Adrian
I had planned the evening carefully—too carefully, perhaps. Reservations at a secluded restaurant with dim lighting, velvet curtains, and a reputation for discretion.
A private table in a corner alcove, candlelight flickering on polished silver and crystal stemware. A menu curated by a chef Serafina admired.
Everything chosen with intention, with the hope that I could repair the things I had allowed to decay between us. I wanted it to look effortless, to feel natural, to feel like us. But as I watched her now across the table, her posture elegant and distant beneath the warm glow, I realized that nothing tonight was natural.
Everything felt staged. Forced. Fragile.
She lifted her glass of wine, swirling it slowly, her eyes lowered in contemplation. The delicate movement reminded me why I had fallen for her in the first place—her grace, her composure, the quiet fire that lived beneath her skin. Yet tonight there was a barrier between us, an invisible wall made of secrets I didn’t understand and guilt she couldn’t possibly know she was looking at. I reached for my own glass, my hand tightening around the stem.
“I’m glad you agreed to this,” I said softly, trying to ease the tension. “It feels like it’s been too long since we had a night out like this.”
She offered me a small smile—beautiful but restrained, as if she were conscious of every muscle composing it. “Yes, it has. I’m glad you suggested it.”
Her tone was polite. Polite, not warm. That distinction twisted something deep inside me.
A waiter approached with the first course, setting the plates before us with quiet precision. Once he left, the silence between us stretched again. Serafina cut into her dish with slow, deliberate motions, her gaze flicking up to mine only briefly, as if afraid of what she might see—or afraid of what I might see in her.
I forced a breath. “Everything okay?” I asked gently.
She didn’t hesitate, but the answer was too smooth. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”
I watched her closely, searching for cracks beneath the polished surface. “You’ve seemed… distracted lately.”
Her fork paused midair. “Distracted?”
“Yes,” I said, leaning forward slightly. “Like your mind is somewhere else.”
She lowered the fork, placing it neatly on the edge of her plate. “I could say the same about you, Adrian. You’ve been coming home late. You barely sleep. You barely speak. I assumed it was work.”
The accusation wasn’t overt, but it was there—soft, threaded through her voice like a warning she didn’t want to give but couldn’t help releasing. Guilt surged in my stomach. I swallowed hard, trying not to let the shame bleed onto my face.
“It is work,” I said quietly. “Mostly.”
Her eyebrow lifted—barely a twitch, but enough to show she didn’t fully believe me.
“Mostly,” she repeated. “That’s not the reassurance you think it is.”
My pulse quickened. I looked down at my plate, unable to meet her gaze for a moment. The truth clawed beneath my ribs—the masked woman, her skin against mine, the heat of her breath, the surrender of that dark room.
She haunted me, even now, even when I tried desperately to devote myself to the woman sitting before me. Every time Serafina shifted, every time her lips brushed her glass, every time her eyes flickered with unspoken emotion, the memory rose in my mind, sharp and merciless. I hated how vivid it remained. I hated how much my body remembered.
When I finally lifted my gaze, Serafina was watching me—intently, almost painfully. “Adrian,” she said slowly, “what’s happening to us?”
The question hit me like a blow.
“I’m trying,” I whispered, leaning back, overwhelmed by how small my voice sounded. “I know I’ve been distant. I know I’m the one who let things slip. That’s why tonight matters.”
She folded her hands in her lap, her expression softening but not fully relaxing. “I appreciate the effort. I do. But effort means nothing if the truth is still hidden beneath it.”
My breath stilled. “Truth?”
She held my eyes. “Something’s wrong. You’re not telling me what.”
I had no answer. Not one that wouldn’t shatter her.
Her stare lingered, searching for something. Then, almost imperceptibly, she looked away, a quiet sigh escaping her lips. It was a fragile sound, but it held the weight of oceans.
I reached across the table, covering her hand with mine. The moment our skin touched, my chest tightened violently. Not because I didn’t want her. Not because I didn’t love her. But because her touch felt like stepping into sunlight after spending too long in shadow—and I feared she would see the darkness still clinging to me.
She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t lean into the touch either.
“Serafina,” I murmured, “I don’t want to lose you.”
Her eyes glistened briefly before she blinked, forcing composure. “Then don’t hide from me.”
The guilt swelled until I felt breathless. “I’m not hiding. I’m just… figuring things out.”
Her lips twitched into something sorrowful. “Adrian, I can’t help you if you won’t let me in.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, fighting the urge to confess everything, to tell her about the club, about the masked woman who invaded my dreams, about the way my body responded in ways I no longer recognized. But the words stuck in my throat like shards of glass. If I spoke them, I would destroy us.
And there was a deeper fear—one I couldn’t name aloud.
If I told her the truth, if I let her into this darkness, she might leave me.
When I opened my eyes again, she had withdrawn her hand, lifting her glass instead. She took a slow sip, her gaze drifting toward the window, where the city lights glimmered like distant fire.
The candle flickered between us, casting shifting shadows across her features. Shadows that reminded me too vividly of the masked woman—the darkness that cloaked her, the anonymity that freed me from shame, the heat that still lingered in my veins. I stared at Serafina now, wondering—against my will—whether she could ever ignite me the way that woman had. Whether she still could. Whether she ever had.
The thought made my stomach twist. I hated myself for thinking it. I hated myself for comparing them. But the obsession had rooted itself inside me, feeding on guilt, loneliness, and a hunger I didn’t know how to silence.
Serafina finally looked back at me, her expression unreadable. “I hope tonight helps,” she murmured. “I want us to feel like us again.”
I swallowed hard, my voice breaking despite my attempt at control. “I want that too.”
But as I stared at her across the candlelit table, elegant and distant and breathtaking, all I could see—unbidden and unwelcome—was the silhouette of a masked stranger pressed against me in darkness.
And that realization terrified me more than anything ever had.
Because I loved my wife. But I was craving a ghost.