Adrian nearly catches them
1390 Words
The hotel room smells like sweat and sandalwood, heavy and sticky, the kind of smell that lingers no matter how many windows you open. Our clothes are all over the floor, his jacket slung across the chair, my panties a few feet away like some pathetic flag of surrender. And on the nightstand, right next to the half-empty glass of water, my wedding ring. Gleaming. Watching.
It should make me sick. I should feel shame crawling over my skin.
But I don’t.
Instead, lying here with Damian’s arm thrown over me, his chest rising and falling against my cheek, I feel more alive than I have in months. Maybe years.
“We should go,” I whisper, even though I don’t move. I don’t want to move.
He hums low in his throat, fingers drawing lazy shapes across my bare back. “Should we? Or should we stay here and let the rest of the world fall away?”
God, I want that. Just this hotel room forever, where nothing exists but his hands and the way he makes me feel like I matter. Out there, I’m Adrian’s wife. In here, I’m… Elena. Just me.
But the world never stays gone for long.
My phone buzzes against the nightstand. I ignore it the first time. Then the second. The third. Finally, Damian sighs and hands it to me.
Adrian.
My stomach sinks.
“Shit.”
“Don’t answer,” Damian says, his voice gravelly with sleep and s*x.
“I have to.” My fingers are already reaching for it, even though my hands are shaking.
I swipe to accept. “Hi.”
“Where are you?” Adrian’s voice is sharp. No pleasantries. No warmth.
My throat tightens. “The spa. Remember? I told you I had an appointment today.”
The lie slips out like it belongs to me. Too smooth. Too easy.
“Which spa?”
My blood freezes. Adrian doesn’t ask those kinds of questions. He’s never cared.
“The usual one. Serenity, downtown.”
“I called them. They said you canceled this morning.”
Fuck. f**k. f**k.
I sit up so fast I nearly fall off the bed. Damian is watching me now, alert, jaw set.
“Oh, that. Yeah. I rescheduled. Traffic was awful, so I just went to that little place on Fifth.” My voice sounds calm, like I’m talking about grocery shopping, not standing on the edge of a cliff.
Silence. Too long. Then Adrian says, “I’m sending Marcus to pick you up.”
“What? Adrian, that’s not,”
“You forgot we have dinner with the Hendersons. Be outside in twenty minutes.”
And then he hangs up.
The phone slides out of my hand and lands on the sheets.
“Problem?” Damian’s voice is too calm, but his eyes aren’t.
“Adrian’s sending Marcus. Your Marcus.”
Damian curses under his breath. “He called the spa?”
“He knows I lied.”
“How suspicious is he?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. This isn’t like him. He’s never checked up on me before. Never.”
“Unless he already suspects.”
The words make me cold all over. What if Adrian has been watching me, waiting for me to trip up?
“What do we do?”
“We get you out of here and home. Marcus will handle it.” Damian is already pulling on his pants, his movements sharp, controlled. “But you need to move now.”
I scramble for my dress, my hands fumbling with the zipper. It’s wrinkled, damp, smells faintly like s*x. Evidence. I catch sight of myself in the bathroom mirror and nearly choke. My lips are swollen, my cheeks flushed, my hair wild. I look like every cliché of an unfaithful wife.
Adrian will take one look at me and know.
“Breathe,” Damian says, appearing behind me in the mirror. His hands rest on my shoulders, steady.
“I can’t,” I whisper. “Look at me. I look,”
“Beautiful.”
“Guilty,” I snap back.
He turns me to face him, his hands cupping my face. His eyes are soft but firm. “Elena, listen to me. You’re not wrong. Adrian treats you like a piece of furniture. He doesn’t see you. You deserve to be wanted.”
“Society won’t see it that way.”
“f**k society.”
“Your business will.”
His jaw flexes. For a second I see the flicker of truth in his eyes, he knows the risk. But then he says, steady and certain, “You’re worth it.”
For a moment, I almost believe him.
“Marcus is outside,” he tells me, checking his phone. “Different car. He’ll drive you to Fifth, you’ll buy something, then he’ll take you home. If anyone asks, you were shopping after your spa appointment got canceled.”
“What about receipts?”
“Marcus will take care of it. He’s good at making problems disappear.”
I don’t want to know what that means.
Five minutes later I’m in the back of a nondescript black sedan. Marcus is at the wheel, eyes on the road, face unreadable.
“How much trouble am I in?” I finally ask.
He glances at me in the mirror. “Depends on how paranoid your husband is today.”
“That’s not exactly comforting.”
“Wasn’t meant to be.”
I let out a shaky laugh that sounds more like a sob.
“Marcus… what you saw today,”
“I didn’t see anything,” he interrupts smoothly. “You were shopping. Traffic was bad. Spa canceled your appointment.”
The way he says it makes me wonder how many times he’s said those exact words.
“How long have you worked for Damian?”
“Eight years.”
“Has he done this before? With other women?”
Marcus is quiet for a long time, the hum of traffic filling the silence. Finally: “Not like this. Usually it’s casual. Quick. With you, it’s different. He’s different.”
Different. The word twists in my chest.
At Bergdorf’s, I wander aimlessly for twenty minutes, my hands trembling every time I touch something. I finally settle on a Hermès scarf that costs more than most people make in a month. The saleswoman boxes it up with a smile, and I paste one onto my own face like I’m not unraveling inside.
When Marcus drops me at the penthouse, I’ve almost convinced myself this lie might hold. Almost.
Until I see Adrian standing in the foyer, waiting.
“You’re back,” he says, his eyes raking over me, sharp and assessing. “Good shopping trip?”
“Fine,” I say, holding up the Bergdorf’s bag like it’s a shield. “Traffic was awful.”
“I’m going to shower before dinner.”
“Elena.”
I stop on the first step of the staircase. “Yes?”
“That’s a beautiful scarf. Hermès, right?”
Ice rushes through me. “Yes. The sales associate recommended it.”
“What was her name?”
The question is casual. Too casual.
“Sarah, I think? I don’t really remember.”
He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne. Cold, expensive, nothing like Damian’s warm sandalwood. “Sarah Martinez. That’s what the receipt in the bag says.”
My blood runs cold. He knows.
“Adrian,”
“Shower,” he says, his voice calm but edged with steel. “We’ll talk after dinner.”
Upstairs, I scrub myself raw under the hot water, but no matter how hard I scrub I can’t wash away the feel of Damian’s hands. The truth is written all over my body.
By the time I come down dressed in the conservative navy dress Adrian bought me months ago, I’ve convinced myself maybe I’m imagining things. Maybe I’m paranoid.
But during dinner with the Hendersons, Adrian barely eats, barely speaks. He just watches me. Patient. Calculating. Like a predator waiting for its prey to slip.
And in that moment, I realize something with bone-deep certainty.
This secret isn’t staying secret much longer.
The only question is whether I’m strong enough to survive when it all blows up.
- Writer
