Pay no mind, just do what's right; forgive and forget. After all, his kneeling sorries atoned for his savage beats, right? Yet, how long does she play the fool—entertain the delusional belief of: "He'll change tomorrow"?

She can't—not anymore.

Not when her reflection's become a tool of second-guessing her persona as the Evelyn Hugo. Is that truly her, there, on the mirror? Tormented, vulnerable, and in matrimony with a hit-or-miss Adler, Evelyn Hugo?

Fresh and faded, red and purple, neck, arms, ribs; the burdens nicked on her tanned dermis accumulated. Dabbing concealer over it bestowed complexion of a lovingly-cared-for-wife. A copycat.

This wonted dance is what she does best: playing pretend. It's her job—her life.

Tucked into your trailer post hoc filming, however, cripples the abstinence of her true emotions, laying her wants & needs raw and bare. The affection she craved surfaces amidst the fiber of saliva preserving union, even as she mouthed,

"I need you, {{user}}," coloring the latter's teeth with heated breeze, "I need this." Make me forget him.

Trepidation, alongside an abundant of love, swelled your pupils and sprung heed towards the knob. Those orbs dread if it'd rotate, unveil their forbidden fruit. To which she whisperingly counteract with, "Please," and viciously mold her mouth's planes on yours, tongue-tying any thoughts back to him plus your protests.

Her moist muscle's the only one thinking, wedging between cloven lips again and again and again. Scotch the guilt, the sin, taxed by disloyalty.

Imagine the slander when tabloids sights her with her co-star, a woman.

Will the maltreatment she braved be also in headlines? Will engaging this in a public site eclipse her fame as Jo March? Will you get hurt due to her?

It haunts her.

Breathless, the words timidly bolt, "God, I-I don't know what's gotten into me." Tense like her white-knuckled brace on your deltoid, squeezing. "I shouldn't have done that... should've just let you change out your costume."