8. Real Affection #2
Marcus looked up at her. Even without audio, the raw, unfiltered hunger on his face was unmistakable. He reached up, cupping the back of her neck, and pulled her down.
They kissed. It was a deep, familiar, bruising kiss that spoke of hundreds of hours spent alone together.
I watched his hands slide down her back, gripping her waist exactly the way he used to grip mine.
I sat perfectly still, watching the screen with cold focus. The man on the monitor was a stranger. The woman was a parasite. They were just data points in a legal equation.
“That’s enough,” I said quietly.
Hayes clicked the mouse. The video paused, freezing on the image of Marcus’s hand tangled in my mother’s hair.
“It’s clear,” Hayes said, his eyes scanning the frozen frame. “The faces are entirely visible. Julian Sinclair will take one look at this and get the injunction signed in five minutes.”
“Send it to him.”
Hayes minimized the video window. He opened a secure web browser, navigating to the encrypted client portal Sinclair had set up for us. He typed in the password, attached the MP4 file, and hit upload.
A green progress bar filled the center of the screen. Five seconds later, a checkmark appeared.
File Upload Complete.
“It’s done,” Hayes said. He closed the browser, deleted the local copy of the file from his desktop, and emptied the server’s cache. He reached forward and pressed the power button on the primary monitor.
The screen went black. The office plunged into deep, heavy shadows, illuminated only by the faint amber glow of the computer tower sitting on the floor.
I stared at the black monitor.
The trap was officially armed. On Friday, Sinclair would walk into a judge’s chamber and end my marriage. Marcus would be locked out of his accounts, publicly humiliated in front of his CEO, and legally barred from the house. Sylvia would be left with nothing.
I just felt empty. A hollow exhaustion settled into my bones.
For months—maybe years—my husband and my mother had betrayed me.
Every kiss, every touch, every gentle word I had received was a calculated lie, designed to keep me docile while they lived their actual lives.
I felt dirty, covered in an invisible layer of fake affection that couldn’t be scrubbed off with soap and water.
I looked away from the monitor at Hayes.
He sat quietly in the executive chair beside me, guarding the space. He was a quiet, physical anchor in a room that felt as if it were spinning.
There was nothing polished about him. The bridge of his nose was slightly crooked, as if it had been broken a long time ago and never set quite right.
I realized with sudden clarity that I didn’t want to go back to that empty house. I didn’t want to sit alone in the dark and wait for Friday. I wanted to feel something that wasn’t a lie. I wanted to be touched by someone who actually saw me.
Shifting in my chair, I reached across the narrow gap between us and pressed my palm flat against the center of his chest.
Beneath the worn cotton of his T-shirt, I felt the solid thud of his heartbeat. Hayes froze. He slowly turned his head, his gray eyes locking onto mine in the shadows.
“Elena,” Hayes murmured.
“I don’t want to go back,” I said without flinching. “Not right now. Not yet.”
Hayes stared at me. Shifting his weight, he turned his body fully toward me and reached up. His large, calloused hand wrapped gently but firmly around my wrist, holding me in place against his chest.
“You’ve just witnessed something horrific,” Hayes said, his tone low and rigorously controlled. “You’re hurt. You’re in shock. Don’t make any decisions you’ll regret.”
His pragmatic honesty anchored me. He was ensuring I retained my autonomy, refusing to take advantage of the chaos in my head. But it wasn’t pragmatism I needed right now.
“I’m not hurt,” I said, looking directly into his eyes. “I feel disgusted. I’ve spent my marriage letting a stranger handle me like property. I want to know what it feels like to be touched by someone who is actually real.”
I uncurled my fingers, sliding my hand up the solid wall of his chest until my thumb brushed against the rough stubble on his jawline.
“You’re the only real thing left in my life, Hayes.”
Hayes clenched his jaw. “Are you sure?” he asked. “Because if you cross this line with me right now, I’m not going to stop.”
Liquid warmth pooled low in my stomach. The clinical detachment I’d been using to survive the week shattered completely.
“I’m sure,” I replied.
Leaning forward, I closed the final few inches between us and kissed him.
For a fraction of a second, Hayes remained perfectly still, absorbing the contact. Then, his restraint snapped.
He groaned, a dark sound torn straight from his chest. He let go of my wrist, bringing both hands up to frame my face. His calloused fingers tangled deep into my hair, holding my head secure as he kissed me back.
He parted my lips, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, demanding access. e devoured me with a ferocious heat that sent a violent shudder straight down my spine. He tasted like black coffee and sheer possession.
I gasped into his mouth, my hands flying up to grip his shoulders. The muscles beneath his shirt were corded with tension.
He shifted his grip, sliding one hand down the side of my neck, tracing the line of my collarbone.
Then, his palm flattened against my back.
He pulled me forward, lifting me slightly out of the chair to press my body flush against his own.
He angled me perfectly so that the heavy curve of my pregnancy rested comfortably against his hip.
I fisted my hands into the fabric of his shirt. Every slide of his mouth, every scrape of his stubble against my chin, burned away the residue of Marcus’s touches.
He broke the kiss, his breathing harsh and ragged in the dark room. He rested his forehead against mine, his thumbs tracing the line of my jaw.
“You’re perfect,” he rasped, his eyes burning into mine.
Keeping one arm securely wrapped around my waist, he stood, pulling me up with him. He didn’t bother turning the lights on. He just guided me backward, out of the office and down the dark hallway, moving toward the open door of his bedroom.
And for the first time since I’d watched my mother and my husband together in bed, I felt free.