Chapter 2 That couldn't hurt, right??

Bia's POV

Two weeks had passed since that dreadful wedding, and the memory of his infuriating smirk was still fresh in my mind. But now, a new, more pressing reality was taking shape. I was dragging my battered suitcase up the grand staircase of what was now, apparently, my house. Each step felt like a monumental effort, accompanied by a stream of muttered curses, a litany of frustrations and indignities.

Moving back in felt like the ultimate defeat. My carefully planned life had imploded in a spectacular fashion. My lease in the city had ended, a cruel twist of fate that coincided with my internship falling through. It was supposed to be my escape, my independence, my declaration that I was an adult, capable and self-sufficient. Instead, here I was, a boomerang daughter, right back where I started, but now with the added complication of a new, unsettling presence in my life.

And my mother. Bless her blissfully ignorant heart, she was off on a two-month honeymoon cruise, sailing the Mediterranean with him. Before she left, with that same bright-eyed naivety she’d worn on her wedding day, she insisted I “stay with him until I got back on my feet.”

Stay with him. Alone.

The thought had sent a prickle of unease through me even then. Now, standing in the echoing silence of the enormous house, it felt like a sentence.

The house itself was unnervingly quiet. The usual comforting sounds of home were absent. The air, however, was not empty. It was heavy, thick with the scent of that same expensive cologne he wore—a subtle, spicy, masculine aroma that was now inextricably linked to him. It permeated the very fabric of the place, a constant reminder of his presence.

His cologne was everywhere. In the entry hall, clinging to the velvet drapes, even subtly present in the air that drifted up the stairs. It was as if he had already claimed the atmosphere of the house.

Finally, I managed to heave my bags into what used to be my bedroom—a spacious, perfectly appointed room that now felt alien and sterile. I kicked the door shut with a satisfying thud, a futile attempt to barricade myself from the inescapable reality of my situation. I collapsed onto the bed, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling, which suddenly felt impossibly high and indifferent. Every sound, every subtle shift in the silence—the faint clink of ice from downstairs, the low hum of a television—served as a jarring reminder that he was here.

Down there.

And I was up here. Alone with him.

Later, much later, when the house had settled into a deeper quiet, a stillness that only amplified the frantic thrumming of my thoughts, sleep remained an elusive mirage. My mind, a restless hamster on a wheel, replayed snippets of the wedding: his voice, his smirk, the way he looked at me. It was an uncomfortable obsession I couldn’t shake.

Finally, unable to bear the confines of my own thoughts and the oppressive silence, I crept from my room. The hallway was dark, illuminated only by the faint glow of a distant streetlight filtering through the landing window. I moved as quietly as a shadow, drawn by an invisible thread, until I reached the top of the grand staircase.

From this vantage point, I could see him.

He was sprawled on the couch in the vast living room below, a picture of casual ease. Gone was the impeccably tailored suit; he wore soft-looking grey sweatpants that clung to the muscular definition of his thighs and a simple white T-shirt that stretched across his broad chest. He was barefoot, one arm thrown lazily over the back of the couch, the other holding a heavy crystal tumbler filled with a dark liquid—bourbon, most likely, judging by the warm, oaky scent that somehow reached me.

He didn’t look up. His attention was completely absorbed by the phone in his hand, his thumb scrolling idly, occasionally pausing. The flickering blue light from the large flat-screen TV on the wall, showing some muted, indistinct program, cast a shifting glow across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the faint stubble shadowing his chin, and the curve of his lips.

He looked… different this way. Less polished. More real. Younger, even, without the formal trappings. The carefully constructed façade of the intimidating businessman seemed to have melted away, leaving something raw and exposed. But not vulnerable. Dangerous in a different way. A primal, untamed danger stirred something unsettling within me. My breath caught in my throat. I stood there, rooted to the spot longer than I should have, a silent observer. Watching him. The stillness of his form, the quiet intensity of his focus on his phone, the way his fingers curled around the glass—every detail seemed magnified, significant.

I should’ve gone back to bed. The logical part of my brain screamed this command. It was late. It was wrong. This entire situation was wrong. But a deeper, more insistent current pulled me. A forbidden curiosity simmered beneath my indignation, now bubbling over, demanding acknowledgment.

Instead, my feet, seemingly of their own volition, wandered down the darkened hall. Not towards my room, but further, deeper into the forbidden territory of the house. I found myself slowing, then stopping, outside a closed door. His bedroom door.

It wasn't even locked. A soft, almost imperceptible click as I gently pressed against the cold metal knob. One little push, and it opened just enough for me to slip inside, the sound swallowed by the thick carpet.

The room enveloped me immediately. It smelled like him, undeniably. The same warm, clean, faintly spicy scent of his cologne, but here, it was richer, more concentrated, mingled with something else—the subtle musk of his skin, the clean scent of freshly laundered sheets. The air was cooler here than in the rest of the house, the heavy, dark curtains drawn shut, blocking out the intrusive moonlight, creating a cocoon of deep, velvety black.

His bed dominated the center of the room like an island. The sheets were perfectly made, pulled taut, the dark comforter smooth and inviting, a stark contrast to the chaotic landscape of my own unmade bed. It looked pristine, untouched, waiting.

My heart began to thud, a frantic rhythm against my ribs. A surge of nervous energy coursed through my veins. I stepped closer, drawn by an irresistible pull, my fingers trembling slightly as they brushed against the cool, luxurious fabric of the comforter.

I told myself it was simple curiosity. I just wanted to see what it felt like. To sit on his bed. To feel the texture of the expensive sheets. To prove to myself, to some unseen observer, that I wasn’t afraid of him or this new, unsettling dynamic. That I was in control.

I eased myself onto the very edge of the mattress, the soft give of the springs a subtle whisper beneath my weight. The comforter was even softer than it looked, an expensive, silken blend that felt impossibly luxurious against my fingertips, the kind of fabric that whispered secrets when you moved against it.

Without conscious thought, an impulse took over. I lay back, letting the bed receive my weight, stretching out tentatively, staring up at the dark, invisible ceiling. The scent of him wrapped around me, a potent embrace. My mind began to drift, conjuring images of what he looked like when he slept here, his body a heavy, warm presence against these sheets, his breathing deep and even in the darkness. I imagined the exact spot where his head would rest on the pillow, the impression his body would leave.

And then, a sudden, sharp intrusion of another thought: what would he say if he found me here now? The idea sent a jolt of thrill, mingled with fear, curling low in my stomach. What would his eyes look like? Would they be amused, angry, something else entirely? The thought was both terrifying and undeniably alluring.

I closed my eyes, the darkness behind my eyelids mirroring the darkness of the room.

Just for a minute, I told myself, the words a flimsy justification. Just a minute on his bed.

That couldn’t hurt anything… right? The question hung unanswered in the silent, fragrant air, a silent promise or a dangerous deception. I lay there, suspended between reality and a burgeoning, forbidden fantasy, the soft, expensive fabric a silent witness to a line I was dangerously close to crossing.