Love Buried in the Past

I locked my gaze with Isabella, letting the silence stretch between us. She held my eyes, her expression shifting and then her cheeks flushed crimson. Her voice broke through, tremulous yet urgent, as she pulled me into a desperate embrace.

"Claude," she whispered, her tone cracking, "you don’t think this is mine, do you?"

Her voice trembled as she continued, her arms tightening around me.

"I know you better than anyone. I know how much you hate strawberry-flavored things. After all these years, you think I’d let something like this into our home?"

Tears glistened in her wide eyes, the sincerity in her expression nearly palpable. She leaned closer, her lips brushing against mine, murmuring, "Darling, you’re my life."

Her hands cupped my face, her gaze unwavering. "If you don’t trust me, I’ll march back to the office right now. I’ll find out who it belongs to and fire them this instant!"

Her resolve seemed unshakable. Her voice, her gestures—all of it carried the weight of truth. She turned away, already moving toward the door to prove her point.

I reached out, tugging gently on the corner of her sleeve.

"There’s no need," I said softly.

She turned back instantly, searching my face for reassurance. I held her gaze as I spoke slowly, deliberately.

"I believe you won’t lie to me."

Her face broke into a smile as she exhaled a relieved breath. She leaned in to ruffle my hair affectionately before heading to the kitchen.

“I’ll go prepare your lunch for tomorrow,” she said, her voice light once more.

From my vantage on the second-floor railing, I watched her move about the kitchen with the practiced ease of routine. My thoughts began to spiral.

Six years of marriage and not once had Isabella shirked this ritual. No matter how demanding her schedule, she always made time to prepare meals for me—hand-picking fresh ingredients, crafting dishes with her own hands.

Her devotion baffled others. My colleagues often teased, “Why does Madam Waterlow bother cooking herself? With her fortune, she could hire the best chefs in the world!”

To this, Isabella always gave the same answer, with a hint of a smile, "Claude likes what I cook."

Her love, so constant and absolute, had always seemed indestructible. But could she have forgotten my vow? The one I whispered to her on our wedding day, amidst promises of forever.

If you ever betray me, I’ll vanish from your world entirely.

A sudden crack of thunder shattered my thoughts. My head turned toward the sound, and in its wake, I heard Isabella’s light footsteps approaching. Convinced I was asleep, she tucked the blankets carefully around me. Her fingers lingered on my shoulder as if seeking reassurance, before she began to retreat.

The stillness broke with the sharp trill of her phone. Under the dim light, I saw her brow crease as she glanced at the screen. Her eyes flicked to me before she answered in a hushed voice, moving toward the staircase.

"Didn’t I tell you not to call after hours?" she hissed. "If it’s urgent, handle it tomorrow at the office. Don’t disturb my husband and me—"

Her voice faltered. Then, sharper, more panicked.

"What? You’re here? At my house?"

My heartbeat quickened as I watched her rush downstairs. Moments later, I slid out of bed and approached the tall French windows. From here, I had a clear view of the villa’s entrance.

There, standing soaked under the pouring rain, was Samuel, his figure outlined by the storm.

Isabella opened the door, an umbrella shielding her from the rain. Her voice was firm but low, though I could still catch her words.

"Why are you here? Didn’t I tell you never to come near my house, especially not in front of my husband?"

Samuel tilted his head upward, his face an open book of anguish. "I’m scared of the thunder, Isabella," he admitted, stepping closer. "I... I miss you."

Without warning, he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers.

I froze.

Isabella stiffened for a moment, the umbrella trembling in her hand. Then, as if succumbing to gravity, she steadied Samuel with her other arm, her palm resting on his waist.

"Stop it," she whispered, her tone soft, almost playful. But her actions betrayed her words. She didn’t resist; she didn’t pull away.

When he finally drew back, her fingers gently brushed the rain from his face. She frowned slightly, an expression I once thought reserved only for me.

"How did you handle storms before you met me?" she murmured.

Her gaze fell to his drenched clothes and I saw her swallow hard.

"You’re soaked. You’ll catch a cold. Come inside—I’ll make sure you dry off."

Samuel’s shirt clung to his sculpted frame, each curve accentuated by the waterlogged fabric. Isabella’s eyes darted away, but the tension in her expression was unmistakable.

"Isabella," Samuel asked softly, his voice tinged with hope, "can I take a shower inside?"