The Distance
The restaurant glowed with low amber light, crystal scattering warmth across linen and glass. Conversation drifted around them, softened by wine and candle flame. To the room, they looked like any couple reclaiming a night together.
Lena sat across from Ethan, hair pulled sleek, green eyes bright in the glow. She lifted her glass with steady hands. But beneath the polish, her body betrayed her. Her wrists carried faint lines hidden by silk. The bruise at her collar throbbed with each breath. Her shoulder still burned with the ghost of his hand.
Ethan leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice quiet. "I don't know where you've been lately. Not just the late nights. Even when you're here, you're not."
Her knife cut clean through a piece of fish. Her hand was steady; her chest was not. "Work's been heavier than usual."
He let the silence hold. No anger, no accusation. Just steady watching.
The Pull
Her bag vibrated once against the floor. Short. Controlled.
She froze.
Ethan's gaze flicked down. "You going to get that?"
She shook her head too quickly. "It can wait."
But her pulse spiked. She knew. It wasn't work. It wasn't a client.
It was him.
The Break
"Lena." Ethan's voice softened. "Talk to me. Please."
She wanted to. God, she wanted to. To spill everything before it collapsed between them.
But her body pulsed with memory. Wrists bound against cold glass, Julian's breath at her ear, his command still alive inside her: Terms don't change. You won't soothe him. You won't explain.
Her throat closed around the words she couldn't speak.
Ethan reached across the table, covered her hand with his. His touch was warm, familiar. "You've changed."
The words gutted her. Not sharp. Not angry. Just truth.
Her lips parte but another vibration came, faint against her bag. A reminder. A leash. Her breath caught on a sound she couldn't disguise.
"I'm fine," she said quickly, eyes dropping to the linen. "It's just work."
Ethan pulled his hand back. His face shuttered. "Then fine."
The space between them felt wider than the table.
Absence
They drove back in silence. The house greeted them with stillness sharp as glass.
Ethan climbed the stairs without a word. A door closed softly above. Not slammed. Final.
Lena lingered in the kitchen. Her reflection stared back from the window: hair neat, jacket smooth. A woman composed. A woman lying.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. She flipped it over, pulse stuttering.
One word. Good.
Her wrists tingled where silk had bitten. Her shoulder throbbed with the ghost of teeth. Her body ached, claimed even in absence.
Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them back, gripping the counter until her knuckles whitened. Not for Ethan's distance. Not for the lie.
For the truth pulsing inside her: she was already his. Too far gone to turn back.