I wasn't supposed to feel anything. That was the rule I had lived by for years—iron-clad, unbreakable, necessary.
And yet… ever since that night she called what we had a "game," I hadn't slept properly. Confidence had a way of crawling into my head and twisting everything out of shape.
I left her place that night angry—at her, at myself, at whatever the hell was happening between us—but her words kept playing again and again until my chest felt too tight.
So when I reached home and shut the door behind me, expecting sleep to finally come, it didn't.
Not even close.
Instead, I found myself driving right back to her place like some deranged idiot.
And then—her tent was on fire.
My heart stopped.
I called her name like a madman, screaming, tearing through the smoke, convinced she was inside burning alive.
But then she appeared from the back, coughing, extinguishing the flames like it wasn't a near-death situation.
Before I could stop myself, my arms were around her.
Relief hit me so hard it felt like pain.
Then she looked up and asked softly,
"Were you worried about me?"
That question snapped every wire in my brain.
I let her go immediately, replacing the fear with anger—because anger was easier.
And that led to the fight.
The accusations.
The sharp words I shouldn't have said.
The picture she saw on my phone—the picture I deleted right in front of her just so she wouldn't see the truth.
For four days I stayed away.
Not from work.
From her.
I told myself it was because I didn't want distractions, but the truth was more humiliating:
I didn't want to see her with that man, the one she called her husband.
Her lies cut deeper than I expected.
And I hated that it hurt.
But then the fourth day came, and even while swimming—trying to silence my mind—the irritation wouldn't fade. It burned hotter with every lap.
So when I stepped out of the pool dripping wet, the last person I expected to see was the same woman who had turned my life upside down.
Confidence stood there.
Angry. Breathless.
And staring at me like I owed her the world.
For a moment, my eyes betrayed me—they looked at her, really looked.
Her gaze dropped to my chest and lingered.
She didn't hide it.
Didn't even try.
My mouth curved in annoyance and something else I didn't want to name.
"So you're going to shamelessly look without saying what you came here for?"
My voice came out sharper than intended, dripping arrogance.
But she asked for it. She came to my house.
I continued,
"If you need something, you're willing to link arms with a stranger you kissed, went on a date with, and almost fucked—without any shame. Why is work so different for you? You seem to know how to use your talents in many ways."
Her eyes flamed.
"Yes, I did make use of them. And I plan on making even more use of them from now on. Unlike someone who's the chairman's son, I don't have the luxury to skip work and slack off."
My jaw clenched so hard I felt a crack.
She dared.
"What do you know about me?"
I stepped forward, water dripping from my hair, my chest rising and falling in tightly contained anger.
"How dare you speak to me like that?"
But she didn't back down.
Confidence never backed down.
"I know one or two things," she replied coldly.
"Like how you abandoned your team and skip work whenever you feel like it. You're an irresponsible team leader and a boss."
That one stung harder than it should have.
Not because it was fully true—but because she believed it.
"Then you must also know why I skipped work," I shot back.
"Resign, then I'll return to the office. I can't keep seeing a woman who was naked in my room—only for her to show up a few days later talking about her husband."
Her breath hitched.
Her eyes dimmed.
The humiliation on her face wasn't something I expected.
And for one fragile second, guilt stabbed me.
But I refused to let it grow.
I turned to leave.
And then…
She dropped to her knees.
Her voice broke,
"This will be enough for you. Hate me. Fine. But the others—my team—did nothing wrong. This report is their lifeline. Please… please just look at it."
She held the file up with trembling hands.
My chest tightened painfully.
But anger won.
I snatched it from her—then let the rage guide the next seconds.
I threw it into the pool.
Hard.
The splash echoed like a whip.
Her eyes widened.
Her mouth opened in disbelief.
Then, without hesitation, she jumped in.
She didn't even think.
Not about her clothes.
Not about me.
Not about the fact she couldn't swim.
She just dove straight into the water after the floating papers—her entire body disappearing under the surface.
For a moment, I couldn't move.
Then she resurfaced, panicked, choking, fighting the water as she kept grabbing at the dissolving report.
The wet fabric clung to her, outlining everything—her nipples fully visible, her breath hitching in gasps, her arms flailing.
And yet she still tried to save the papers.
Something cracked in me.
The anger.
The pride.
The walls.
They all shattered.
I jumped into the pool after her.
The cold water hit me like realization.
I swam to her quickly, wrapping an arm around her waist.
Her body jerked, desperate, terrified, still reaching for the last sheet.
"Confidence! Stop! You're drowning—stop!"
She didn't stop.
Not until her hand brushed the final paper.
Then she slipped under completely.
My heart froze in my chest.
I dragged her up, her body limp and shaking, water dripping from her eyelashes, her mouth trembling.
She collapsed against me, coughing violently, clinging to my shoulders.
And in that moment—holding her wet, shivering body in my arms—one truth hit me so brutally it stopped my breath:
I cared.
Too damn much.
More than I should.
More than I wanted to.
Because this woman—this stubborn, ridiculous, infuriating woman—was willing to drown over a report I threw away.
She fought for it.
For her team.
For her job.
For her family.
She fought for her life with more courage than I had ever seen.
And I realized…
I didn't deserve her.
But God help me, I wasn't going to let her slip through my fingers.
Not again.
Not after this.
But she was someone else wife and mother .