Edward Corvin kept himself busy, burying the strange thought deeper beneath calloused hands and the clatter of work.
He hammered, welded, and measured with fierce determination.
Trying to erase the memory of Joslyne's hand…
Her breath against his face…
The unmistakable pressure of her other hand grazing… too close.
But the image wouldn't fade.
It lingered, like a shadow growing longer with every tick of the clock.
Meanwhile, back in the Corvin house, Elena Corvin moved gracefully through the rooms.
Reading books with an absent gaze.
Painting with slow, deliberate strokes.
Sipping tea as if the act itself could keep the hollowness at bay.
Yet…
The same heavy, hollow feeling tugged at her chest.
Invisible, oppressive… relentless.
Her fingers trembled as they clutched the fabric of her gown.
An unconscious attempt to stifle the swelling need within.
A knock at the door.
Elena opened it to reveal a young lad.
Clean-cut, polite.
He introduced himself simply: "I'm the tree cutter and gardener. Mr.corvin arranged for me."
She smiled softly, inviting him in, offering a glass of water.
He declined politely, his eyes already set on the task ahead.
Without further words, he moved to the garden.
Watering the earth.
Cutting logs with precise strokes.
Gathering sweat from his brow and shoulders.
After hours of labor, the lad removed his shirt.
Why wouldn't he?
The day had been hard, the air heavy.
But from a shadowed corner of the house, through a dusty window, Elena watched.
Not with innocent curiosity.
But with guilt.
Her eyes roamed his body, fixating…
Ogling.
Her breathing grew louder.
Faster.
Heavier.
Her hand moved… of its own accord.
One hand to her chest, as if trying to squeeze the hollowness tighter.
The other… lower.
She watched the lad's every movement as if they were fuel.
And then… she realized.
Her hands went limp.
A silent surrender.
She ran.
Through the hall.
Into the bedroom.
Under the hot stream of the shower.
Her hands scrubbed violently, over and over, as if trying to wash away the shame.
Trying to erase what had already been written into her soul.
But deep down, she knew the truth.
That what had begun…
Would not stop.
Because lust...
Was not born from loneliness.
Not from simple arousal.
It was a sin.
A force of its own design.
And it would not be denied.
"....a sin...never differs."