Second Best-Part 5
927 Words
The bridal suite of the Royal Arcadia Grand was quiet now, save for the whisper of night wind slipping past the curtains. Somewhere in the city below, fireworks bloomed in honor of a wedding that felt more like a surrender.
Emily Sullivan Karanell sat cross-legged on the plush velvet chaise, still in her ivory robe. Her curls were pinned messily atop her head. Her skin smelled of champagne and something fading fast—hope, maybe. A single candle flickered in the far corner, casting shadows across the silk sheets and polished mirrors.
The hours passed.
No knock.
No message.
By 3:00 AM, she was curled in the window alcove, staring at the sea, her heart numb.
Then the key turned.
Brian entered slowly, his white dress shirt undone halfway, his tie draped over his shoulder. His eyes were sharp. Sober.
And on his breath, unmistakable—
Sabina’s perfume. The woman who was their marriage witness.
One note. One scent. One truth.
Emily didn’t cry.
Not that night.
Because nothing was broken.
It had never been whole to begin with.
⸻
By the time Brian returned from the shower, Emily was still perched at the edge of the bed, wrapped in her robe, eyes fixed on the embroidered curtains swaying in the sea breeze.
He walked out shirtless, damp hair slicked back, a glass of dark liquor in his hand. His eyes found hers in the mirror.
“You’re not in bed,” he said softly, as if it were a joke.
Emily didn’t answer.
He closed the door behind him. Locked it.
Then he spoke.
“You never saw me.”
Emily blinked. “What?”
Brian stepped forward, unbuttoning the rest of his shirt as he walked. “In high school. You never looked at me. Not once.”
She didn’t respond.
His voice was lower now. “I was the swimming captain. Top of the debate team. Son of a political dynasty. Girls used to write my name on their notebooks. But you—” He stopped in front of her. “You were always looking for him.”
Daniel.
Emily’s throat tightened.
Brian crouched in front of her, fingers reaching to untie the sash of her robe. But this time, he paused—waiting for her breath to shift. When it didn’t, he moved slowly, reverently.
“You remember homecoming?” he whispered, pressing a palm to her knee. “I tried to talk to you. You were busy clinging to Daniel’s friends, hoping they’d give you a piece of him.”
Emily stayed silent.
“I passed your university gate every week,” Brian continued. “Told my friends I had business in Veligrad. But I just wanted to see you.”
Her heart pounded.
“You never even looked up. Never realized.”
Because she didn’t want to. Because…
Emily’s thoughts tumbled.
‘Because if I had looked, I would’ve seen the same boy who called me “Sam Akaris’s little stepsister.” The rich boy whose friends laughed at my shoes. Whose world didn’t make room for girls like me.
I didn’t look, Brian, because I knew what you’d do with my secrets. You’d hoard them. Turn them into weapons.’
But now—now he was kneeling between her legs, robe parted at the thighs. And she still hadn’t told him to stop.
“You avoided me because you thought I was ashamed of you,” he said. “But the truth is—I couldn’t breathe when you walked into a room. And I hated it.”
Emily met his eyes.
“You don’t love me,” she said. “You just want to own what resisted you.”
Brian leaned in, voice rough.
“Maybe,” he whispered. “Or maybe I just couldn’t stand the idea of anyone else inside you.”
His lips found her collarbone. His hands, familiar now, traced the curve of her waist.
Emily’s breath caught.
“I used to watch you from the bleachers,” he murmured against her skin. “Always in your own world. Always out of reach. And I’d think—if I could just have one night…”
His mouth moved lower. Her thighs parted instinctively.
Brian paused, his hand sliding to her hip—right where the muscle always ached.
“Top heels. Long days. This spot always hurts, doesn’t it?” he said, massaging the exact point with uncanny precision.
Emily flinched.
He knew. He remembered.
Her heart beat faster—not with fear. Not quite.
With recognition.
The pain melted under his hand, replaced by heat. And just as his rhythm deepened inside her, he never stopped the massage.
It was maddening. Intimate. Violent in its control, tender in its delivery.
And then it was happening. His mouth was on her skin—shoulder, collarbone, stomach. His hands were firm, his pace deliberate. Every movement said: You’re mine. Only mine.
They climaxed together—his head buried in her shoulder, her breath caught in a sob she didn’t quite understand.
Afterward, he didn’t move away.
He stayed inside her.
Eyes locked.
He brought his lips to her thigh and whispered:
“I swear to you, this title—Mrs. Karanell—will only ever belong to you. You will always be my first choice.”
Emily’s eyes stung.
Not with tears. With confusion.
‘Is this love?’ she wondered.
Or was it just the comfort of being wanted—by someone who saw all her scars and still wanted to kiss every one of them open?
- Writer
