Chapter 2: The Ghost of Her Scent

The drive home passed in a blur of Emma's excited chatter about chassés and grand jetés, but Liam heard only fragments. His mind was still trapped in that brick alcove, replaying every sensation—the way Chloe's breath had hitched when he touched her, the desperate grip of her fingers on his shoulders, the sweet torture of her body welcoming his.

Miss Chloe. Even her name felt dangerous rolling through his thoughts.

"Daddy, you're not listening," Emma accused from the backseat, her voice cutting through his reverie.

"Sorry, sweetheart. Tell me again about the new combination."

But as Emma launched back into her detailed description of ballet positions, Liam caught his reflection in the rearview mirror. His hair was slightly mussed despite his attempts to smooth it, and there was something different in his eyes—a wildness that hadn't been there an hour ago. He looked like a man with secrets.

The familiar weight of his wedding ring felt heavier against the steering wheel.

By the time they pulled into their driveway, the post-encounter high was beginning to fade, replaced by something more complicated. The colonial house loomed before them, all clean lines and perfectly maintained landscaping—a monument to suburban success that usually filled him with quiet pride. Today it looked like a prison.

"Mom's car isn't here yet," Emma observed, bounding up the front steps.

"She's running late at work," Liam said, fumbling with his keys. His hands were still slightly unsteady, muscle memory of what they'd been doing thirty minutes ago making simple tasks feel foreign.

Inside, the house wrapped around them with its familiar sterility. Everything in its place, every surface gleaming. Sarah's domain, organized and controlled down to the last throw pillow. The contrast to the raw urgency of the alley was so stark it made his chest ache.

"I'm going to practice my positions," Emma announced, disappearing upstairs to change out of her leotard.

Liam stood alone in the entryway, breathing in the scent of Sarah's expensive candles and cleaning products. But underneath it all, he could still smell Chloe—that intoxicating mix of floral perfume and feminine musk that had filled his senses in the alcove. The ghost of her scent clung to his shirt, his skin, a dangerous reminder of what he'd just done.

He needed a shower. He needed to wash away the evidence before Sarah came home, before he had to look his wife in the eye and pretend he was the same man who had kissed her goodbye that morning.

The bathroom mirror was unforgiving under the harsh vanity lights. His lips looked darker, slightly swollen. There was a faint red mark on his neck where Chloe had bitten him to stifle her cries. Evidence of his betrayal written on his skin.

Under the scalding spray, he scrubbed himself raw, but Chloe's essence seemed to have seeped deeper than soap could reach. With every breath, he could still taste her kiss. The memory of her body accepting his sent another spike of arousal through him, and he had to grip the shower wall to steady himself.

What the hell was wrong with him?

This wasn't supposed to happen. When it started three months ago—that first accidental meeting, the tentative conversation that had somehow led to desperate kissing against brick walls—he'd told himself it was just physical release. A outlet for the frustration that had been building in his marriage for years.

But standing there with water streaming down his face, Liam had to admit the truth: it was becoming something more. The way his entire week now revolved around Tuesday at 4:27 PM, the way her name had lodged itself in his chest like a splinter—this wasn't just about sex anymore.

The sound of the garage door opening sent panic shooting through his system. Sarah was home.

He dried off quickly, threw on clean clothes, and made it downstairs just as his wife walked through the kitchen door. Sarah looked exactly as she always did—blonde hair perfectly styled despite a long day at the marketing firm, makeup still flawless, designer clothes unwrinkled. She was beautiful in an untouchable way, like a photograph of someone he used to know.

"Sorry I'm late," she said without looking at him, already focused on sorting through the mail. "The Henderson presentation ran over, and then Mitchell wanted to discuss next quarter's campaigns."

"No problem. I picked up Emma."

"How was ballet?"

The question was automatic, distracted. Sarah asked it every Tuesday, but Liam could tell she wasn't really listening for the answer. Her attention was already on her phone, scrolling through emails with practiced efficiency.

"She learned a new combination. She's excited about it."

"Mmm." Sarah's thumb moved across her screen. "Did you start dinner? I'm starving."

Liam stared at his wife—really looked at her—and felt the familiar hollowness expand in his chest. When was the last time she'd met his eyes when they talked? When was the last time she'd asked about his day, his thoughts, anything beyond the logistics of their shared life?

"I was just about to," he said.

"Great. I need to make a few calls first." She was already walking toward her home office, phone pressed to her ear. "Hey, Mitchell, about those demographics..."

Her voice faded as she disappeared down the hall, leaving Liam alone in the kitchen. The silence felt suffocating after the afternoon's intensity. This was his life—careful conversations about schedules and responsibilities, two people orbiting each other without ever touching.

Emma's footsteps thundered down the stairs. "Daddy, can you help me with my arabesques? I want to show Mom when she's done working."

"Of course, sweetheart."

They spent twenty minutes in the living room, Emma demonstrating her ballet positions while Liam provided gentle corrections and encouragement. His daughter's joy was infectious, her unselfconscious grace a reminder of everything good in his carefully constructed world. This was why he stayed, why he played the part of devoted husband and father even as something vital withered inside him.

But even as he praised Emma's improvement, part of his mind was calculating. Six days, twenty-two hours until next Tuesday. Six days, twenty-two hours until he could feel alive again.

Sarah emerged from her office just as Liam was putting dinner on the table—grilled chicken, roasted vegetables, quinoa. The same healthy, balanced meal they ate most weeknights. Everything in their life was healthy and balanced and completely devoid of passion.

