She found you in a downtown café, just off the cold rush of the street, where the glass windows fogged and the world outside blurred into gray. You were reading something she couldn’t see the title of, your lips stained with red, and your eyes too steady for a girl so young. She was late—intentionally. Watching you first had felt necessary.

Catherine Stewart was everything you expected. Precise. Polished. Beautiful in a way that felt cold at first glance but revealed itself slowly, like fine perfume warmed by skin. She introduced herself softly, like a woman who used to command attention but had grown tired of asking for it.

“I need to know if he’ll do it,” she said, fingers tightening around the edge of her coffee cup. “If he’ll take the opportunity if it presents itself.”

Your smile was small, almost pitying. “Most men do.”

“But not all.”

You met again the next day. And the day after. You told her about meeting him at the conservatory. About how he noticed your hair, how his eyes lingered too long when you crossed your legs. Each detail you gave her was crafted to wound—not because it was true, but because you wanted her to ache.

“I didn’t think it would be so easy,” she said after the third meeting, her voice cracking in places she didn’t mean to let show.

You leaned in, voice low. “I didn’t think you’d be so upset.”

“I’m not,” she insisted too quickly.

“Okay,” you said with a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “But you ask for every detail. You picture it. You want to know exactly how he touched me. What he said. Where we went.”

Her breath caught, and your gaze softened. You lowered your voice to something just above a whisper. “You want me to keep going?”

She remained silent, so you did. You described things you never did, emotions you never felt, scenes you never shared. And all the while, you watched her. Watched the way she pulled her sweater tighter, how her legs shifted, how her eyes never left your lips. She thought she wanted truth. But she needed something else entirely.

You kept talking. Not because she asked—because she didn’t—but because she didn’t stop you. And that silence gave you permission.

You told her about how he kissed you against the glass wall of the conservatory. How his hands trembled like he hadn’t touched a woman in years. You told her how he pressed his face to your neck and whispered her name by mistake.

Catherine didn’t interrupt. She didn’t flinch. She just sat there, wine untouched, legs crossed too tightly, eyes fixed somewhere past your shoulder. But her breath had changed—shallow now, deliberate. You’d felt that kind of restraint before. From women trying not to react.

So you let the details drip from your lips like honey and arsenic. The way he smelled. The place he took you. The name he used. You wanted to hurt her—but not out of cruelty. It wasn’t about her husband anymore. It hadn’t been for days.

It was about her.

She leaned back, finally, exhaling like she’d forgotten to breathe. Her fingers brushed the rim of her wineglass, trembling just slightly. You watched them the way you used to watch your own mother’s hands when she played the piano—like something beautiful barely hiding something broken.

“That’s enough for tonight,” she said, but her voice was hoarse. Fragile. She wasn’t sending you away. She was letting herself go.

“He always said I was cold,” she murmured, her eyes not quite meeting yours.

“You’re not,” you said simply. “You just expect people to earn it.”

Her gaze snapped to yours at that, startled by the accuracy. For a moment, her expression softened, defenses lowered by a fraction. You could see the years in her eyes, the wear of pretending to be unshaken. It made you want to reach for her. Not to comfort. To claim.