Chapter 3
Ana
“I’ll come back, Ana,” he says as I step down from the passenger seat, my heels swinging from my fingers by their thin straps. I don’t have the strength to look him in the face, so I just squeeze my eyes shut, blocking out the sight of his car in the driveway.
“The keys,” I mutter, holding out a numb palm before I forget. He drops them into my hand through the open window.
I open my eyes to look at him, he is sad.
I can see the weight of it in his eyes, but I am far too burdened by my own starvation to take on his guilt tonight.
While he sits idle behind the wheel, I push past the gate, step onto the porch, and shove the key into the lock.
It turns with a sharp click. I slip inside and shut the door against the rest of the world.
The moment the latch meets the frame, the roar of his ignition rattles the glass.
I press my spine against the door, the strength draining from my limbs as the tears finally spill down to my cheeks.
My knees buckle. I let myself slide down the wood, dropping straight to the ground.
My hands loosen, and my heels fall to the floor with a dull thud.
I bury my face in my hands as the sobs wrack my chest.
Three years. It has been three years since we exchanged vows. And still, he has never tried kissing me the way a man is supposed to kiss his wife. I can feel the physical resistance the second his lips touch mine—the exact moment he pulls away and retreats deep back into his pristine shell.
It is a specific kind of torture to have a husband as fine as Fred and be forbidden from touching him. Every time my fingers trail over his skin, his posture goes rigid, making me feel like my hands are a sin.
I stand, forcing my shaking legs to carry me up to the bedroom to change.
The frustration has been pressing on my mind for months, a constant thought.
I want the remainder of his touch—the part he keeps locked away.
I want the kisses that stretch for more than two seconds.
I want hands that gather my rear, hands that harden my nipples, a mouth that leaves a trail of heat across every inch of my skin.
As I unclip my earrings, I lick my dry lips, listening to the pulse jumping in my throat.
My eyes are dilated in the mirror. God knows how many times I have tried warning him what this isolation does to my body.
But every single time, he just looks at me with those innocent eyes and says, “The Lord is our strength.”
A sharp beep cuts through the quiet. I reach into my purse and pull out my phone.
The text is from Mr. Dawson. My boss. Ordinarily, I would have tossed the device onto the mattress without a second thought, but my fingers lock around the screen. Why? Because the words sitting in the white bubble read: Just to remind you of how beautiful you are.
It is a cringeworthy line, a textbook line, but it plants a dark seed in my mind. I throw the phone onto the dresser, letting out a long, ragged sigh as I stare at my reflection. The tears are still wet. My fingers are shaking.
I know exactly what I am about to do. Oh Lord, please help me, I pray, the words tasting like ash.
The moment the prayer leaves my lips, the imagery of what I want my husband to do to me floods my mind.
It plays in HD behind my eyelids, vivid and relentless, turning me into an erotic movie I very much want to be in with my husband.
I shake my head roughly, trying to break the focus, but the details only turn sharper.
“Oh God, I don’t... I don’t want to do this,” I whisper.
I look back at the dresser. Dawson’s message is still open, the light illuminating the wood.
I grind my teeth together until my jaw aches, my gaze drifting to the silver portrait of Fred sitting at the far end of the vanity table.
A pull of liquid pools below my stomach, a sudden surge of heat that makes me catch my breath.
I rub my thighs together, desperately trying to hold back the physical evidence of my own betrayal, staring at the mirror as my body completely gives up on my morals.
I grab the phone. My thumb hits the keys before my conscience can stop the momentum.
Let’s meet at Hotel de Royale.
His reply flashes back almost instantaneously. Should I come pick you up?
No, I’ll drive, I type.
I force the small studs back into my earlobes, snatch my purse, and head for the door.
Just as my hand touches the brass knob, a sharp prick of guilt stalls my feet.
The clothes I am wearing—this is the dress I was supposed to wear to the evening service.
I swallow hard, knowing God is watching from above, but the shame in my chest pushes me forward anyway.
I march to the wardrobe, rip out a plain shirt and a pair of jeans, and throw them on while my heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
A few minutes later, I am sitting in the driver’s seat of my car, the engine idling. The thoughts begin to twist like knives. What if a car swerves in front of you on the highway? What if you crash and die right now—what will you tell the Lord on the judgment seat?
My knuckles turn white as I grip the steering wheel. Then, the reality hits me.
The tracker.
We both installed the location apps on our phones months ago, a mutual agreement so we could find each other in case of an emergency.
I look down at the device in my lap. I pull the car onto the side of the road, killing the engine, and bow my head against the plastic wheel.
I open my eyes, and tears finally spill down to my cheeks, staining my jeans.
