Two weeks.

That was how long we managed to keep it contained to stolen hours in hotel rooms and frantic texts that made my stomach flip every time my phone lit up. Two weeks of Elias fucking me like he was trying to memorize the shape of my body before the world took it away. Two weeks of me coming home with bite marks hidden under turtlenecks and the scent of him still between my thighs.

It was never going to last.

The night everything cracked open started with a simple dinner invitation from my mother.

“Elias and I want to celebrate,” she said over the phone, voice bright. “The...