Chapter 38: THIRTY EIGHT

CHAPTER 38

His body was still heavy on hers, his breath hot against her neck as he spilled inside her with a low, guttural groan. For one fleeting moment, one treacherous heartbeat, his arms tightened around her, fingers digging into her hips as if he couldn’t bear to let go.

Then, just as quickly, it was over. Nic pushed himself off her with a roughness that bordered on disgust, his warmth vanishing the second his release cooled on her thighs. Isabelle didn’t move. Didn’t dare breathe. She just lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening as his footsteps carried him across the room. The bathroom door slammed shut. The shower roared to life. And just like that, she was alone again.

The sheets were still tangled around her legs, the scent of sex clinging to her skin like a stain. She could hear him in the shower, the sharp, efficient movements of a man washing away evidence. Washing her away. Isabelle curled onto her side, pulling the ruined silk of her chemise back over her hips. It was stupid to feel anything. Stupid to care. This was the deal, wasn’t it? He took what he wanted, and she let him. But when the bathroom door opened again, steam curling into the bedroom like a ghost, she couldn’t help the way her body tensed. Nic stood in the doorway, a towel slung low on his hips, water still glistening on his chest. His eyes locked onto hers....dark, unreadable, before flicking to the bed. To the mess he’d left behind.

Isabelle lay motionless on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, her body still humming from his possession. The sheets were tangled around her legs, his release cooling between her thighs. She didn’t move to clean herself up. Didn’t even blink. Nic stood there, his gaze locked onto her—her limp body, her hollow stare, the way she refused to even look at him.

And suddenly he was angry. Striding towards her like, he was ready to hold her by her throat and shake her until she came to her senses.

"You lay there like I’ve ruined you," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "Like I’m some monster who forced you." Isabelle turned her face away, but not before he saw the shame burning in her eyes. His grip tightened, he seemed to get even angrier. "You never looked like this with them, did you?" The words came out raw, scraped from somewhere deep. "All those men you spread your legs for - did you weep after? Did you tremble?"

A tear escaped, tracking silently down her temple. She swiped at it angrily, but he caught her wrist, pinning it to the mattress.

"Look at me, Isabelle." When she didn't, he hauled her up against his damp chest, their faces inches apart. "I'm your husband. The father of your child. And you'll take me inside you without that fucking look in your eyes." She didn’t respond. His hand was gripping her chin, forcing her to look at him. "Tell me," he demanded, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip. "Tell me you understand this is a commitment now. That you’re mine."

A shudder ran through her. Still, she said nothing.

Nic cursed under his breath, the words sharp and guttural. Then, without warning, he hauled her up against him, her bare skin sliding against his as he lifted her effortlessly from the bed. Isabelle gasped, her fingers digging into his shoulders for balance as he carried her into the steam-filled bathroom. The air was thick with the scent of him...his soap and heat. He adjusted the shower with one hand, testing the water before stepping inside, pulling her flush against him beneath the spray. The heat was instant, searing, the water sluicing down their bodies. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. Just held her there. His fingers traced the curve of her spine, the dip of her waist, the bruises he’d left on her hips, each of them a reminder of his claim.

Then, he reached for the soap. His touch was methodical, as he lathered it between his palms before smoothing his hands over her body. He washed her with a gentleness that belied the fury still simmering in his gaze, his fingers gliding over her shoulders, down the slope of her back, between her thighs, cleansing her.

For a moment, the only sound was the water cascading around them, the steam curling between their heated skin. Then Nic exhaled sharply, his forehead pressing against her temple.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, the words rough with reluctant honesty. "For bringing up the other men again. I just...." His fingers flexed against her hip, possessive even in apology. "Sometimes the anger takes over. But we're starting fresh now. This is the first step toward you getting better."

Isabelle stiffened in his arms. Fresh start? The words echoed mockingly in her mind. What fresh start could there be when she was nothing more than his kept woman now? When he would soon stand at an altar and vow forever to someone else? But then his hands moved again, softer this time, tracing the curve of her waist with a tenderness that made her throat tighten. The way he touched her now wasn't the brutal claiming of before. It was... familiar.

Like when he loved me.

The realization hit her like a physical blow. Suddenly, she couldn't breathe past the ache in her chest. A sob tore from her lips before she could stop it, her body trembling violently as years of suppressed grief and longing surged to the surface. She tried to turn away, to hide her weakness, but Nic caught her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears mixing with the shower spray. "Look at me," he demanded, but his voice was different now, less commanding, more... desperate.

Isabelle shook her head, another sob wracking her body. She didn't want him to see her like this. Didn't want to remember how it felt when his touch meant love instead of possession.

But Nic didn't let her hide. He pulled her against his chest, one hand cradling the back of her head as the other wrapped firmly around her waist. They sank together to the shower floor, the water still pouring over them as she fell apart in his arms.

And then he said something else, his words landing like a physical blow.

"I will cure you."

Isabelle went utterly still in his arms, the warmth of the shower suddenly feeling like ice against her skin. His hands cradled her face with such tenderness, his thumbs brushing away tears that had long since mixed with the falling water. But his eyes, God, his eyes, held a terrible, misplaced conviction.

"I'm already looking for a psychiatrist who specializes in these things," he murmured, voice thick with something that might have been hope. "All this...the men, the need for attention...it's treatable. I swear to you, we can fix this."

For one suspended moment, she simply stared at him, the pieces clicking together with devastating clarity.

Then the last fragile remnants of her composure shattered.

Her tears didn't fall this time. No, they burned away under a grief too profound for weeping. He truly believed she was broken. That some sickness had driven her to betray him. That if he could just fix her, they could go back to how things were before.

The realization settled over her like a shroud. His thumbs still traced her cheekbones with that familiar tenderness, the same way he'd touched her when she'd been his whole world. Now his touch felt like a farewell.

"We'll fix this," he whispered again, more to himself than to her. She could see the desperate conviction in his eyes - how badly he needed to believe this fiction. That her supposed infidelity hadn't been a choice, but an illness. That the woman he'd loved couldn't have truly betrayed him.

The truth sat heavy on her tongue, but she swallowed it down. What would it change now? His mind had been made up long ago. So she simply let her forehead rest against his, breathing in the familiar scent of him one last time.

Somewhere beyond the steam and the falling water, she could almost see their ghosts - the younger versions of themselves who had loved without conditions, without this terrible chasm between them. That Nic would have burned the world for her. This Nic needed to believe she was broken to justify still wanting her.

A single tear escaped, lost instantly in the shower spray. She didn't wipe it away. Let him think it was remorse. Let him have this version of her if it helped him move on. Soon, she thought. Soon he’ll realize.

This couldn’t last. Not this fragile illusion he’d built, where she was sick, that she needed fixing, that if he just tried hard enough, she would be the woman he remembered.

One day, he would wake up and see the truth. That there was no cure for what had happened between them because there had never been a sickness to begin with. Only lies. Only distance. Only the slow, inevitable crumbling of trust.

And when that day came, he would let her go.

She had to believe that. Because the alternative, that he would keep her like this forever, trapped in this purgatory of his making, while he built a new life with Daphne, was too cruel to bear. Maybe, just maybe, he would realize it before the wedding. Before he stood at that altar and promised forever to another woman. Before he sealed them both into this endless cycle of regret. Maybe then, he would set them both free.

But until that day came, she would let him believe what he needed to. She would let him try to "fix" her, let him pretend this was anything but goodbye.