The first sun
1210 Words
CHAPTER FOUR — THE FIRST SIN
Amara’s POV
I wasn’t supposed to be here. Not again.
Tristan had called earlier that afternoon, his voice steady but warm.
“Amara, I need your expertise for a private investors’ event next week. Just a quick consultation tonight, nothing heavy.”
I hesitated. Every instinct screamed that it was a bad idea. But professionalism, or maybe curiosity, won.
Now here we were, two glasses of red wine on the table, soft jazz humming through hidden speakers, and silence that wasn’t uncomfortable… just charged. His living room was cozy.
Tristan sat opposite me, his navy shirt sleeves rolled up, the faintest shadow of exhaustion under his sharp eyes.
“You’ve done an incredible job turning your life around, Amara,” he said finally. “Most people would’ve hidden after something like that.”
I let out a small, humorless laugh.
“Hide? Maybe I did. I hid behind my anger, my work, and caffeine. I guess that counts.”
He smiled faintly, gaze lowering to his glass.
“You remind me of myself… after my divorce. I threw myself into business until there was nothing left to feel.”
“What happened?” I asked softly.
“She left,” he said simply. “Said I was too married to the company to make room for her. She was right.”
His honesty startled me. Joel never admitted to being wrong, not once.
“And your son?” I pressed gently.
He sighed, leaning back.
“Joel blames me for everything. Says I ruined his childhood, made him chase my shadow. Maybe I did. But I never imagined he’d become the man who’d…”
He trailed off, glancing at me, guilt flickering in his eyes.
I swallowed hard. “Who’d betray me.”
We sat there, two people bound by the same wound.
“Sometimes,” I whispered, “I think I deserved it. Maybe I was too proud, too rebellious. I married Joel to prove a point ,not because I loved him.”
“No one deserves betrayal, Amara.” His tone was quiet but firm. “Not even when love begins wrong.”
Our eyes met. And something in that look broke me.
I tried to focus on the documents spread on the table, but his gaze was magnetic, heavy. The scent of his cologne, cedar and musk ,curled around me like temptation itself.
“We should finish the details for the investor dinner,” I murmured.
“Yes,” he said, though neither of us moved. “Of course.”
Minutes stretched. The city outside pulsed with light, and the room grew smaller, warmer, quieter.
I stood abruptly, grabbing my purse.
“It’s getting late. I should—”
“Amara.”
His voice stopped me cold. Deep, steady, pleading.
I turned, clutching the strap of my bag. “What?”
He rose slowly from his chair, closing the distance between us. His presence was overwhelming,the kind of dominance that didn’t demand; it simply existed.
“Tell me you don’t feel this too,” he said, his voice roughened by restraint.
I blinked, heart thundering. “Tristan, this,this is insane. You’re my ex-husband’s father.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “And I’ve tried to ignore it. Believe me, I have. But every time I see you… I see strength. I see peace. You make me remember what it means to feel again.”
“You’re confusing gratitude for something else.”
He shook his head.
“No. Gratitude doesn’t look like this.”
He reached out, his fingertips brushing my wrist. A spark ignited, a pulse that ran through every nerve. I should’ve pulled back, but instead, I froze, drowning in the way he looked at me.
“Tristan…”
“Say it,” he murmured. “Say you don’t want this and I’ll walk away.”
But I couldn’t. God help me, I couldn’t.
He stepped closer, his breath mingling with mine. “You don’t have to be strong right now, Amara.”
That broke something in me. All the walls I’d built, out of betrayal, pain, pride, they shattered in that single sentence.
Our lips met, slow, tentative, then deep and consuming. His hand slid to the back of my neck, the other tracing the small of my back. It wasn’t lust; it was release. Years of silence, of pretending not to care, burned away in one stolen kiss.
“Tristan…” I whispered against his mouth.
“Don’t stop me,” he breathed, voice trembling.
“I should,” I said weakly, but when he kissed me again, I didn’t move.
The city lights blurred through the window as we lost ourselves — in desperation, in warmth, in forbidden relief. His lips trailed down my neck, his whispers soft and reverent.
“You’re fire, Amara,” he murmured. “And I’ve been cold for too long.”
The night dissolved around us, two broken souls finding something dangerously close to healing.
The next morning,
The first rays of dawn slipped through the curtains,my dress lay crumpled on the carpet. His arm was draped over me, heavy and warm.
Reality slammed into me.
I sat up slowly, clutching the sheet to my chest. My heart pounded with dread and guilt. What had I done?
Tristan stirred beside me, his voice husky.
“You’re awake.”
“We shouldn’t have,” I said quickly, eyes fixed on the window.
He sat up, leaning on one elbow, watching me.
“I know. But I won’t regret it.”
“You should,” I shot back. “You’re his father. I was his wife.”
“You were his wife,” he corrected gently. “And he lost you because he never saw what you were worth.”
I turned to him, anger and heartbreak warring in my chest.
“And what am I worth to you, Tristan? A mistake? A scandal?”
He shook his head.
“You’re worth peace. And for the first time in years, I feel it.”
Silence hung between us, heavy but not empty.
He reached for my hand. “I know this is wrong. But I’d rather be damned with you than lonely without you.”
My breath caught. It was reckless. Impossible. But the sincerity in his eyes made my chest ache.
I stood, gathering my things.
“This never happened,” I whispered. “It can’t.”
He rose, stepping close but not touching me.
“You can deny the night, Amara,” he said softly, “but not what it meant.”
I hesitated at the door, trembling. “You have no idea how dangerous this is.”
“Then let it be dangerous,” he said, voice low. “At least it’s real.”
Our eyes locked, a silent war between reason and desire. Then I turned and walked out before my heart betrayed me again.
As the elevator doors closed, I caught a glimpse of my reflection, flushed cheeks, swollen lips, haunted eyes.
I pressed a trembling hand to my chest.
“God… what have I done?”
And deep inside, buried beneath guilt and fear, a tiny, dangerous thought whispered back:
You’ve never felt more alive.
- Writer
