Page 24 of Trained In Sin

Saphy

I'm curled on my sofa with a cup of tea, trying to focus on a book that isn't holding my attention, when the doorbell rings. The delivery driver hands me a small, elegant package wrapped in black paper, the same sophisticated presentation as the lipstick.

My hands shake as I close the door and tear away the wrapping. Inside is a bottle of Tom Ford Oud Wood, the exact cologne Sebastian was wearing when he kissed me. The scent that clung to my dress afterward, that I couldn't bring myself to wash away for two days.

There's a small card tucked beneath the bottle: "In case you need to remember what desire smells like. -S"

I should be horrified. I should feel guilty. Instead, I find myself unscrewing the cap with trembling fingers, breathing in the rich, woody scent that instantly transports me back to that alley.

Back to his hands in my hair, his mouth on mine, the way he made me feel like I was the only woman who had ever mattered.

I spray a small amount on my wrist, closing my eyes as the familiar scent envelops me. This is madness. This is dangerous. But God help me, I don't want it to stop.

My phone buzzes with a text from Damon: Missing you. Raincheck on dinner tomorrow ?

The guilt hits me like a physical blow. Here I am, in my flat, wearing another man's cologne and thinking about another man's hands, while my boyfriend of three years texts sweet messages about missing me.

I can't keep doing this. I can't keep lying to him, to myself, pretending I'm the same person I was before Sebastian Blackwood walked into my life.

I text back: Actually, can we talk tomorrow? Something important.

His response is immediate: Everything okay? You're scaring me.

I stare at the phone, at Damon's concerned words, and feel something break inside my chest. He doesn't deserve this. Whatever I'm feeling, whatever I'm becoming, he doesn't deserve to be strung along while I figure it out.

I'm lying to you, I want to text back. I'm lying to both of us. But instead I type: Yeah, we'll talk tomorrow.

It's not entirely a lie. I do love Damon. Just not the way he deserves. Not the way I should after three years together. It’s time to bite the bullet and let him go.

*

The next morning, I call Beth before I can lose my nerve.

"I need to talk," I say without preamble when she answers. "Can you meet me for breakfast? "

"Of course. You sound awful. What's wrong?"

"Everything," I admit. "I'm going to break up with Damon."

There's a long pause. "Jesus, Saphy. Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. I can't keep pretending anymore, Beth. I can't keep lying to him about what I want."

"And what you want is...?"

I close my eyes, the truth bitter and liberating on my tongue. "I want to feel alive. I want passion, even if it's dangerous. I want to stop settling for safe when safe is slowly killing me."

Another pause. "This is about The Stalker, isn't it?"

"This is about me," I correct her. "About realizing I've been sleepwalking through my life, choosing comfort over everything else. Sebastian just... woke me up."

"Saphy, I'm worried about you. This man is dangerous…"

"I know what he is. But I also know what I am, and what I am isn't someone who can pretend to be happy with lukewarm love for the rest of her life."

Beth sighs deeply. "Okay. If this is really what you want, then I support you. But promise me you'll be careful? Promise me you won't do anything stupid?"

"I promise." Though I'm not entirely sure I mean it.

*

I meet Damon at his flat that evening. He's cooked pasta, my favourite, and opened a bottle of wine. The domestic scene should comfort me, but instead it feels like a noose tightening around my throat.

"You look beautiful," he says, kissing my cheek as I enter. He doesn't notice that I'm wearing Sebastian's lipstick, that the scent clinging to my skin isn't my usual perfume.

We make small talk over dinner, but I can see him watching me, sensing something is wrong. Finally, as we're clearing the dishes, he takes my hands in his.

"Saphy, you've been different lately. Distant. Did I do something wrong?"

The genuine concern in his voice makes this so much harder. "No, Damon. You didn't do anything wrong. You never do anything wrong."

"Then what is it? We can work through whatever this is…"

"That's the problem," I interrupt, pulling my hands free. "There's nothing to work through. You're perfect, Damon. You're kind and stable and everything I should want."

"Should want?" His brow furrows. "What does that mean?"

"It means I can't do this anymore." The words come out in a rush, like ripping off a bandage. "I can't pretend I'm happy when I'm not. I can't keep building a future with you when my heart isn't in it."

