn’t want to imagine it was Ben. And I certainly didn’t want it to be this stranger, this prop.
Mark tried again, his touch more insistent. He positioned himself over me, his cock nudging at my entrance. He pushed, met resistance, and pushed harder. A sharp, unpleasant burn made me gasp.
“Stop,” I said, the word torn from me.
He froze immediately, pulling back. His face was a mask of professional concern. “Okay. We stop.”
Ben was on his feet. “Talia? What’s wrong?”
I scrambled off the bed, pulling the sheet around me. Shame and misery washed over me, hot and cold. “I can’t,” I choked out. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”
The room was dead silent. Mark cleared his throat, gathering his clothes with quiet efficiency. “I’ll just… give you two a moment.”
He dressed quickly and slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.
Ben stood by his chair, his face pale, stricken. “What happened?”
I shook my head, tears spilling over. “It felt wrong. It felt… empty.”
“Empty,” he repeated, the word flat.
“He was just… a body. He was looking at you, Ben. Not at me. Not really.” The truth spilled out, ugly and raw. “Last time… with Leo… he looked at me. He wanted me. Not the show. Just me.”
Ben flinched as if I’d struck him. He sank into his chair, the director’s chair, his head in his hands. “So that’s it,” he said, his voice muffled. “That’s what you need? To feel… personally desired? By him?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to.
He looked up, his eyes red-rimmed. “You need to see him again.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, bleak and resigned.
“What?”
“You need to see him again,” Ben repeated, his voice gaining a strange, hollow strength. “You need to get it out of your system. Or… see what it is. With me watching. Properly. From the start.”
The proposal hung in the air, monstrous and perversely logical. He was trying to reclaim it, to drag the genie back into the bottle by witnessing its power.
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’ve never been more serious.” He stood up, his director’s mask slipping back into place, but it was cracked, desperate. “I’ll contact him. We’ll set it up. Next weekend.”
“Ben, no. That’s a terrible idea.”
“Why?” He took a step toward me. “If it’s just about the sex, the novelty, then you’ll see.
It’ll be just like last time, and then it will be over.
We’ll be done. And if it’s… something else…
” He trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
“Then I need to see that, too. I need to understand what I’m losing. ”
I stared at him, at this man I loved who was offering me up on a platter to another man, not for his pleasure, but in a last-ditch attempt to diagnose the disease in our marriage. It was the most twisted thing he’d ever suggested.
And the most terrifying part was the spark that ignited in the pit of my stomach at the thought. Seeing Leo again. Letting Ben watch. Letting him see what happened when the actor forgot the director was there.
“Okay,” I whispered, the word a surrender to something dark and inevitable.
He nodded, a grim finality in the gesture. “Okay.”
Downstairs, we heard the front door close softly. Mark had let himself out. The performance was over before it had even begun.
Ben walked to the window, looking out at the dark street. “I’ll message him tomorrow.”
I stood in the middle of our bedroom, the sheet still wrapped around me, feeling the walls of my life reshape themselves into a new, unsettling configuration. The front-row seat was waiting. But this time, we all knew the play was already ruined.