BAD WIFE

Chapter {19}

Clarissa gave Jacob a quiet, abridged summary of her childhood—just enough for him to understand the shadows she lived through. And it was enough to stir something sharp in his chest. He didn't know all the details, but already... he didn't like her parents.

"Tell me about your childhood," she asked gently, curiosity laced with tenderness.

He cleared his throat and instinctively tightened his hold around her, pulling her a little closer.

"I had a great childhood," he began, his voice low. "I have three sisters, and being the only boy, I was spoiled rotten by my mom."

She smiled, the expression softening her entire face. "I'm happy to hear that a happy home exists."

Her words carried weight—longing, almost envy.

"Your dad... what did he do?" she asked.

His throat worked again, the mood shifting slightly. "He left when I was eight," he said quietly. "Sent money... but never really came around. He actually remarried and had two more kids. Both boys."

He reached for her hand and began playing with her fingers absentmindedly, like the touch grounded him.

"So you have five siblings?" she asked, her voice filled with surprised warmth.

"Yep. One's twelve, the other's eight..." A soft, amused laugh escaped him. "Wild, huh?"

She giggled, eyes dancing. "Really?"

"Left my mother to raise four kids on her own. And he'll probably do the same to this woman, too." Bitterness slipped into his tone—sharp, but controlled.

Clarissa's smile faded slightly. "You know... I know it's sad growing up with your parents apart," she said softly, "but maybe you were better off. And if your dad's anything like my mom—a toxic person—then maybe... growing up without him was a blessing in disguise."

His eyes dropped to their joined hands.

"Yeah," he murmured. "I think I just realized that."

The air grew heavier, quieter.

He shifted, turning so that he hovered over her. His eyes locked onto hers like he was seeing something sacred. Something rare. Her fingertips brushed through his tousled hair, then trailed down the curve of his cheek with reverent slowness.

His eyes fluttered closed, and a low breath escaped him—like her touch reached into his soul.

He turned his head slightly and kissed her palm. "Clair," he whispered, her name catching in his throat like a prayer. "Something's happening to me."

"Me too," she whispered back, breathless.

His gaze swept over her face, memorizing every line, every shadow and softness. How had she become so important to him in such a short time? How had her sorrow embedded itself inside him like it belonged there? When had her pain become his burden? And how was it that this tiny, guarded girl felt like a force greater than gravity—pulling him in, spellbound?

He dipped his head slowly, capturing her lips in a long, sensual kiss. It started gentle, but deepened with every breath, every stroke of their mouths—a silent, aching conversation in motion.

The sound of heavy breathing filled the stillness of her studio apartment, mingling with the faint rustle of sheets and the heartbeat in their ears. His hands explored the delicate lines of her body, caressing the curve of her thighs, his touch reverent and possessive.

And then—just as the moment teetered on the edge of surrender—his phone buzzed, vibrating insistently against his leg.

Clarissa froze.