On the sofa in the corner, fully dressed, Mr. Silence is having sex with Alisa, who lies naked beneath him as he thrusts into her. I clench my hands into fists, willing them to stay still. The air feels thick and heavy as I drag it into my nose, each breath a struggle.
Our eyes meet briefly before he pulls out, stands, rips off the condom, and tosses it into the trash under the table. Zipping up his pants, his face is devoid of emotion, his eyes cold and indifferent. I cautiously step closer, searching his face for any flicker of feeling, but it remains completely inexpressive. He unbuttons his suit jacket, slips it off, and tosses it onto the table before tugging on his shirt sleeves to straighten them.
I feel a mixture of relief and sadness. Relief that it was meaningless sex for him. Sadness that perhaps it's the same with me for him. But it's something I'll have to accept.
Sitting up, Alisa wears a faint smile, the kind that carries the radiant afterglow of satisfaction, as she slips her dress back on. How many rounds has it been between them? He extends a stack of $100 bills toward her with his right hand, all while holding my gaze and picking up a whiskey glass with his left. Her smile widens as she takes the bills, then walks out. His eyes fixated on me while he sips.
I take a few slower breathe to allow the sharp constricting pain to subside, reason returns. I grab a stack of napkins, wet them, and gently pat them over his forehead and temples. He doesn't sweat. His fierce, unrelenting gaze locks onto me.
Reaching into my purse, I take out a packet of cleaning wet disinfectant wipes and begin wiping his hands thoroughly, sliding down each finger with care, admiring their long, strong shape. My attention lingers on the details of the ring on his middle finger—a thick silver band wrapped with tiny diamonds, clearly custom-made. With slow, deliberate motions, I wipe away her scent from his skin, keeping my breathing steady and even.
His brows crease deeper, and his lips press together in a tight frown. I let out a small laugh, soft and almost involuntary.
"How can you have more reaction to this than when you were having sex with her?" I lean in closer until I can breathe in the whiskey on his breath. Glad the alcohol wipes away her kiss or maybe his lips didn't touch her skin. Smiling up at him, I say softly, "Was it that bad?"
But my smile falters as his eyes suddenly blaze with fury. He jolts me down onto the sofa, yanking off his tie and throwing it aside. He quickly unzips his pants and pulls out his hardness. His lips come crashing onto mine, his hands pushing up my dress as they pull my legs apart.
He looks down. I bite my lower lip. I'm not wearing anything underneath the sundress. My freshly shaven private parts exposed. His breathing becomes shallow as my hardened nipples stare at him, his intense gaze searching mine.
I feel my eyes smolder as the left corner of my lip lifts upward. For the first time in such a long time, I want to seduce someone. Most of the time, men and women seduce me. This time, I want to tempt him. My hands glide up his arms, tracing the defined muscles underneath that silky black shirt. Gently but firmly, I pull on his vest, closing the gap between us ever so slightly. My right foot slides down his leg as I arch upward.
The rage in his eyes ebbs slowly with every inch I move us closer. As our lips touch, he frowns again. His body tenses up, his hands hold me still, then he sits up. Zipping up his pants, his face shows clear signs of annoyance as he turns away from me.
This is a first. He looks cute when he's annoyed... like a child who didn't get his favorite toy for Christmas. I involuntarily let out a laugh. The slow brewing in his eyes makes me sit up. With one hand caressing his cheek, I whisper, "What's wrong, my love?" His face relaxes, his pupils dilate, and his surprise is palpable at my endearment. His breathing slows, and he fixates on me. I straighten out my dress and easily slide into his lap.
Cupping his face in my hands, I loudly place a peck on his nose. His eyes become sultry, but there is still an undercurrent of anger I cannot understand. "My love, are you tired? Hungry? Why are you angry? Did she satisfy you? Do you want a blowjob? What do you want right now? What do you need?" I bide my time, allowing his passionate embrace as he tightens his hold on me.
He rests his forehead on my shoulder as he lets out a defeated sigh. My arms wrap protectively around him. I feel sad suddenly even though our embrace has never been more intimate. Why am I sad?
###
He hates it. He wants her to react. To break. To scream. To cry. To turn away from him like anyone else would.
Anything—anything that proves this matters to her. That he matters.
But this… This quiet acceptance. This calm. Like nothing he does can touch her. Like he's just—another man.
His jaw tightens. What is he supposed to do with someone like this? A woman who doesn't fight. Who doesn't cling. Who doesn't demand to be the only one.
Is she truly incapable of jealousy?
Or—does she simply not want him enough?
The thought lands sharp. Immediate. Unwelcome.
His chest tightens before he can stop it.
This impossible woman.
He hates it.
Because no matter what he does—he can't force a reaction out of her.
Can't make her choose him.
And yet—this again. That same quiet. That same stillness that wraps around him whenever she's near. The absence of noise. Of pressure. Of expectation. Peace.
His grip loosens slightly at his side. This was why he left that first night. Why he couldn't stay.
Because the moment he let himself—he had fallen asleep holding her. Not restless. Not alert. Not guarded.
Asleep. Deep. Uninterrupted. Like nothing could reach him. Like nothing could take her away.
And that—that terrifies him more than anything else.
He has to let go.
She doesn't belong in his world.
She doesn't need him.
…
But—
just a little longer.
###
Some time passes, and his arms relax around me. Threading my fingers through his silky black hair, I massage his head as I ask, "My love... where's Clara Smith?" His hands grab my arms, bringing them down, and his heated glare returns as it was before. He secures both of my wrists in his left hand. His right one comes up, wrapping around my throat.
"Why do you think you can ask me that?" The menace in his voice matches the seething anger in his stare.
"Because Jason wouldn't do anything without your order."
His fingers dig into the sides of my throat, but not enough to hurt.
"Clara needed help that night, didn't she? You saved her."
His grip on my wrists constricts. "What makes you think—"
"I trust you. I know you saved her and you're protecting her now. Where is she?" Right as the words roll off my tongue, all of my previous doubt disappears. As I witness the growing fury in his eyes and feel the tight hold of his hands around my neck and wrists, I know. Is this what intuition is? How do I know that I can trust him even like this? He won't hurt me. In fact, I have never been afraid of him, no matter what situations we were in.
He lets go, stands up as I fumble off his lap onto the sofa, he turns his back to me, and puts his hands on his hips. That stance again. Is he thinking? Cooling off? But why is he furious? I see his neutral face as he leans down to pick up his jacket, puts it on, and leaves. I go after him, but the door closes before I can catch up to him.
None of this makes sense. If he wanted nothing from me—why make me see that? If it was meaningless—why lose control after? If he has Clara—why won't he say it?
###
"She's done."
Jason goes still on the other end of the line.
"…Understood."
Mohamad ends the call. No hesitation. No pause. Decision made. Final.
He steps out of the locker room and heads straight for the weights.
The metal bar slams into his palms.
Up. Down. Again. Again. Again.
He doesn't count. Doesn't think. Doesn't stop.
If alcohol couldn't erase her— If other women couldn't replace her—Then he'll force it out of his system.
His grip tightens. The bar bends slightly under the strain. Not enough. Nothing is enough.
Because no matter how hard he pushes—no matter how far he drives his body—she's still there.
Unmoving. Untouchable. Like she never left him at all.
His jaw tightens.
"She's done."
He says it again. This time—quieter.
Like he's trying to make himself believe it.