Chapter 1: She's Not Even Wearing A Bra

Emma's POV

"The papers are ready, Mrs. Sterling."

The lawyer's voice from an hour ago won't stop replaying in my head. I sat in that office signing page after page, my hand steady even though my heart wasn't. Three years. Three years of a marriage that only exists on paper, and it's finally ending.

I'm standing in my bedroom wrapped in a towel, hair dripping onto the floor. The divorce papers are spread across my vanity. Black text on white paper.

Morning light cuts through the window. I pick up the documents, fingers brushing the letterhead. This is it. Today I tell him.

But first, the memory hits me.

Three years ago. My father's study. He's behind that massive desk, looking like he aged ten years overnight. News of Whitmore Investment's bankruptcy had spread through Boston like wildfire. I'm by the window, watching his hands shake as he holds the phone.

Then Nate showed up. Perfect suit, those gray eyes showing nothing. He slid a check across the desk, voice calm like he was ordering coffee.

"I can clear Whitmore Investment's debt. All of it." A pause. "I want to marry Emma."

Not a proposal. A transaction.

I watched my father's face, those eyes that used to be so confident now just desperate. The weight of his silent plea crushing me. I nodded.

Ten years before that, Nate was a scholarship kid at Harvard Business School, asking questions at my father's lecture. Dad saw something in him, paid for his MBA.

This is how Nate pays that back. Marriage. A deal.

After the wedding, we became roommates. Separate bedrooms. Polite good mornings over breakfast. Perfect couple at charity dinners. In bed? Never.

The towel slips. I catch it, blinking back to the present. My reflection stares at me. Damp hair, bare shoulders, tired eyes.

I open my closet and reach for the silk robe. The fabric feels cool against my skin. Today. I tell him today. Dad's company is stable now. I can give him his freedom back.

The hallway is quiet as I head downstairs, one hand on the bannister. Sunlight pours through the windows. I hear the soft clink of silverware from the dining room.

Nate is at one end of the long table, coffee cup in hand, eyes on his iPad. He's wearing a gray sweater and black pants. Those glasses make him look less severe than usual. The light catches his profile. Sharp jaw, the line of his throat.

Three years. Every morning like this. Strangers sharing breakfast.

I walk to my seat and pour coffee. The cup is warm in my hands. I take a breath, fingers tracing the rim.

I'm about to speak when suddenly a voice explodes in my mind.

God, that silk robe. I can see her collarbone. Don't look. Don't fucking look. Focus on your eggs. Three years. Three years of sitting here every morning, torturing myself. Watching her and not being able to touch. Am I a masochist?

The coffee cup tilts in my hand, almost spilling. My heart slams against my ribs.

That voice. It's Nate's. But he's not speaking, still staring at his iPad.

Should've never... no, I don't regret it. Even just watching her like this is better than never having her at all. Fuck. She's not even wearing a bra. I can see... Stop it! GDP growth! Interest rates! Think about the Federal Reserve!

"You okay?" Nate looks up, eyebrows pulling together. "You look kinda pale."

"I'm fine." I set the cup down too fast, coffee sloshing. "Just tired."

Is she sick? Should I call her doctor? Or maybe she just doesn't want to see me. Yeah, that's it. She can't wait for me to leave. Give her space, Nathaniel.

I stare at him. Eyes wide. Brain spinning.

I can hear his thoughts. This is insane.

Nate stands, grabbing his suit jacket from the chair. "I've got a meeting today. Might be late." He pauses. "There's Greek yogurt in the fridge. The kind you like."

Don't watch her move. Don't fucking look. That robe is too thin, the way it drapes... Jesus Christ. I need to leave. Now. If I stay one more second, I'll press her against that table. Get out. NOW.

His knuckles are white on the jacket. His throat bobs. He moves toward the door fast, like he's running.

"Wait." The word comes out before I can stop it. "Aren't you supposed to rest today? It's Saturday."

Nate freezes for a second, doesn't turn around. "Last minute thing. Important."

Is she trying to get rid of me? She probably wants the house to herself. Maybe bringing friends over. I should stay out more. Give her space. But weekends are the only time I get to see her longer. Pathetic.

My heart races faster. This isn't a hallucination. I can really hear every thought in his head.

He reaches the door, then turns. Morning light behind him.

"Emma." His voice drops. "If you need anything, call me. Anytime."

I just want an excuse to stay. One more second. One more look. But that's pathetic. Don't be clingy. Let her breathe.

The door closes. The sound echoes.

I'm frozen, still holding my coffee cup.

He said torture. Said watching me and not being able to touch. Said he doesn't regret marrying me.

I set down the cup, both hands on the table. The wood feels solid under my palms.

What the hell just happened?

Those words. Those thoughts he never said out loud.

Three years of torturing myself.

Watching her and not being able to touch.

I don't regret.

She's not even wearing a bra.

My face burns. I'm suddenly very aware of the silk against my skin, how thin it is. My heart won't slow down. Confusion, shock, disbelief, all tangled in my chest.

I run upstairs, taking them two at a time. Push open my bedroom door. Those divorce papers are still there on the vanity.

I stare at those clauses, fingers shaking.

Three years. Three years I thought he was just fulfilling an obligation. Those polite, distant good mornings every day. That carefully maintained distance. The cold arrangement of separate bedrooms.

All this time, that was his struggle?

Those thoughts. Were they real?

He's been torturing himself every morning? He wanted to press me against the table? Seeing me is better than never having me at all?

What has Nate been thinking these three years?

I slowly fold the agreement. Open the deepest drawer in my dresser. Place the papers inside, cover them with a silk scarf.

Maybe I should figure out the truth first.

This sudden ability, whatever it is, however it appeared, maybe it's the universe giving me an answer.

I need to know what Nate has been hiding in his head all this time. Then I'll decide if this divorce agreement really needs his signature.

Outside the window, a black sedan pulls away from the townhouse.

Nate is in the back seat, taking off his glasses, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

If I could hear what he's thinking right now, what would I hear?

I close the drawer.

The papers can wait.