{POV Eleanor}
Lila had been living under our roof for a week now, and I found the situation increasingly intolerable. Every morning I watched the girl float down to breakfast, all bright eyes and grateful smiles directed at Stefan.
She'd pour herself coffee with that demure, appreciative air, thanking him for the fresh fruit he'd cut or the eggs he'd scrambled.
Every evening I returned from work to find them on the couch, watching movies, sharing takeout, building a domestic intimacy that made my skin crawl.
I wasn't an idiot. I was forty years old, and I'd spent my entire career reading people, understanding their motivations, exploiting their weaknesses.
I knew exactly what that sparkle in Lila's eyes meant when she looked at Stefan. I'd seen that look before—in my own reflection, years ago, when I first met him.
Back when I still cared enough to want him. Back when I didn't keep Stefan around just for the sake of my image. Back when I didn't cling to this marriage because my reputation wouldn't survive a second divorce.
The bribery scheme with the clinic doctors wouldn't last forever.
I'd paid handsomely to have Lila's hormone readings manipulated, to delay the implantation indefinitely, but eventually her levels would mysteriously stabilize and the procedure would proceed.
Things had gone too far to stop now without raising suspicion. Stefan was already questioning the medical explanations, already wondering why a healthy twenty-two-year-old couldn't maintain stable hormone levels.
But how could I travel for work, knowing a little seductress was living under my roof? It was only a matter of time before the girl got bold and tried to take what wasn't hers.
I'd seen the way she looked at him when she thought no one was watching. I'd noticed how she dressed for their movie nights—casual but calculated, showing just enough skin to seem innocent while drawing his eye.
She thought she was clever. She had no idea who she was dealing with.
I had another business trip tomorrow—three days in Chicago for a merger negotiation that couldn't be postponed.
Three days of Stefan and Lila alone in this house, sharing meals, sharing space, sharing glances that lingered too long. The thought was unbearable.
I needed insurance. I needed to remind Stefan what he had at home. And I knew exactly how to do it.
Late that evening, I found Stefan in the kitchen. He was drinking water, staring pensively out the window at the darkened backyard, lost in thoughts I probably didn't want to examine too closely.
The moonlight caught the silver threading through his hair, and for a moment, I remembered why I'd married him.
Not love—I wasn't sure I'd ever truly loved anyone. But desire. Possession. The satisfaction of claiming something beautiful that other women wanted.
"Can't sleep?" I asked, stepping into the kitchen. My silk robe whispered against my skin as I moved closer, the fabric cool and deliberate.
Stefan turned, surprise flickering across his face. He clearly hadn't expected to see me down here at this hour. "Just thinking. You should be resting—you have an early flight."
"Mmm." I leaned against the counter beside him, close enough that my shoulder brushed his arm.
Close enough that he could smell my perfume, the expensive one I saved for special occasions. "I've been thinking too. About us. About how distant we've become."
He tensed, clearly uncomfortable with the direction of conversation. "Eleanor, it's late…"
"When's the last time we really connected, Stefan?" I let my voice drop, soft and inviting, the tone I'd perfected over years of negotiations and seductions. "When's the last time you touched me? Wanted me?"
"I don't think this is the time to…"
I didn't let him finish. I moved in front of him, my hands finding his chest, sliding upward to his shoulders. The muscles beneath his shirt were tense, coiled.
"I miss you," I murmured, and it was almost not a lie. I missed the control. The certainty that he was mine. "I miss us."
My hands trailed down his torso, fingers finding his belt. I began to sink to my knees, watching his face—the conflict warring in his expression, the surprise, the reluctant flicker of response that he couldn't quite suppress.
"Eleanor, wait…" His hand caught my wrist, stopping my descent. "What if Lila comes in and sees?"
The question sent a thrill through me. Part of me hoped exactly that—hoped the girl would wander down for a midnight glass of water and witness precisely who Stefan belonged to.
The image was delicious: Lila's shocked face, her humiliation, the clear message that she would never have what I possessed.
But I kept my expression soft, reassuring. "I passed by her bedroom on my way down. The light was off—she's already asleep."
I resumed my descent, looking up at him through my lashes with practiced vulnerability. "You've been so tense lately, darling. Let me take care of you."
Stefan's resistance wavered. I could see it in his eyes—the exhaustion, the loneliness, the simple human need for physical connection. It had been six months since we'd been intimate.
Six months of separate bedrooms and polite distance. His body remembered me, even if his heart had wandered to places I refused to acknowledge.
"Just relax," I whispered, fingers working his belt free with expert precision. "Let me do all the work. You just enjoy."
He stopped protesting. His hand moved from my wrist to my hair, and I smiled to myself as I took control. I ran my hand over the sensitive spot on his pants and heard a sharp breath escape Stefan’s lips.
My smile widened. Men—what can you expect from them? A few moans and a little confidence are enough to make their boner ready to break the ceiling.
And in the end, Stefan is also just a man—a man who desires, who wants to own, who wants to experience pleasure. Who likes to fuck.
This is what I was good at—manipulation, possession, the art of keeping what was mine through any means necessary.
Stefan might look at that girl with softness in his eyes, might share takeout and movies and quiet conversations I wasn't part of. But he was still my husband. Still bound to me by law and habit and six years of shared history.
I would remind him of that tonight. I would make him remember what his wife could offer—pleasure without complication, release without the messy emotions that the girl clearly hoped to inspire.
And tomorrow, when I left for Chicago, the guilt would keep him in line. He would look at Lila and remember what he'd done with me just hours before.
He would pull back, create distance, rebuild the walls that were starting to crumble. Men were predictable that way. Give them what they thought they wanted, and they became manageable. Controllable. Mine.