Marianne felt her body tingle as unfamiliar sensations pulled her from a deep sleep, leaving her unsure if she was dreaming or awake. Something warm and wet covered one of her exposed breasts, while a faint yet intense sensation—like a finger massaging her inner thighs—overwhelmed her. Her breath quickened as the sensations intensified, and she struggled to make sense of the blurry surroundings.
Her mind was clouded, unable to grasp what was happening fully—these sensations felt too vivid, too real. This couldn't be a dream. As she tried to piece it together, the mysterious figure lifted his head from between her legs, and the moonlight revealed his face.
"Gregory?!" she nearly screamed, her voice filled with shock. "What are—"
"Shh. It's okay, babe," he whispered, leaning in to kiss her. But as their lips met, she caught a whiff of the strong, bitter scent of alcohol on his breath.
Was he drunk?
She couldn't believe it had been three years since they entered this loveless union. Gregory had always called it a "forced" marriage—devoid of romance—and until tonight, he had barely touched her. But now, intoxicated, he was finally treating her in a way she had yearned for so long. Why now? Why was he drunk? What had changed? Would he even remember it in the morning? The questions swirled in her mind, drawing her deeper into confusion.
"What are you thinking about?" he breathed softly into her ear, sending shivers of pleasure down her spine.
He kissed her face and neck, each movement tender but urgent, her body tensing with every movement.
"I'm just wondering if this is real," she replied, stroking his face.
"What about this?" his thrusts grew harder, faster, overwhelming her senses.
She gasped as their eyes locked; her thoughts of confession swept away by the waves of pleasure rising within her. I love you, Gregory. I have loved you for a long time now. His urgency propelled her toward an elusive climax, each moment drawing them closer—if only physically.
"Oh, Gregory…"
"Ugh..."
He buried his head in her shoulder, a curse slipping from his lips as a final thrust brought them to a trembling peak of ecstasy. Still entwined, she lay breathless beneath him, her heart pounding with more than just the aftermath of desire.
Summoning her courage, she held him close. It was a risky move, but she felt ready to speak the truth she had carried for so long.
"Greg, I lo-"
"Jane," he murmured hoarsely, then slipped into a deep sleep.
Marianne's heart shattered. He had mistaken her for someone else, someone who clearly still lived in his heart in a way she never had.
Carefully, she untangled herself from his arms. Wrapping herself in a robe, she walked to the open French windows, desperate for air, for space, for clarity. Each step brought a dull ache—a painful reminder of the intimacy they had just shared, now tainted by the name he whispered.
The moon hung low, casting a silvery glow that offered little comfort. It contradicted the storm building inside her.
She loved him; that much was certain. For years, she had harbored a quiet, unrequited love. Despite his distance—his reluctance to be alone with her, the way he barely acknowledged her in public—still, she longed for him. What was it about him that had captured her heart?
Looking back, she watched him sleep among the disheveled sheets. It was the first time she had seen him like this—peaceful, vulnerable—and the first time they had truly shared this bed. He had surrendered the room to her immediately on their wedding night. A night she had hoped would mark the beginning of something real, where he could finally grow to love her. Instead, he made sure she knew that theirs was a marriage in name only. No promises. No future.
"My heart is breaking," she sighed, leaning against the windowsill, sorrow heavy on her chest. "You told me to be patient... You said..." Tears trickled down her cheeks.