The Mirror
Julian's silk still clung to her shoulders, carrying his warmth. But in the glass she saw only fractures. Her throat bore faint marks, her palm stung with cuts that had not yet closed. Red lipstick bled too bold against skin gone pale.
The reflection split her in two: the woman immaculate enough to walk into any room, and the hollow one who had folded against him whispering that it was her fault.
Her phone buzzed.
Dinner. Tonight.
No flourish. No question. Just weight.
Ethan.
Her chest constricted. She could ignore it. She could forward it to Julian like he told her. But habit: fear, guilt, old reflexes stitched too deep, moved faster than resolve
Her thumb pressed.
Yes.
The word left her body like blood from a vein.
The Table
The restaurant glowed with chatter and glass, light dancing across silverware. But at their table, silence pressed harder than any crowd.
Bourbon laced Ethan's breath. His shirt was crisp, sleeves rolled, jaw tight. His eyes fixed on her like proof he meant to extract.
"You've been somewhere else," he said at last. Even voice, deliberate words. "With someone else."
Her stomach dropped. The lie dissolved before it reached her lips.
He leaned closer, voice dipped in venom. "Do I disgust you so much you had to go to him?"
Her glass trembled against her lip. She set it down too fast, wine shivering in crystal.
His hand slid across the linen, trapping her wrist beneath his palm. To anyone else it looked like touch. She knew it for what it was: a grip.
The Grip
"Say it," Ethan pressed, thumb circling once against her skin.
Her chest locked. Memory struck: glass on tile, his weight, his voice rasping at her ear: I thought this is how you like it
Her voice cracked raw. "Yes."
The word gutted her. His expression sharpened into triumph, as if her admission were confirmation, not confession.
His hand slid under the table, pressing against her thigh, inching her skirt higher. His other hand forced hers downward, palm crushed against the hard line beneath his trousers.
"You feel that?" His grin cut vicious. "That's yours. Why would you want him when I can give you what you need?"
Bile burned her throat. Shame pressed into her palm, heat and weight she hadn't chosen.
The Poison
He released her wrist only to reach for the wine. His hand brushed hers, guiding the glass back to her lips.
She shook her head. His hand covered hers, forcing the glass upward.
"Drink."
Her throat tightened. She shook her head faintly. His smile sharpened.
"Don't make a scene."
She obeyed. The first swallow seared, bitter-sweet. The second left her tongue numb. By the third, her stomach churned. Heat crawled her veins, limbs growing slow, heavy.
Her hand trembled as she set the glass down. The room tilted. Sound warped, muffled. Her own pulse thundered in her ears.
Ethan's gaze never left her. He leaned in, voice low. "Better. Easier, isn't it?"
The Snare
Ethan's grip tightened at her chin, tilting her face upward, smiling as though he had already won.
"If you're lucky," he whispered, venom thick, "maybe I'll give you round two. Do you remember, Lena?"
Her stomach lurched. His hand slid higher along her thigh, fingers climbing slow, deliberate. The fabric of her dress bunched, thin barrier useless as he pushed it aside and entered her without permission, without care.
Her body went rigid, breath strangled in her throat. To anyone else at the table he looked like a husband leaning close, intimate.
"You feel that?" His voice cut low, brutal. "That's mine. Not his. Not ever his."
Her other hand slipped into her bag, fumbling, desperate. Her phone blurred in her vision, weightless in her grasp. Julian's vow thundered through her skull: You come back to me. Always back to me.
Her thumb found the screen. She typed the only word that mattered. Red. Send.
Ethan's breath scraped against her ear. "He won't save you, Lena. He never will."
Her phone buzzed once in her palm.
He'd seen it.
Julian was coming.