BAD WIFE

Chapter {7}

Jacob woke the next morning drenched in sweat, breath shallow, heart pounding. His skin was hot, his pulse unsteady.

He had just dreamt of Clarissa.

Not the Clarissa he used to live with. Not the wife who had grown quiet and unreachable.

But her—the woman who showed up at his office in a skin-tight red top, a red mini-skirt that clung to her curves like sin itself, and knee-high boots that made her legs look impossibly long. Her hair was short now, framing her face with fierce softness. She looked like every buried fantasy he'd ever had—only sharper, bolder, and utterly untouchable.

In the dream, she locked the door behind her before approaching him—each step deliberate, sensual, commanding. He was already sitting in his large reclining office chair, breath caught in his chest, not daring to speak. He didn't ask why she came. He didn't need to. He knew.

She climbed onto him without hesitation, straddling his lap, fitting perfectly into him like muscle to bone. His hands gripped the armrests at first, trying to keep some measure of control, but it shattered the moment her tongue slid past his lips. He moaned into her kiss, his arms snapping around her slender waist, dragging her tighter against him. The friction. The taste. The heat.

And just like that—he woke.

Blinking into the dim morning light, staring at his ceiling in stunned frustration.

His chest still rose and fell as if her body had been pressed against his just seconds ago.

His hands ran over his face, then tangled into his hair. He groaned softly, dragging his palms down his jaw as reality settled in. Of course, it had been a dream. A cruel one.

Disappointment crushed into him like a weight. But it wasn't just the dream. It was the way it left him feeling—like he had during their marriage. Always yearning. Always wanting.

Always unsatisfied.

He had lived like this for years. A dog with a bone he could never quite reach. Always craving more than she gave, always questioning what he was doing wrong.

And now, here he was again.

Wanting someone who never seemed to want him back the same.

He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, raking a hand through his hair. He hated feeling like this—like some sad, forgotten man still tethered to a woman who no longer desired him.

Because he was still attracted to her. Always would be.

But he also remembered the slow disintegration. The way she had grown distant. Cold. Not in a cruel way—just... emotionally absent. Like she was slipping away inch by inch, and he had no grip strong enough to stop it.

He had tried. God, he had tried.

He had wanted to see a spark in her eyes again. Wanted to feel wanted. But every attempt had fallen flat. She never looked at him the same. Never touched him like she used to. The silence between them became normal.

Eventually, it became everything.

He remembered how he used to stay late at work, hoping the distance would make her miss him. Hoping she'd text. Call. Ask. Care. But most nights, when he finally came home, she was already asleep—or at least pretending to be.

No welcome. No warmth. No questions.

Just silence.

He began wondering if his presence even mattered anymore. If he mattered.