The guilt died quietly. Vera couldn't pinpoint the moment — perhaps the third time Marcus took her against Elena's favorite painting, or the morning she wore his marks beneath her sister's borrowed scarf.
Whatever catalyst, the hesitation evaporated, leaving only hunger. She began leaving traces. Her lipstick on his coffee mug. Her scent on his office chair.
A single hair, dark where Elena's was blonde , discovered on his lapel and explained away as office proximity.
Each discovery thrilled her. Each near miss electrified. She was marking territory, claiming him in ways his wife never could, proving her superiority through submission.
Tonight, she entered his study at 2 AM, wearing nothing but a silk robe and intention. Marcus sat at his desk, reviewing documents, his posture relaxed
