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The first thing I notice is the chill.
His side of the bed has gone cold. I blink against the morning light filtering through the curtains, stretching a hand across the sheets instinctively — but all I feel is empty space.
The pillow’s cool. The covers barely disturbed. I sit up slowly, the ache in my muscles a stark reminder that last night wasn’t a dream.
It was real.
His hands. His mouth. The way he looked at me like he couldn’t stop. Every imagination I ever had of being in Zasha Petrov’s arms paled in the face of the real thing.
But now…
Now the room feels too quiet. I pull the blanket tighter around me, heart thudding in an unfamiliar rhythm.
I muster whatever courage I had left and slide out of bed, wrapping myself in one of his flannel shirts I’d found folded in the closet, and make my way down the stairs, each step a confirmation of what I already know.
He left without waking me. Without saying a word. My chest tightens as pride and pain twist together within me.
I shouldn't be surprised that he left without a word. After all, to him, this was supposed to be a temporary deal with no emotional attachments.
But last night… he didn’t touch me like I was temporary. And I didn’t let him in like he was just a placeholder.
“Maybe it’s time to redefine our marriage terms,” I murmur. “But what do I say to convince him that he now has to be stuck with me for life?”
18
Chapter 16
Xiomara
The eggs on my plate are already cold.
I push them around with my fork, pretending I might eat them, but my appetite gave up about five minutes ago — right around the time I realized Zasha isn’t coming downstairs. Again.
It’s been three weeks since that night.
Three weeks since he touched me like I was more than an obligation. Since he held me like he’d never let go. Since he whispered words into my skin that I was stupid enough to believe might mean something.
Now, it’s like it never happened.
He’s gone most mornings before I’m even out of bed. I hear the door click shut while the sun is still trying to crawl over the skyline.
And in the evenings, he doesn’t come to the kitchen anymore. Doesn’t sit across from me while I cook. Doesn’t tease me when I add too much garlic or hum off-key while stirring a pot.
No more quiet dinners. No more almost-smiles.
Whenever we pass each other in the hallway now, we exchange a nod. A single, silent nod. Sometimes not even that. Just a glance, then he looks away. I’m tired of living like this, but don’t know how to fix it.
I’m uncertain if I should make the effort. The reality is that I don't want to initiate the conversation. If I do, it will feel like I’m pleading for his attention—like I’m still lying in that bed, naked and optimistic, hoping he might return to me. I refuse to become that girl. I won’t appear desperate. Therefore, I continue to pretend that everything is okay.
I eat in silence, alone, scraping my fork across ceramic just to fill the quiet. I clean up like it matters. Wipe the spotless counter. Rinse an unused second plate that he never touched.
And the worst part?
I miss him.
I miss the man who lingered in the doorway, watching me dance in the kitchen. The one who said almost nothing, but looked at me as if I were undoing him.
I miss the man who touched me like he needed me. But maybe that’s all it was — need. A need that has been satisfied. It hurts to know I was nothing more than a release outlet. Something he regrets so much he can’t even bear to sit next to me anymore.