Weston’s long legs reached out, scooping the thong from the ground with the tips of his polished, handmade leather shoes. He leaned down to pick it up and, after a moment’s thought, twisted it into a tight ball before letting it fall beside him.
“I remember you liked lace before,” he said casually, his voice carrying an edge of curiosity. “What made you switch to cotton?”
Stella closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, trying to suppress the chill that crawled through her body. She rubbed her right arm for warmth before answering quietly, “It was a random purchase. I have no preference.”
Weston didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on her as he carelessly tossed the thong aside.
“Continue,” he said, his voice laced with interest.
Her heart raced, and she hesitated for a moment before nodding. Kneeling in front of him, her body trembled, her hands reaching for the spot she dreaded. She could feel the tension in the air, thick and palpable.
Sure enough, Weston’s body stiffened. His veins bulged in his neck, and with one swift motion, he grabbed her hair, yanking her away from the spot.
“Who taught you these?” he demanded, his voice tight.
Stella shook her head, her voice barely a whisper. “No one.”
Her answer seemed to please him, as his grip on her neck softened, his touch almost tender. “Good girl.”
In that moment, Weston felt a rush of possessiveness. He knew that during their time apart, there hadn’t been any other men in her life. The only potential threat had been Justin, but now, it seemed even he wasn’t a real danger.
His hand moved to caress her hair, feeling the softness, almost mesmerized by its texture, like fine satin. It was as if he had discovered a new, fascinating toy—something he wanted to keep close.
Stella despised anyone playing with her hair, but for now, she had no choice but to endure it, her emotions bottled up as she fought to remain calm.
Noticing the look on her face, Weston let go of her hair. “Why are you upset again?”
“I’m not upset,” Stella replied quickly, but her voice lacked conviction. She shook her head, trying to avoid his penetrating gaze.
“You don’t look very convincing,” Weston said, his eyes narrowing as he studied her closely.
Stella reluctantly looked up at him, forcing a smile that only deepened the distance between them. It was worse than if she had cried.
Weston clicked his tongue in disgust, his expression turning cold. “Does being with me disgust you?”
Stella didn’t answer immediately. She paused, gathering her thoughts before speaking. “Do you want to hear the truth or the lie?”
A moment of silence stretched between them, before Weston’s lips curved into a small, amused smile. The dim light in the room cast shadows on his face, accentuating his features as he looked down at her. There was a glint of superiority in his eyes, an unspoken barrier that made it clear—no matter how well one got along with him, a distance could always be felt.
“Tell me the lie first,” he said, his voice still carrying that edge of amusement.
Stella’s lips tightened, but she didn’t hesitate. “I’m happy.”
“And the truth?”
She took a deep breath, her fist clenching tightly as she whispered, “I feel even worse than dying.”
Instantly, the smile slipped from Weston’s face. The air between them grew frigid, and a heavy silence enveloped the room.
The clock struck 7 PM, and Stella’s phone buzzed. It was Roger. She glanced at the man in the living room before picking up the call, her voice quiet and strained as she spoke into the phone.
“I have some stuff to do tonight,” she murmured, her words carefully controlled. “I’m not coming home.”
On the other end of the line, Roger stood by the dinner table, a stunned expression crossing his face as he processed her words. He looked down at the blisters on his hands, remnants of the meal he had been preparing.
“Is there anything urgent?” he asked, concern edging his tone as he stared at the table full of food.
“Stella,” he called again, his voice filled with a mix of confusion and worry.
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