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I’m sitting at my desk late into the evening, once again unable to register the contents of the reports in front of me. It’s been three days since our confrontation in the kitchen, and since then, Lilibeth’s all that’s been running through my mind.

There was something about her that night, at the ball and later in the kitchen, that still clings to me.

This whole time, I thought of her as someone I must share a home with and nothing more.

But when she lifted her chin in anger and made it clear that I ought to treat her with respect—as an equal—I realized she’s the kind of woman one can’t ignore.

She commands attention, even demands it. She can be the brightest thing in the room, but when angered, she shows her teeth. There’s a sharpness behind those curves. Oh god, those curves.

I moan and rub my eyes, trying to forget how she looked three nights ago, in nothing but a T-shirt. That shirt barely clung down her ass, her nipples peaked through the cloth, making me note things I didn’t need to note—like she hadn’t been wearing a bra, for example.

I listened to everything she said, truly listened.

I didn’t want her to feel unheard. But the closer she stood, the harder it got to focus on anything but the roaring in my ears, urging me to plant my hands on those juicy thighs, to pull her flush against me until she felt me harden between her legs.

That proximity changed everything. She had faltered in her lecture too, her rage simmering down as her eyes reached my lips, her breath hitching in her throat. We were both fighting, I could tell, not to make that first move. When she pulled back, I felt relieved.

Relieved because my body ached from not joining hers, ached from all the restraint I had to force myself to maintain around her. I foolishly thought that might have been one situation, for we both stood there half-naked so close to one another, but three days in, and I’m still left aching.

The fact that we now have dinner together—something I suggested to ease her mind after realizing she feels unwelcome in my presence—makes it all the harder to keep my hands off her. Every night, it’s a struggle to keep the sexual tension at bay.

I don't do this—this constant, gnawing desire. It’s preposterous, really. My body doesn’t ache; it never has. It shouldn’t.

I like to keep my life uncomplicated. While I enjoy the company of women, I tend to keep things casual. It’s always mutual—they warm my bed for a night or two, we say we had fun, and part ways with no expectations. It’s efficient, and it works.

A few hours of pleasure, no strings attached, and certainly no lingering thoughts or feelings. Yet here I am, plagued by the memory of not only Lilibeth's curves but also her mind, her sharp tongue, her laughter, and her smile.

My phone buzzes with an email, and I realize I’m doing it again—thinking of Lilibeth. I have to stop before I lose my mind. I shake my head to clear away the image of her and pick up my phone.

This marriage is a business transaction, nothing more. My wife might have curves that make my hands itch to trace them and a tongue sharp enough to make me forget what I’m saying. But none of that matters.

She and I? It’ll only cause trouble.

I send out the email and check the time to see that it’s seven-thirty. Dinner will be ready soon. I’d better wrap up some work while I can.

***

That night, I arrive at the dinner table and notice she’s already there. She’s wearing something different tonight: a gorgeous cream chiffon blouse with ruffles that falls loosely over a mermaid-shaped, ankle-length satin skirt, which highlights those dangerous curves across her hips.

She’s also wearing jewelry: a small pair of earrings and a bracelet, but jewelry nevertheless. A small voice in my head notes that she has dressed up. Another hopes it’s for me. The third silences both the other voices.

“Hey,” I say as I sit, my voice emerging hoarser than it should.

“Hey.” Her eyes meet mine, her voice soft.

Her blonde hair falls in waves past her shoulders, thick and luscious to the eye.

“You're punctual,” I say, placing my napkin on my lap.

She sips her wine and cocks an eyebrow in my direction. “And you sound surprised.”

“I am. Most women I know consider lateness a form of fashion.”

“Then you know the wrong women.” She leans forward and tucks her chin into her hands as she stares me down. “Most women I know value their time.”

She looks like she’s ready to go, to argue. This has become some sort of unspoken routine between us. Every night, over dinner, she reels me into a discussion, an argument, a challenging of our thought processes.

It never gets heated. Rather, even when I try to remain formal and change the topic to safer grounds, she cheerfully carries on as if no matter what either of us says, it won’t take away from the respect between us.

It’s a form of conversation I rarely have, one where we can share differences in opinion without causing or feeling hurt.

