Tear You Apart

The rain had destroyed everything: her hair, her stockings, her carefully constructed indifference. Elisabeth Amblin stood in Naveen’s new gallery, sipping wine she didn’t want, staring at a piece of art she despised, when he spoke. "A grand for that? Who’d pay it?" His voice was soft, husky, and for a moment, genderless—until she turned and saw him. Lean, scruffy, in a retro suit and Converse, with eyes that pinned her where she stood. She should’ve walked away. Should’ve ignored the way his gaze lingered on her neck, the way his fingers—calloused, rough—brushed hers when they shook hands. But she didn’t. Because for the first time in years, someone saw her. Not the wife, not the mother, not the woman who folded laundry and paid bills. Her. And when he laughed, his voice tasted like the ocean, and she knew—this man would either save her or destroy her. There was no in-between. Now, months later, she’s in his loft, watching him stroke himself in the shower through a cracked door, her body a live wire of want and guilt. She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t. But his hands on her skin feel like the first breath after drowning, and she’s been underwater for decades.