19. Anika
— ? —
Anika
Dinner with Theo Lachlan was everything dinner with Neil used to be.
And nothing like it at all.
The restaurant was intimate, tucked away on a side street I’d never noticed. Free from paparazzi and whispers. No one taking photos of us to dissect on social media. Just candlelight and wine and a man who kept his phone in his pocket the entire meal.
“You’re not checking your messages,” I said somewhere between the appetizer and the main course.
Theo raised an eyebrow. “Should I be?”
“Most people do. Constantly.”
“Most people are terrified of being present.” He refilled my wine glass. “I find it exhausting. If someone needs me urgently, they can wait until I’m done enjoying excellent company.”
It was a line. I knew it was a line. But it landed anyway, because Neil had never once made it through a meal without glancing at his phone at least three times.
We talked about art. Then about Milan, about the galleries he thought would love my work and the collectors he wanted to introduce me to. He was smart and charming and attentive in a way that felt almost aggressive, like he was proving a point.
Maybe he was.
“Your work deserves to be seen by the world,” Theo said over dessert. “It’s criminal that you’ve been hiding in New York while your husband builds his empire.”
“I haven’t been hiding.”
“Haven’t you?” He leaned back in his chair, studying me with those knowing eyes. “You have extraordinary talent. You should be showing in Paris, London, Tokyo. Instead, you’ve been playing supportive wife to a man who doesn’t deserve you.”
“That’s not your call.”
“No. But it’s an observation.” He sipped his wine. “He wrote that you weren’t compatible. In a diary. While married to you. While looking at photographs of your face every day.” Theo shook his head slowly. “I would never write something like that about anyone. Let alone someone I claimed to love.”
I didn’t have an answer for that.
Because he was right. Whatever Theo’s motives were, whatever game he was playing, he was right about that one thing. Neil had written those words. Neil had looked at my face every day and convinced himself I was the problem.
“The offer stands,” Theo said as we left the restaurant. “Milan. Whenever you’re ready. And dinner again, if you’d like. No pressure. No expectations.”
He walked me home. The night was cool, the streets quiet, and he kept a respectful distance the entire way. When we reached Anwesha’s building, he stopped at the corner.
“This is where I leave you.”
“You’re not going to try to kiss me?”
He smiled. “Would you like me to?”
“No.”
“Then I won’t.” He took my hand, brushed his lips across my knuckles in a gesture that was either old-fashioned or calculated. Probably both. “Think about Milan. Think about what you want your life to look like.”
He walked away. I watched him disappear around the corner, feeling no spark or at least a flutter. Just a vague appreciation for a man who knew how to make an exit.
I turned around.
And there was Neil.
Across the street, leaning against his car. His arms crossed and his face unreadable.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I crossed to him. The street was empty, the only sound my heels on the pavement and the distant hum of the city.
“How long?” I asked.
“Since you got in his car.”
“You followed me.”
“Yes.”
“For three hours.”
“I had to know you were safe.”
“Safe.” I stepped closer, close enough to see the tension in his jaw. “Or faithful?”
His eyes were dark, unblinking.
“Both.”
“I didn’t kiss him.”
“I know.” His voice was low, rough. “I watched you not kiss him.”
“That’s insane.”
“That’s a man who’s done pretending he doesn’t care.” He stepped toward me, closing the distance between us until I could feel the heat radiating off his body. “Did you think about me?”
My breath caught.
I should have lied. Should have said no, just to hurt him, just to make him feel a fraction of what I’d felt all those nights alone.
But I was tired of lying, tired of pretending.
“The whole time,” I said.
Something broke in his face.
He moved so fast I didn’t see it coming. His hands were in my hair and his mouth was on mine and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything except grab his jacket and hold on.
The kiss was not gentle.
Eight years of history and weeks of agony and all the words we hadn’t said, poured into the press of lips and the slide of tongues. He kissed me like he was drowning and I was air. Like he’d been waiting his whole life for this moment and couldn’t believe it was finally here.
He pushed me back against the car. The metal was cold through my dress, but his body was hot, pressing into me, and the contrast made me gasp. His hands slid down my sides, gripping my hips, pulling me closer.
“Take me upstairs,” I said against his mouth.
He pulled back just enough to look at me. His eyes were black, searching.
“Are you sure? Anwesha could be-”
“I’ve never been less sure about anything in my life.” I fisted my hands in his shirt. “Do it anyway. Anwesha will be out till midnight.”
We barely made it through the door.
He had me pressed against it before it even closed, his mouth hot on my throat, his hands working at the zipper of my dress. I fumbled with the lock behind me while he pulled the fabric down my shoulders, and we were both breathing too hard, moving too fast, completely incapable of patience.
“Wall,” I gasped. “Now.”
He lifted me in one fluid motion. My back hit the plaster and my legs wrapped around his waist and I could feel him hard against me through his slacks, straining, desperate.
“I need you,” he said against my collarbone. “I’ve needed you every second of every day since you left.”
“Then take me.”
He fumbled with his belt. I reached down to help, and between the two of us we managed to free him, and then he was pushing inside me and I forgot how to think.
The stretch of him was exquisite. Familiar and new all at once, like coming home to a place you’d almost forgotten existed. He paused for just a moment, forehead pressed to mine, both of us breathing the same air.
“Eyes on me,” he said.
I looked. His eyes were wet.
“It’s only ever been you,” he whispered. “Do you understand? Only you.”
“I know.” I cupped his face in my hands. “Now move.”
He moved.
Hard and fast and exactly what I needed. Every thrust drove me higher, wound me tighter, pushed me closer to an edge I was desperate to fall over. His hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise. His breath was ragged against my neck.
“I thought about this,” he gasped. “Every night. Lying in our bed alone, thinking about being inside you, wanting to die from how much I missed you.”
“Don’t fucking die.” I bit his earlobe. “I’m not done with you.”
He groaned and drove into me harder. The wall shook. Something fell over somewhere in the apartment and neither of us cared.
The orgasm hit me like a wave, crashing over me, pulling me under. I cried out his name and felt him falter, felt his control slip, felt him bury himself deep and follow me over.
We stayed like that for a long moment. Pressed against the wall, still joined, both of us trembling.
Then he lifted his head.
“Bed,” he said. “I’m not done with you either.”
He carried me down the hall without pulling out. Laid me on the sheets like I was something precious. Withdrew slowly, making me whimper at the loss, and then kissed his way down my body.
“Your turn,” he murmured against my hip. “I want to taste you.”
His mouth found me, and I stopped thinking entirely.
He was thorough. He learned me all over again, finding every spot that made me gasp, every rhythm that made me shake. He brought me to the edge and held me there until I was begging, and only then did he give me what I needed.
I shattered with his name on my lips.
Before I could catch my breath, he was over me again, sliding inside, and we moved together in a rhythm that felt like muscle memory. Slower this time, deeper. His eyes never left mine.
“I love you,” he said as we both crested.
We came together. He collapsed beside me, pulling me against his chest, and for a long moment we just lay there, breathing.
“This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” I said eventually.
“I’m not expecting you to.”
I propped myself up on an elbow and looked at him. He looked wrecked, satisfied, but also terrified.
“So where were we?”