She didn't want to beg. She wanted to burn.
Isabelle stirred in the still dark, her fingers instinctively reaching across the bed for warmth that wasn't there. The sheets were cool. Empty. Again. She blinked, half hoping Nathan had simply gone to the bathroom or slipped away for water. But no—her ears caught the quiet murmur of the espresso machine downstairs, followed by the soft click of a laptop opening.
He hadn't even kissed her goodnight.
Not last night. Not the night before. Not for weeks now.
She turned onto her side, her body curving inward, as if shielding itself from the hollow ache beside her. The satin hem of her nightgown rode up her thigh, unnoticed. Nathan used to pull it there deliberately, with eyes darkened by need. Now it stayed untouched, much like the woman who wore it.
Once upon a time, passion had poured between them like wine—wild and heady. But lately, their conversations were grocery lists, their evenings quiet blurs of routine. Their touches… rare. Brief. Dutiful.
She wasn't naive. She knew marriage changed with time. But this wasn't comfort. This was absence. It was vanishing. A slow, quiet erasure.
The alarm buzzed faintly, but she didn't move to silence it. She stayed still, breathing in the ghost of a man who no longer looked at her like he used to. He was always busy, always tired. And she, always understanding.
She had tried. God, had she tried.
Flirtatious texts. Candlelit dinners. Lingerie that now gathered dust in drawers. At first, he'd smiled. Then, politely nodded. Eventually, he stopped reacting at all.
She didn't know what hurt more—his disinterest or her own fading reflection in his eyes.
Isabelle finally sat up, brushing her tangled hair back. The soft glow of morning slipped through the sheer curtains, lighting her face in the vanity mirror across the room.
The woman staring back at her was still beautiful. Still soft. Still her. But muted. Dimmed.
She leaned forward, searching her own eyes for something more than weariness. Something other than the ache of waiting.
There, beneath it all, something stirred.
Tonight, she decided, she would stop trying to be the patient, gentle wife. No more hoping he would remember the fire. She would be the fire. Let it consume her if it must.
She rose from bed, her bare feet touching the hardwood with quiet grace. On the edge of the dresser sat a crimson lipstick she hadn't worn since their fifth anniversary. That night, he couldn't keep his hands off her. She remembered the way his jaw clenched when he saw her. The way he lost words.
She picked it up, uncapping it slowly. The scent—soft vanilla and memory—wrapped around her. She touched the tip to her lips but didn't apply it yet. Not yet.
Her lips curved into something unfamiliar.
Not a smile.
Not quite.
A promise.
Tonight, she wouldn't wait for permission to feel wanted.
She wouldn't chase after scraps of affection.
She wouldn't beg to be seen.
Isabelle was done hoping he'd remember the woman he married.
She would seduce him into remembering.
And if he couldn't?
"I don't know how and what to react if he doesn't want me to, Isabelle sighed and starting to worry again.
"But should I not try?" puzzled but willing to give it a try.
"If I continue to doubt then how can I be that woman who longed to be remembered?"
She'd remind herself of the woman she was always meant to be.