The living room was dimly lit by the soft yellow glow of the lights, the only warm spot in the otherwise cold mansion. Rain had begun to fall outside, the soft patter against the windows making the night feel even colder. The sound was loud in the otherwise silent room, drowning out her thoughts as Stella struggled weakly beneath the man pinning her down. The stark physical disparity between their bodies was overwhelming. Pain and resistance clouded her eyes, yet she couldn’t break free.
Weston, oblivious to her distress, held the back of her head firmly, forcing his presence upon her. He was the kind of man who desired control, and Stella had already experienced his domineering nature once before. It was clear that for Weston, power was everything.
But Stella couldn’t reconcile the conflicting feelings that tugged at her. If Weston’s possessiveness over his “woman” was so strong, why did he allow Guinevere to be cast in the movie? From what Stella knew, the film Guinevere starred in after winning Best Female Actor was filled with intimate scenes that were borderline obscene. Guinevere was a mistress, and a mistress, Stella knew, had no say, no defense—only submission.
But Guinevere was different. She was Weston’s wife, his equal in their relationship. And it was evident in the way he treated her—with respect and love—unlike the crude force he displayed toward Stella.
Stella’s thoughts began to settle, and she stopped resisting, letting her arms fall weakly to her sides. Weston, noticing the change in her, paused. He didn’t say anything but simply stood up, a slight pant to his breath as though waiting for some reaction from her. When she didn’t give him one, he turned and walked to the washroom.
The sound of water falling from the shower echoed through the room. Stella remained curled up on the couch, hugging herself, her eyes shut tight as exhaustion overtook her.
Doubt began to creep in. She had expected him to continue, to finish what he’d started, but instead, he had stopped. The uncertainty, the not knowing when the next blow would come, was worse than the fear of it happening.
Stella felt repulsed by the thought of intimacy with him, but there was nothing she could do but endure. She didn’t want this, didn’t want it to continue. But escape felt like an impossible dream.
As she sat there, her mind racing, the door to the washroom opened. Weston emerged, water still dripping from his body. He didn’t speak but moved toward her, lifting her effortlessly into his arms and carrying her to the bedroom.
She recognized the room instantly—the familiar, sterile comfort of it. Weston lay beside her, his arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her close as he shut his eyes. Only when his breathing slowed, and his body relaxed, did Stella finally allow herself to let her guard down. Her exhaustion overtook her, and she finally drifted into a restless sleep.
The next morning, she woke to find Weston still beside her. The soft sound of pages turning filled the room. She blinked a few times, adjusting to the light that filtered in through the curtains. He was sitting on the couch opposite the bed, a book in his hands, dressed in a black silken robe that draped lazily over his body. His large hands moved casually, flipping through the pages, and the sight was almost peaceful.
He looked up at her, his expression soft and gentle, so different from the tension of the previous night. “You’re awake?”
Stella nodded, unable to find words. She sat up slowly, the sheets slipping from her as she made her way to the washroom, her mind heavy with the unresolved feelings she had for Weston.
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