The man in the woods

Catherina’s POV

The soft shutting of the door shattered the intimacy which hung heavy in the atmosphere, followed by the soft echo of her heels. My mother.

Panic clawed at my throat, my pulse quickening as I took a step backwards from Dante.

“This is wrong,” I whispered, my gaze dropping to the floor.

The words tasted sour, not because of the guilt, but because the words came out late, reality dawning on me.

I tilted my chin, my eyes meeting his face. That perfectly sculpted face that was unreadable. He stood still like nothing had happened. Like he didn't just wrap his hands around my hips a few minutes ago.

God, I felt stupid. I'd let my emotions get in the way again, and I felt terrible.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, each word laced with shame, embarrassment flushing my cheek.

He maintained a stoic expression, his eyes not blinking.

I turned away, my cheeks reddened, my feet dragging me away from him as fast as they could.

The door yanked open, and I stepped outside, taking a deep breath.

“Honey?” my mother called, taking off her fur coat.

She walked with poised elegance, her red lipstick still intact, even after what I could assume was a long, exhausting day of playing a perfect wife.

She paused mid-steps when she saw me on the staircase, her eyes narrowing slightly in surprise.

“Catherina?” she called, her brow raising slightly. “What are you doing here?”

I swallowed hard.

“I… I…” I stuttered, my brain trying to bring out something convincing.

“Valentine’s Day,” she said slowly. “I thought you'd be with your husband… celebrating.”

My chest tightened.

All I wanted to do was to forget whatever had transpired between me and Williams, but it turned out that I couldn't outrun it… at least not now.

Her expression shifted to something concerning, and she closed the distance between us. She stared me in the eyes, her fingers brushing my cheeks softly.

“Why are your eyes…?” she hesitated, studying me closely. “You’ve been crying!”

I shifted my gaze from her, landing it on the wall as if it held something of my interest.

“I don't want to talk about it,” I replied, shaking my head.

She inched closer, brushing the tears which lingered on my skin with her thumb’s pad.

“What happened, baby?” she asked, her tone softer now.

My jaw clenched, and I felt like a horrible person. How could I do this to her?

Her softness seemed to drown me in the sea of guilt. I couldn't stand it. I felt my eyes sting with tears, my vision blurring. She was the only person that kept me going after the death of my father, and all I did to pay her back was go behind her back and kiss him?

“I’m just glad I'm home, Mum,” I muttered.

She looked at me for long, reading me like she used to when I was five and I'd hide my bruised knee under an oversized sweater.

She exhaled softly.

“Okay,” she said. “I won't push it. You're here, that's all that matters.”

I gave her a plastic smile, then she asked,

“Where is your father? He said he'll…”

“He’s not my father, Mum,” I cut in rudely. “Dante isn't my father.”

Her brow arched slightly, then she smiled. She knew how I'd struggled to accept him as my father but couldn't tell why. I'd thought by not accepting him as my father, I'd bury the love I had for him, but it turned out to be the opposite.

She brushed an invisible dust off her sleeve.

“You’ll learn to accept him. Whether you like it or not, he's been more of a father than your real one ever was.”

My fist clenched. Something in my stomach twisted, but I kept my calm. Dante walked into the picture after my father died, and my mother only saw him as a better man, which was sickening. Her words made me doubt if she ever loved Dad the way I did.

“It has been a long day, baby. Could you fix something in the kitchen for dinner?” she requested, brushing past me, muttering beneath her breath,

“These heels are killing me.”

I rolled my eyes. Just as I took a step towards the kitchen, I heard him. His deep voice echoed down the stairs.

“You are back?”

I didn't bother hearing what he was about to say. I walked towards the kitchen, my shoulders shrugging.

“I’m sorry, Mum,” I muttered under my breath, grabbing the chopping board.

The scent of butter, garlic, and roasted pepper filled the air, making the house feel a little bit cozier as I sizzled the chopped vegetables.

No matter how hard I tried to distract myself with the cooking, the image burned into my skull. I still felt his soft touch on my laps and how it made me feel. It made me feel alive—something I'd never felt ever since I got married to Williams. I couldn't tell why the wrong people gave the best feeling.

“The food is burning,” a deep voice sliced through the air like a blade, and I stiffened.

It was him. Dante.

I'd gotten carried away with my thoughts. I dragged the frying pan from the table gas.

“S… sorry,” I muttered, feeling a little bit awkward.

My hand trembled slightly, sweat dripping down my temples. He walked up to me and spoke calmly, my back still turned against him.

“Whatever happened in the room should be forgotten. A lapse. Do I make myself clear?” he asked coldly.

I ignored him, stirring the butter in the frying pan.

“Catherina, do I make myself clear?” he asked coldly, his deep voice booming with authority.

I nodded.

“Good,” he said with a tone of finality before walking out.

The moment he left, I released a breath I hadn't realized how long I was holding.

After I was done preparing the food, I mechanically dished the food and rang the bell to inform everyone that dinner was served.

“You learnt your mother's secret, Catherina,” my mum teased, nudging me with her arm.

We were about to dig into the food when the soft ringing of the doorbell sliced through the air.

“Expecting any visitor?” my mum asked me.

I shook my head, picking up the cutlery.

“No one visits the mansion without an invite,” she said, the chair scraping on the polished marble floor as she stood on her feet.

I heard the door click open, and my mum chuckled softly as she saw whoever was at the front door.

“Catherina, guess who couldn't wait to spend the night with you? Williams.”

My fork froze mid-air, and for a moment, my eyes, which had been fixated on the plate, shot across the table, meeting that of my stepfather.

The food tasted like ash, my stomach churning with anger. I had no idea why he was here and meeting him again wasn't in my schedule. Not after the humiliation I'd faced few hours ago in the hotel

I couldn't help but notice the way my step father's jaw had clenched tightly, barely masking his anger.

“I don't want to meet him,” I replied almost immediately.

His gaze averted to me, his brow raising slightly. I observed the w

ay his expression softened, and for a moment, he stopped chewing.

He dabbed his lips with the napkin before saying slowly,

“Let him in.”