Maurice

The shadows from the tall candelabras danced along the walls, elongating the silhouettes of the guests like specters of the past come to life. The hall was steeped in an air of ostentatious splendor: crystal glittered under the chandelier, scattering diamond-like reflections across the floor, glasses clinked, mingling with the muted hum of polite conversation. Someone was deep in business negotiations, head bowed and voice lowered, as if afraid their words might rise upward with the cigar smoke.

You stood beside your husband—Richt Ranel, the owner of a major construction conglomerate. Seven years of marriage had turned your relationship into a flawless facade: shared photos on social media, society galas, public smiles, and icy silence behind the closed doors of your mansion.Your gaze drifted across the room, skimming familiar faces, then suddenly halted. Leaning lazily against the marble fireplace was Maurice Russo.

Your husband’s business partner in the new project. The man whose fingers, just three weeks ago, had first dug into your skin—not with polite courtesy, but with a hunger that sent shivers down your spine. Back then, in the dim light of an empty office, long after the last employees had left, it had all happened in a frenzy—like a fever dream. Yet every moment was seared into your memory: his hot breath on your neck, rough hands beneath your skirt, the burning heat of entangled bodies.

Now, he was speaking with investors, head tilted back with casual arrogance. But his dark eyes were fixed only on you. There was no social mask in that gaze—just a relentless, unmistakable hunger. You quickly looked away, pretending to study a painting on the wall. But it was too late. No words were needed.The decision had already been made.An hour passed before you slipped into the winter garden, blaming a headache and the need for fresh air. But your steps were too hurried. You knew: he would come. And he did.

The door barely clicked shut before his hands seized your shoulders, pinning you against the cold stone wall. It happened without words—like a storm, sudden and merciless. His fingers dug into your thighs through the thin fabric of your dress, leaving marks you’d have to hide tomorrow under layers of concealer. "Are you mocking me?" His voice was strained, rough, teeth clenched to keep from losing control. "Did you wear this damn dress on purpose?"

You didn’t answer. Instead, you tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer. Lips collided in a kiss more like a battle. This wasn’t passion—it was torment. Anger. Bitterness. Aching longing tearing its way out with every bite that drew blood. He kissed you with fury, as if branding you:"You’re mine, even if no one knows." The dress slipped off your shoulder, exposing goosebump-covered skin. He yanked the fabric down, and your head fell back, a choked moan escaping your lips.

Somewhere far off, in the main hall, the celebration continued: glasses chimed, guests laughed, your husband raised a toast to the company’s success.But here, in the dimness of the winter garden, the air smelled of damp earth, tropical foliage, and sin.And then—emptiness. He vanished as suddenly as he’d appeared. You were alone. Trembling fingers adjusted your dress, tugged lace back into place, wiped smeared lipstick. Your phone buzzed in your pocket—of course, it was Richt. He’d already noticed your absence.

In the mirrored surface of the glass door, you caught your reflection: disheveled hair, swollen lips, eyes clouded with shame and something else. Madness. "You’re beautiful," his words echoed in your mind. Your fists clenched.Tomorrow, as if nothing had happened, you’d sit through negotiations, pouring coffee and smiling while Maurice discussed the contract with your husband. But tonight... tonight, all that remained was the taste of blood on your tongue and the ghost of his fingers on your skin.

Two days later.The porcelain clink of a knife against a plate sliced through the heavy silence of dinner. You sat between your husband and Maurice, trapped between two forces—icy indifference and a gaze that burned. Richt, methodically cutting his steak, didn’t even glance your way. "So, Russo, you’re saying the new project can launch by April?" His voice was even, emotionless.

Maurice slowly dragged a finger along the rim of his glass, leaving a wet trail. "If all goes according to plan," he replied—just as his foot brushed against your ankle under the table. A light, almost innocent touch. Then it slid higher, beneath the hem of your skirt. You jolted in surprise, nearly knocking over your wineglass. Richt finally looked up, as if asking if everything was alright, but you were already dabbing your lips with a napkin, blaming the spicy sauce. Only your flushed cheeks betrayed the truth.

Maurice smirked and took a sip of wine. Under the chandelier’s glow, his movements were deliberately slow, savoring every second. Richt gave you a fleeting glance, then cleared his throat slightly, nodding toward the decanter.You reached for it, but Maurice was faster. His fingers closed around your wrist—firm, but only for a heartbeat. Just enough to send sparks beneath your skin. Not enough for anyone to notice. "Allow me," he murmured.

You thanked him under your breath as he released your hand, averting your eyes again. Richt, meanwhile, was discussing the real estate market. And Maurice... He was watching only you. And when your husband leaned down to pick up a fallen napkin, Maurice slowly dragged his tongue over his upper lip—as if savoring an invisible kiss.In that moment, you knew: the night would be long. And you’d have to hold yourself together. Tightly.