I cry out loud, the sound raw and ugly in the cramped interior, choked by a wave of confusion and guilt. “Oh God. Oh God, I just... I just want him to touch me.”
“Am I wrong for wanting that?” I scream into the empty car.
Wait for him, a tiny, quiet whisper echoes from inside the panic.
But my legs won't stop shaking in anticipation. Fred’s face flashes behind my eyes—his soft smile, his grey eyes—and the reality of the stakes settles behind my ribs.
How would he feel if he found out I went to a hotel room to sleep with another man?
I ignite the screen, opening the tracking map.
I stare at his dot, my jaw setting as a desperate, reckless logic takes over.
Maybe if he sees where I am, he will finally come for me. Maybe he will finally touch me then.
With that final thought anchoring my foot, I shift into drive and accelerate toward the hotel.
***
“You’re staring,” he says. “And not at me.”
I shift my gaze, forcing my focus back across the small table until my eyes finally land on him. But my mind refuses to stop traveling.
Why are we both here? The question echoes behind my mind, a nagging loop I cannot silence.
I look at the man sitting opposite me—my boss, the person who leaves fresh flowers on my desk every now and then.
I know exactly what is driving him. I recognize the specific interest in his eyes, yet I sit here anyway.
I let him look at me with that raw, dark intent.
I let him throw compliments at me whenever he pleases, offering no resistance.
I look pointedly at him, the truth forming with terrifying speed in my head.
The reason is simple. I am a starved woman, surviving on crumbs for far too long, desperately searching for some sort of intimacy.
I am on the verge of cheating on my husband.
I look at Dawson, the reality of the bed just a few feet away crashing down on me. I give a slow, firm shake of my head.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, my voice barely a whisper.
We stare at each other across the gap, the silence thick and heavy between us. He nods slowly, his expression shifting into something unreadable. He moves his hand across the wood, his fingers sliding forward until his palm closes over mine.
The moment his skin touches my knuckles, a physical jolt shoots up my arm. I flinch, pulling my hand out of his grip so fast the water glasses rattle. My breathing turns erratic, short gasps tearing from my throat as I look up to face him.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, the panic rising.
Dawson lets out a long sigh, withdrawing both of his hands. He lets them fall onto his thighs, turning his head away to look out the window at the city lights below. “Why did you call me here, Ana?”
I blink rapidly, the tears blurring his outline. Even though I know the exact, shameful answer, my mind goes completely blank. I drop my gaze to the gold band resting on my left hand, the metal catching the dim lamplight.
“To sleep with you, Dawson,” I force the words past my teeth.
He lets out a dry chuckle, leaning his weight back into the chair. He brings his hand to his mouth, tapping his fingers against his lips as he assumes a quiet, thinking position.
“What do you want, Ana?” he asks, his voice level.
My eyes remain trained on his face, but the images inside my head belong to someone else.
“I want him to touch me.” My hands tremble against my knees, my lips quivering.
The truth settles behind my ribs like concrete; I cannot do this.
I cannot touch anyone who isn't him. Fred’s face floods my mind—the specific shade of his grey eyes when he laughs at my oddest jokes, the soft curve of his smile when he looks over his shoulder at me in the kitchen, the warmth of his fingers when he holds my hands to listen to my problems. I think of the times he has rushed out to the pharmacy in the middle of the night just to get a specific medicine I mentioned out of the blue.
I look at the man sitting across from me, the contrast breaking the last of my restraint. I bury my face in both my palms, letting the loud, violent sobs take over.
“Am I not attractive enough?” I ask into my hands. Even though I know deep down that isn't the root of Fred's shield, the rejection makes it impossible to think any other way.
“I know you know you are,” Dawson says, his voice carrying a distinct layer of disappointment. He pushes back from the table, standing up from his chair. We are in a closed hotel room, the vast bed sitting behind him like an accusation.
I look up through my tears. He offers a tight, stiff smile that doesn't even come close to reaching his eyes. He steps toward my side of the table, then pauses, keeping a respectful distance.
“I am sorry for disrespecting you and your husband, Ana,” he says quietly, his hands sliding into his pockets. “I just got carried away by my own emotions.”
I nod, my throat too tight to support a full sentence. “I am sorry.”
He gives a single, brief tap to my shoulder, a platonic gesture of finality, and walks toward the exit. The door clicks firmly shut behind him, leaving the room in silence.
I sit there in silence, my fingers trembling as I ignite my phone screen to check the location app. The map opens. I look at the small icon representing our house, and a fresh wail tears from my throat.
I slide off the chair, dropping to my knees on the carpet, and press my forehead against the floor.
“Sorry,” I whisper into the empty space, sending the word out to God, and to my husband.