The colour drains from his face. "What are you saying? "

"I'm saying I want to break up." The words hang in the air between us, brutal and final.

"No." He shakes his head immediately. "No, you don't mean that. You're just stressed from work, or…."

"I mean it, Damon." I force myself to meet his eyes. "I'm not happy. If I’m completely honest, I haven't been happy for a long time."

"But we're good together," he protests, desperation creeping into his voice. "We make sense. We have plans, the house fund, the future we're building…."

"Plans you made. A future you designed." The truth spills out of me, harsh but necessary. "When did you ask me what I wanted, Damon? When did you check to see if I was as content with our safe little life as you assumed I was?"

His face hardens. "So this is my fault? For loving you? For wanting to build something stable with you?"

"It's not your fault. It's nobody's fault. But I can't live this lie anymore."

"What lie?" His voice rises, anger replacing confusion. "Three years of our relationship was a lie?"

"Not a lie. Just... not enough." I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold. "I want more than this, Damon. I want passion, intensity, something that makes me feel alive."

"Alive?" He laughs bitterly. "You want drama. You want some fantasy that doesn't exist in real relationships. "

"Maybe I do. Maybe that makes me selfish or stupid or both. But I can't help what I want."

"This is insane, Saphy. You're throwing away something real for some impossible, fictional bullshit." His voice is getting louder, more aggressive than I've ever heard it. "Do you know how many women would kill for what we have?"

The edge in his tone makes me step back. "Then maybe you should find one of them."

"Don't be ridiculous. I don't want them, I want you." He moves closer, his expression intense. "You're confused, that's all. You've been working too hard, thinking too much. We can take a vacation, get away from everything…."

"Damon, stop. Please." I hold up a hand. "My mind is made up."

"No, it's not." His jaw clenches. "You don't get to just decide our entire relationship is over because you're having some quarter life crisis. I have a say in this too."

"Actually, you don't." The firmness in my own voice surprises me. "This isn't a negotiation. I'm telling you how I feel."

"How you feel?" His laugh is ugly now. "You feel like throwing away three years because what, you're bored? You want excitement? What happens when that excitement wears off, Saphy? What happens when you realize you've made the biggest mistake of your life?"

"Then I'll live with the consequences."

"We'll both live with them," he snaps. "You don't get to destroy what we have and then walk away clean. "

The sudden threat in his voice makes my skin crawl. This isn't the Damon I know.

"I should go," I say, moving toward the door.

"Running away?" The bitter edge is still there. "That's your solution to everything, isn't it? When things get difficult, when they require actual work, you just run."

I turn back to face him. "I'm not running away. I'm running toward something."

"Toward what? Some fantasy man who doesn't exist?"

I think about Sebastian, dangerous, obsessive, completely wrong for me in every rational way. But real. So intensely, overwhelmingly real.

"Toward myself," I say finally. "Toward the person I actually am instead of the person I thought I should be."

Damon stares at me for a long moment, his face cycling through emotions I can't read. Finally, he seems to deflate.

"I love you," he says quietly. "I've loved you for three years. Doesn't that count for anything?"

"It counts for everything," I tell him honestly. "But it's not enough to build a life on if the love isn't mutual."

"You do love me."

"I do. Just not the way you need me to. Not the way you deserve."

He runs a hand through his hair, looking suddenly older. "There's someone else, isn't there? "

"It's not about someone else. It's about me finally admitting what I want."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer I'm giving you."

I leave him standing in his kitchen, surrounded by the remnants of our last dinner together. In the hallway, I can hear him slamming cabinet doors, his voice raised in anger that I'm grateful not to understand. A smashing sound soon follows.

By the time I reach the street, I'm crying. Not for what I've lost, but for what I never really had. For the three years I spent trying to be someone I'm not. For the pain I've caused Damon by letting him believe in a future that was never going to happen.

But underneath the guilt and sadness is something else. Something that feels like relief.

I'm free. For the first time in years, I'm completely, terrifyingly free to choose what I actually want instead of what makes sense.

And what I want is standing in the shadows of a club across town, probably watching my every move, waiting for me to admit what we both already know.

That safe was never really an option for someone like me.

That some people are meant for the fire, even if it burns them alive.