The maids arrive and lay out the dishes. Lilibeth dismisses them kindly before passing me the bread while she serves herself the salad.

“I always assumed women often arrive late to seem more valuable in the eyes of men,” I comment, picking up on the conversation where we’d left off as I cut into the roast chicken and lean over to place a piece on Lilibeth’s plate.

“Thanks,” she murmurs as she refills her glass and does the same to mine. “That’s true. It’s something we’ve been taught subconsciously. Any woman who isn’t late to a party clearly didn’t bother to look her best. But, that’s a load of crap, don’t you think?”

I sit back and watch as she speaks, her hands moving animatedly, a bright, cheery smile across her face. “In my eyes, a woman who shows up on time values herself. Anyone who values her time would value yours too. To reduce yourself to outdated practices of seduction is rudimentary in nature.”

“So, you’re saying you never made a man wait?”

She chews thoughtfully, a distant look in her eyes, then laughs. “Only once! When I was late for a date because I got arrested.”

“You…what?” I gasp, shocked at how she’s laughing about being arrested. This is the thing with Lilibeth, I can never tell what’s going to come out of her mouth.

“It wasn’t my fault, really.” She twirls some hair around her finger.

“I was at this protest—you know, the one a few years back about the corruption in local government?

Anyway, things got a bit heated, and before I knew it, I was being hauled into a police van.

I didn't even get my phone call until three hours later! My cousins were furious, and the police apologized to me after.” She chuckles, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

I can't help but stare at her, trying to reconcile the image of this vibrant, sweet woman with the idea of her being arrested. “And what did your date say about this?” I ask, leaning forward, genuinely curious.

She waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, he was livid. Said I was irresponsible and immature. Needless to say, that was our first and last date.” She grins, seemingly proud of herself.

“Good riddance,” I sigh with relief. “I guess some men don’t appreciate a woman who stands up for what she believes in.”

She nods, her gaze unwavering. “And do you appreciate that?”

“I value strength in any form,” I say carefully.

Her smile softens. “Yes. That is saying something, isn’t it? If only everyone saw it the way you did.”

“Was that a compliment?” I hitch up an eyebrow.

She nods exuberantly. “It certainly was.”

I give her an almost smile and lean back in my chair. “So, why’d you attend that protest in the first place?”

And just like that, we're once again engrossed in an exchange of ideas that surprises me with its intensity and engagement. By the time dessert arrives, I find myself leaning forward in my chair, drawn into her intelligence and enthusiasm.

When she finally stands to leave, I realize with a start that two hours have passed—two hours where I wasn't thinking about anything except her. These were the first and only two hours of the day in which I’ve been fully present, observing Lilibeth, her mind, and the way her hands move when she's making a point she cares about.

“Same time tomorrow?” she asks, and I nod before I can consider whether this is wise.

The pattern continues for the next two nights. We debate the morality of necessary violence, the most loved countries from our travels, and how luxury brands are fooling the masses. Each evening, I find myself watching the clock as seven thirty approaches, an odd anticipation building in my chest.

I tell myself it's the intellectual stimulation. Most meals I share with the company are reduced to discussions about business or territory. Those conversations are always singular in focus.

Lilibeth is multi-dimensional. She enjoys dinner without an agenda, eats with me simply for the pleasure of the conversation itself.

It's refreshing. That's all.

But then the next day arrives, everything changes.

***

The next afternoon, I’m returning from a meeting when I hear bright and unrestrained laughter. It’s Lilibeth, and I smile at the sound of her being so overjoyed, her voice floating over from the east entrance. I wonder what it is that makes her laugh so and make my way over to her.

I round the corner and find her leaning against the wall, hugging a book to her chest, dimples deep in her cheeks as she smiles up at one of the security guards.

He's young, barely thirty, with the overconfident stance of someone who hasn't earned his position yet.

Novak, I think his name is. One of the new hires.

“That's the funniest thing I've heard all day,” she's saying, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

She shifts her weight, and the movement emphasizes the generous curves of her hips beneath her sundress.

Novak notices, too, his gaze dropping briefly before returning to her face with a practiced smile.