Page 25 of Don’t Say Mafia

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to so badly. I wanted to let his confidence settle into me, to trust that this time was different, that this promise would finally stick. But it was hard to forget how these last few years of promises had felt hopeful and reassuring in the moment and then they’d be gone like smoke slipping right through my fingers.

“Thank you,” I said as I finished my steak, hoping my smile seemed genuine. It was hard to lean into the version of myself that knew how to keep the peace when I was this tired. It also didn’t help that an aching part of me wondered how many more anniversaries would pass like this.

Beautiful on the surface.

And empty underneath.

He reached for me after dinner like it had fixed everything. Like the candle and the steak and the words pipeline and opportunities were enough to smooth over the months that had worn me to nothing. I let him pull me close anyway, because that’s what I did. Because saying no would turn into a conversation I didn’t have the energy to survive.

The bedroom was dim, the air heavy. His hands felt familiar in the way routines do, predictable and . . . expected. I tried to be present, I tried to give him what he wanted, what he was reaching for with that hopeful edge in his voice.

But it felt wrong immediately.

Not painful. Just . . . empty. Like I was somewhere else already, staring at the ceiling, waiting for it to be over while my body went through the motions without me.

I closed my eyes, and that’s when it happened, uninvited, unwanted . . . unavoidable.

There was a flash of blond hair and a dangerous smile that promised things I wasn’t supposed to want. Silver-flecked eyes locked on mine, watching me as if I was the only thing in the room worth seeing.

My breath stuttered, and Ryan groaned, thinking it was for him.

But it wasn’t.

It was for him instead, burning behind my eyelids . . . those tattooed forearms caging me in, the weight of him pressing me down, the low rasp of his voice in my ear saying look at me while he thrust deep inside me. I imagined the stretch of him, that huge dick dragging against every sensitive spot until I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but shatter.

My hips lifted on instinct, chasing the fantasy.

I knew this wasn’t okay. I knew I should stop it, push the image away, focus on the man actually inside me. And I tried . . . I really did.

But my body betrayed me anyway.

The moment crested fast and intense—nothing like the hollow blankness I’d been stuck in seconds before. Pleasure tore through me like wildfire, and my back arched off the bed as I clutched the sheets so hard my knuckles bleached white. A cry tore out of my throat, and my walls clenched around Ryan, pulsing hard, wave after wave crashing until black spots danced behind my eyelids, and my legs trembled uncontrollably.

It was the best orgasm I’d ever had. And it wasn’t for the man on top of me.

Ryan finished a few thrusts later with a grunt and collapsed beside me, his breathing heavy and satisfied. I lay there staring at the ceiling with slick thighs and shame burning hot under my skin.

I’d come screaming for a stranger whose name I didn’t even know.

The worst part wasn’t that my body responded. It was that for the first time in a long time . . . I’d felt something at all. And it wasn’t because of my husband.

I rolled onto my side, curling in on myself, trying to hide the tears that slipped out anyway.

Because it felt like I’d just crossed a line I couldn’t uncross.

Morning came too fast and without mercy.

The coffee shop smelled like burnt espresso and cinnamon syrup, a combination that usually smelled good to me, but today it just made my temples throb. I tied my apron with fingers that felt heavy and slow, then stepped behind the counter, already bracing myself for the shift.

Mara was leaning against the register, scrolling through her phone as if the place ran itself. She had one hip cocked, and all her weight fully committed to not helping.

“Morning,” I said.

She hummed without looking up.

I swallowed the irritation and got to work. Filling the ice bin. Wiping down counters already sticky from spilled syrup. Restocking lids and sleeves with hands that moved on autopilot. The espresso machine beeped impatiently, and I stepped in to fix it before anyone else even looked up. I always did. It was easier that way. I was used to being the one moving while everyone else conserved energy.

It was how my marriage worked.