The final hour arrived. The apartment, which had been their private playground for five days, suddenly felt like a trap. Every piece of furniture—the velvet sofa, the mahogany desk, the charcoal sheets—now bore the invisible ghosts of their passion.
Marcus stood by the window, watching the traffic flow like a river of gold and white below. He was dressed in a crisp polo and chinos, the image of the stable, dependable husband. But underneath the fabric, his skin felt sensitized, humming with the memory of Chloe’s touch.
Chloe stood behind him, her arms wrapped around his waist, her cheek pressed against his back. She was wearing a modest floral dress, her hair brushed and her eyes clear of the mascara-stained misery of a week ago. She looked like the perfect daughter.
"She'll be here in
