Page 7 of Vintage

She shifted against me, and I lost track of time as I entered her, gripping her ass while she moved her hips, riding my dick.

When I mentioned I was in a tough spot with this girl, I really should have realized just how fucking messed up and infatuated I was about to become.

Chapter Five

Our anniversary is just days away, and yet I can't shake this suffocating emptiness that has replaced the joy I once felt for Amir. Nine years of marriage, and I can already see the cracks forming, the foundation of our love crumbling beneath us.

Amir Rowan, my husband, a celebrated figure in the art world, inherited his grandfather's grand mansion, and I, in my naivety, followed him to this desolate place called Willow Crest. I left behind my career as a corporate engineer, my friends, my family—all for him. He was my everything, but now I feel like a ghost in my own life.

When we confronted the rumors surrounding us, I never imagined it would expose the rot festering in our relationship. My tears that day didn’t stop Ro from seeking out Willow, the new tenant of that eerie mansion by the lake.

People say it’s haunted, cursed even, a place where a girl once murdered her lover. I never bought into those tales; they were just stories, nothing more. But Willow, she arrived last summer and was met with nothing but disdain. In a town where smiles are abundant, she was an outcast, and I can’t help but wonder if that’s what I’m becoming too.

This town has its rules—fall in love, get engaged, but for the love of all that’s holy, don’t get married here. And if you dare to associate with anyone from the Willow Mansion, you’re marked for life. It’s a curse, they say, and I can feel it tightening around me, suffocating the last remnants of hope I had for my marriage.

It’s infuriating how the townsfolk, especially the older generation, cling to their ridiculous beliefs. But I can’t stand that eerie place or that girl who shows up every single day with flowers and cake for my husband. What’s even more maddening is that my Ro has never turned her away. Not once, even when his friends warned him about her.

“You need to confront him. This can’t go on,” Darius growled, clearly disgusted by Ro’s association with that girl, Willow.

“And what do you expect me to do? Hand me the wrench... Ro is passionate about his work, and she’s paying him just as much as he gets from galleries and auctions.”

Frustration doesn’t even begin to cover it. My heart is shattered, but defending my husband’s interests is instinctual.

“It doesn’t work that way. The townspeople can be vicious, and the rumors about him visiting her mansion... it’s unacceptable. Don’t you want to ask your husband why he feels the need to go to her house?”

Darius sounded more like a concerned spouse than I did.

I couldn’t help but laugh at his expression. The absurdity of him acting like a protective friend was comical, especially for a bulky biker president who usually exuded toughness.

“Your bike is fixed.” I waved the wrench at him, and a low, disappointed growl escaped his lips.

Of course, he was unhappy. So was I, but some things are just beyond our control. We can’t stop Ro from pursuing his passion and making his own choices.

“Fine. But…” Darius glanced around and stepped closer to me, closing the already small gap between us.

I swallowed hard, suddenly self-conscious about how I looked.

It wasn’t that working in a mechanic shop was supposed to make me look good; it was a cruel joke. My brown hair was a greasy mess, shoved into a chaotic bun, while my fair skin was smeared with oil and grime from the cars and the bike I had been wrestling with all day. My jumper? A disaster zone of every substance I had encountered.

I felt utterly ashamed of my appearance, especially standing next to Darius, a towering figure of brooding masculinity. At 5'3 and a half, I felt like a mere shadow beside him, a tiny creature dwarfed by his presence. He could grace the cover of any fashion magazine, while I felt like a walking catastrophe.

I instinctively took a step back, but Darius wasn’t about to let me escape. He gripped my shoulder, anchoring me in place, and leaned in close, sending a jolt of fear through my veins.

His intentions were clear: they had nothing to do with my well-being.

“Listen closely. I need you to bring Amir to the club tonight and play a little game for me. It’s crucial for both of us,” he said, his gaze piercing through me.

I nodded, feeling more like a pawn than a person, compelled by his command rather than my own desires.

“Good.” His smile was predatory as he sidestepped me, inspecting his bike, the roar of the engine bringing him a twisted joy, like a child with a new toy.

But I couldn’t afford to dwell on him. The weight of the day had nearly erased his request from my mind until I got home and found Ro sprawled on the bed, lost in the game on TV.

I seized the moment to dash into the shower. Emerging in a mini cocktail dress that clung to my curves, I felt a surge of confidence.

“Ro!” I called out, breaking his trance.

He blinked, finally noticing me. “Are we going somewhere?” His eyes roamed over my outfit.

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