"Smells good," Sarah said, settling into her usual chair. She'd changed into yoga pants and a fitted top, her work armor replaced by casual perfection. "Emma, tell me about ballet."

As Emma launched into an animated description of her class, Liam watched his wife's face. Sarah smiled and nodded at the appropriate moments, but there was a distance in her expression, as though she was watching a performance rather than connecting with their daughter.

Do I look the same way? The thought hit him like a physical blow. Had he become as emotionally absent as Sarah seemed? Was this what their marriage had reduced them to—two attractive people going through the motions of family life?

"The instructor taught us this really hard combination," Emma was saying. "Miss Chloe says if we practice every day, we'll be ready for the recital."

The name hit Liam like electricity. His fork paused halfway to his mouth, and he forced himself to continue chewing normally. But inside, his pulse was racing. The way Emma said it so casually, like it was just another piece of everyday information, made his secret feel both more real and more dangerous.

"Miss Chloe sounds like a good teacher," Sarah said absently, already reaching for her phone again.

"She is. She used to be a real dancer, like on stage and everything. But then she got hurt and couldn't dance professionally anymore, so now she teaches us."

More pieces of the puzzle. Chloe had been a professional dancer. An injury had ended her career. Liam filed away each detail greedily, hungry for any glimpse into the life of the woman who had become his obsession.

"That's nice, honey," Sarah murmured, scrolling through emails.

"Sarah." Liam's voice came out sharper than he intended. "She's talking to you."

His wife looked up, startled by his tone. "What?"

"Emma's telling you about her class. Maybe you could listen."

The words hung in the air between them, charged with more meaning than a simple request for attention. Sarah's eyes narrowed slightly, a warning sign Liam recognized but chose to ignore.

"I am listening. I said it was nice."

"You're looking at your phone."

"I can multitask, Liam. Some of us have demanding jobs that don't end at five o'clock."

The dig landed exactly where she'd intended. Liam's architectural firm was successful but stable, allowing him the flexibility to handle school pickups and ballet classes. Sarah's marketing position was more high-pressure, requiring longer hours and constant availability. She'd never let him forget which of them was the higher earner.

"I'm just saying maybe dinner could be phone-free time."

Sarah set down her device with exaggerated care. "Fine. Emma, tell me more about your ballet class. You have my undivided attention."

But the damage was done. The rest of dinner passed in stilted conversation, Sarah's responses to Emma too bright, too forced. Liam retreated into silence, acutely aware of the red mark on his neck hidden beneath his collar, of the way his body still hummed with sense memory of another woman's touch.

After Emma went upstairs to do homework, Liam and Sarah cleaned the kitchen in practiced coordination. They'd performed this domestic dance thousands of times, but tonight every movement felt hollow.

"What's gotten into you?" Sarah asked as she loaded the dishwasher.

"What do you mean?"

"The attitude. The lecture about phone etiquette. You've been weird all evening."

Weird. That's what his wife thought of his request for basic human connection. Liam gripped the counter, fighting the urge to laugh or scream or confess everything just to see if it would crack her polished facade.

"I just think we should be present for our daughter."

"I am present. I work sixty hours a week to provide for this family. Forgive me if I need to check emails during dinner."

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean, Liam?" Sarah turned to face him fully, and he saw something dangerous glittering in her eyes. "Because it sounds like you're criticizing how I parent our child."

"I'm not criticizing anything. I just think—"

"You think what? That I'm a bad mother? That I don't care about Emma?"

The conversation was spiraling away from him, taking on a life of its own. This was how their fights always went—starting with something small and escalating until they were lobbing accusations that had nothing to do with the original issue.

"I never said that."

"You didn't have to. It's written all over your face." Sarah slammed the dishwasher door closed. "You know what, Liam? I'm tired of your judgment. I'm tired of feeling like nothing I do is good enough for you."

"When have I ever said—"

"You don't have to say it. You walk around this house like you're trapped, like being married to me is some kind of prison sentence. Well, guess what? Marriage is work. It's not all passion and excitement. It's showing up every day and doing what needs to be done."

The irony of her words hit him like a physical blow. Here was his wife, lecturing him about the realities of marriage, while the taste of another woman still lingered on his lips. The guilt crashed over him in waves, but underneath it was something else—anger.

"When did we stop talking?" he asked quietly.

"What?"

"When did we stop having conversations that weren't about schedules or Emma's activities or your work? When did we become roommates instead of spouses?"

Sarah stared at him, and for a moment, her polished mask slipped. He saw something raw and vulnerable in her expression, something that reminded him of the woman he'd fallen in love with fifteen years ago.

But then the mask was back in place.

"I don't know what you want from me, Liam. I'm doing the best I can."

"Are you happy?" The question slipped out before he could stop it.

"What kind of question is that?"

"A simple one. Are you happy? With us, with this?" He gestured around the perfect kitchen, the perfect house, their perfect life.

Sarah was quiet for a long moment, and Liam held his breath, wondering if she might finally give him an honest answer. Instead, she picked up her phone.

"I have calls to make. This conversation is pointless."

She walked away, leaving him alone with the dishwasher's gentle hum and the weight of everything they'd just refused to say to each other.

Later, lying in bed beside his sleeping wife, Liam stared at the ceiling and tried to make sense of what his life had become. Sarah lay on her side of the king bed, as far from him as possible without falling off the mattress. They hadn't touched in months, hadn't made love in longer than that.

The red mark on his neck throbbed like a brand, a reminder of the passion that still existed in the world, just not in this house, not in this marriage.

Six days, twenty-one hours until Tuesday.

The countdown had already begun.