Almost Caught
1233 Words
It’s 2 a.m. and I’m wide awake, staring at the ceiling. Damian’s text keeps circling in my head: You’ll be mine, Elena. One way or another.
God, I should be horrified. I should feel trapped. But the truth? My body’s still buzzing from the way he said it. I hate myself for it, but I’m wet just remembering.
Adrian’s asleep beside me, steady breathing, completely clueless. He has no idea his wife spent the night letting another man inch under her skin. Sometimes I think about waking him, telling him everything, forcing him to react. But then I think about Damian and how alive he made me feel, and I can’t. I don’t want to lose that, even if I don’t understand what “that” is.
The phone vibrates on my nightstand. My heart jumps.
Damian: Can’t sleep. Thinking about you.
I glance at Adrian, still asleep, and type back quickly. You shouldn’t text me this late.
Why? Afraid your husband will see?
Yes.
Is he lying next to you right now?
Heat rushes through me. Yes.
Does he know how gorgeous you looked tonight? Does he know another man sat there wanting to touch you the whole damn time?
Damian, stop.
Does he know you wanted it too?
Shit. I squeeze the phone in my hand. He’s tearing through every line of defense I try to put up.
I’m deleting this conversation.
Go ahead. Doesn’t change anything. Doesn’t change what’s going to happen.
I delete the thread, slam the phone face down. But the damage is done. My brain won’t let go. I lie there in the dark, trapped between Adrian’s quiet body and the storm Damian’s stirred inside me.
By six, I give up. I sneak out of bed, go downstairs, and start the coffee machine. The kitchen feels colder than usual, like it knows I’m guilty.
I almost scream when I hear footsteps.
“You’re up early.”
It’s Adrian, leaning in the doorway in his robe, like he’s been up for hours instead of seconds.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I say, keeping my back to him. “Coffee?”
“Please.”
I pour, but I can feel him watching me. Same morning routine we’ve had for years, except now it feels charged. Different.
“How was your business dinner?” he asks, casual but not really.
“Good. Productive. Damian… Mr. Blackwood is very supportive of the foundation.”
“Mm. I’m sure.” He takes the mug from me, eyes never leaving my face. “Generous donation.”
“Very.”
“And he needed a private dinner to talk about… table arrangements?”
My stomach knots. “He’s donating half a million, Adrian. That deserves personal attention.”
“Of course.”
Our fingers touch briefly when I hand him the mug, and it feels like nothing. Empty. Damian’s touch from last night was still electric in comparison.
“You were out late,” Adrian says.
“The restaurant was busy. Service was slow.”
The lie falls flat between us. Chez Laurent doesn’t do slow service.
“Mmm.” He sips. “What time did you get home?”
“Eleven-thirty. You were asleep.”
“Was I?”
I freeze. “You seemed to be.”
“I’m a light sleeper. I usually wake when you come to bed.”
Shit. Was he awake? Did he hear me texting?
“Well… I tried to be quiet.”
“Did you?”
The way he asks it, steady, calm, makes my skin crawl. This isn’t my usual Adrian. This is someone sharper, someone suspicious.
“I should shower,” I mutter, already moving toward the stairs.
“Elena.”
I stop, hand on the banister.
“We should spend more time together. Just us.”
It takes me a second to process. “That would be nice.”
“Would it? Because you seem… distant lately.”
I force a smile he can’t see. “Just busy with the foundation.”
He doesn’t buy it. “Important work. But not more important than your marriage. Right?”
It feels like a slap. When did he start noticing? When did he start using the word marriage like it mattered?
“Of course not,” I say softly.
“Good.” He sets his mug down. “Because I’d hate to think my wife was finding fulfillment elsewhere.”
The air leaves my lungs. He knows. Maybe not details, but something.
“I’m fulfilled by meaningful work, Adrian. Just like you are.”
“Yes, but my work doesn’t involve private dinners with men like Damian Blackwood.”
My cheeks flame. “He’s a donor,”
Adrian cuts me off. “He’s a man with a reputation. Married women, mostly.”
“That’s gossip.”
“Is it? Or is it just what happens when a man like that decides he wants something?”
I can’t breathe. “He’s not pursuing me.”
Adrian stares at me, voice quiet. “Isn’t he?”
I break. “I’m going to shower.”
“Be careful, Elena.” His voice follows me. “Men like Blackwood don’t give without expecting something back.”
The words hit harder than he knows.
In the shower, I stand there forever, letting the water beat down, trying to wash away last night. It doesn’t work.
When I finally come out, towel wrapped around me, Adrian’s almost dressed. Navy suit. The one I used to gush over.
“That suit looks good on you,” I say, the words sounding like a stranger in my own mouth.
“Thanks.” He knots his tie, barely glancing at me.
Then he turns, his expression unreadable. “Elena, I want you to be happy.”
I blink at him. Adrian never says things like this. Ever.
“I am,” I say automatically, though even I don’t believe it.
“You don’t seem it. You seem restless.”
Restless. God, if he only knew.
“I’m fine.”
“If you weren’t, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you? If something was wrong. If you needed something… something I wasn’t giving you. You’d come to me first?”
I force myself to nod. “Of course.”
“Good.” He smooths his jacket. “I love you. I don’t say it enough, but I do.”
The words nearly knock me over. When was the last time he said that? Months? A year? Hearing it now feels both sweet and cruel.
“I love you too,” I whisper, though it comes out hollow.
He kisses my cheek, light, impersonal, and grabs his briefcase.
“Adrian?”
He stops at the door.
“What made you say all this today?”
For once, he drops the polished mask. Just for a second, I see something raw in his eyes. Fear. “Because I don’t want to lose you.”
Then he’s gone.
And I’m standing there in a towel, heart hammering, wondering if he already has.
My phone buzzes. Maya. Coffee? I have drama that needs immediate best friend attention.
I exhale. Perfect. Her chaos will drown out mine for at least an hour.
Usual place. One hour.
But as I pull on clothes, Adrian’s words stick like burrs in my mind.
I don’t want to lose you.
Too late. It might already be too late.
- Writer
