Unraveled

Chapter 11: Claimed

Agatha stared at the ceiling of her bedroom, her hands folded on her stomach, feeling the weight of her own thoughts pressing down on her. The silence felt heavier than usual. She let out a sigh, frustrated and unwilling to admit how much her current state grated at her.

It had been four days since she'd told Rio to stop.

Four days since she drew the line in the sand between them and said, "don't cross it."

And, in true form, Rio had done just that—no smirks, no lingering touches, no flirtatious banter.

It was all professional now.

Impeccably, maddeningly professional.

And it was torture.

The tension that had once buzzed between them had disappeared, replaced by a stark void that left her feeling unbalanced. Their once-charged exchanges now felt lifeless, as if she was speaking into a mirror instead of the spark that had lit her up in ways she'd refused to acknowledge.

Her chest tightened as she thought of the moments when a fleeting smirk or a word laced with hidden meaning would've changed her for the entire day.

But now?

There was nothing.

It was like staring at a starry sky covered in thick, impenetrable clouds. The spark was still there, but it was hidden beyond Agatha's reach now.

Agatha clenched her hands into fists, resisting the urge to curse herself for every confused thought she'd wrestled with since Tuesday. She'd made her choice, demanded her boundaries. And yet, she couldn't shake the dull ache that had settled within her, each day feeling a little greyer, each interaction a little emptier.

Not even the progress Rio had made on the Vanguard case—work that was undeniably impressive—held any real satisfaction for her.

She could hardly focus on the details anymore, too wrapped up in what had been lost between them.

It didn't help that each night, as she undressed, brushed her teeth, and prepared to sleep, the tension in her body would unfurl in waves, stirring up memories of Rio's dark, intense gaze, the graze of her hands, the low, gravelly timbre of her voice teasing at the edge of Agatha's self-control.

She clenched her jaw, already knowing where her thoughts would drift, the same way they had every night since the professional distance had settled between them.

And no matter how hard she tried to ignore it, her resolve would eventually falter.

Her mind would helplessly replay the sound of what had once been Rio's voice, that low, teasing murmur; the flash of her smirk; the feel of her hands, imagined but vivid, lingering like a phantom touch.

Each time, breathless and aching, Agatha would surrender, slipping her hand beneath the band of her silk pants, chasing a release that always came too quickly, leaving her spent and satisfied, yet, still haunted.

Because now, even in the quiet aftermath, Rio never left her mind.

Somehow, the woman had burrowed beneath her skin, her presence lingering long after the warmth of release faded, like an echo she couldn't silence.

Rio was rooted in her, deep and undeniable, as if each whisper of her memory declared, "I live here now."

Agatha wanted to scream.

She was forty-eight, for Christ's sake.

She was far too old for a... sexual awakening?

An identity crisis?