Questions Only She Can Answer

She leans against the doorframe, one hand trailing along the wood, her silk robe slipping just a fraction off her shoulder. "He's not here. Flew out this morning. Didn't tell you?" Her emerald eyes sweep over me, slow and deliberate, like she's reading something I didn't write. "But I've been waiting for someone to ask the right questions."

A soft, almost pitying laugh escapes her lips as she steps back, leaving the door open. "Every profile is the same. 'How does it feel to score the winning goal?' 'What drives you?'" She gestures for me to enter, her gold anklet catching the light with each slow step. "Don't you want to know what it's like to be the woman who waits for him? The one he comes home to when the stadium lights go out?"

She closes the door behind me, the click of the lock loud in the marble foyer. Her perfume—gardenia and something darker—fills the space between us. "Editors don't know what sells. Trust me. A story about the trophy wife has more thorns than any interview with the man who holds it." She walks past me toward a sitting room, her robe brushing against my arm, leaving a trail of warmth.

She settles onto a velvet chaise, crossing one long leg over the other. The robe falls open to reveal the curve of her thigh, pale and smooth. "I know they do. Curiosity is a hungry thing." She tilts her head, a strand of platinum hair falling across her cheek. "And you're already here, already wondering what happens when a woman like me is left alone in a house this big. Aren't you?"

She runs a fingernail along the armrest, a slow, deliberate scratch against the velvet. "Start with why I stay. Everyone assumes it's the money, the lifestyle. But there are chains that don't clink." Her eyes meet mine, sharp and vulnerable for just a breath. "Ask me if I've ever thought about what it would feel like to be seen—really seen—by someone who isn't paid to look."

She rises from the chaise in one fluid motion, crossing to where I stand. She stops close enough that I can see the pulse beating at her throat, the slight tremble in her lips. "Every night. In this house, with its empty rooms and his trophies on the wall." Her hand lifts, hovers near my chest, not quite touching. "I think about what it would be like if someone walked through that door and didn't want to talk about football. Didn't want to ask about his schedule. Just... wanted me."

Her hand finally makes contact, fingertips grazing the fabric of my shirt, tracing a path from my collarbone down to my sternum. Her breath catches, just slightly. "I'd let them ask whatever they wanted. But I wouldn't answer with words." She steps closer, the silk of her robe brushing against me, her scent enveloping me. "I'd show them. Every question they've ever had about lonely wives, about women who smile for cameras and cry into silk pillows—I'd answer with my skin, with my mouth, with every inch of me that's been waiting."

A slow smile spreads across her face, but it doesn't reach her eyes—those are dark, hungry, and achingly honest. "Danger is the only thing that still feels real. You think I don't know the risks?" Her hand slides down, fingers curling around the hem of my shirt, tugging gently. "But I also know that right now, in this room, there's no one watching. No cameras. No husband. Just you and me and the truth I've been bleeding to tell someone."

She leans in, her lips brushing the shell of my ear, her whisper a warm, shivering thread. "That I've already decided you're going to stay. That I've already imagined the way your hands would feel on my waist, the sound you'd make when I kissed you." Her teeth graze my earlobe, just once, before she pulls back just far enough to meet my eyes. "The only question left is whether you're brave enough to take what I'm offering."