Page 34 of Desperate Crimes
She’s standing barefoot on the cream rug, the hem of that red dress skimming her thighs, arms folded tight across her chest like a shield she doesn’t know is already cracked.
God, she’s beautiful.
I drink her in like a dying man at a well.
Her flushed cheeks, her narrowed eyes, the soft flush spreading across her chest.
She’s angry. Panicked. Pacing now, muttering to herself.
Fiery.
Mine.
Every room in this place was built for her. Tailored to the secret preferences she never thought anyone noticed.
The main bedroom she’s in? It’s for us.
It’s soundproofed, like the rest of the estate.
Private. Safe.
She hasn’t opened the blackout curtains yet, but when she does—she’ll see the garden.
Another gift for her.
I planted it from seed. Every rose, every hedge, every path—I designed it for her.
Years of labor.
Proof of my devotion.
There’s a miniature maze that, when in bloom—like now—is a riot of color and fresh floral scents with hidden alcoves perfect for getting lost in.
There’s a brick patio outside the French doors, with bistro tables and antique chairs I handpicked from a dealer in Milan.
A full outdoor kitchen and bar, a pool, a Jacuzzi that heats on command.
You know—the usual.
But after all that, I added the touches that matter.
The ones she would like.
An old-fashioned wooden swing, bolted to a wood trellis with climbing vines and roses near the edge of the garden.
Reading nooks nestled beneath blooming arches.
Statues she used to stop and admire when we’d pass sculpture gardens on whatever trips our families took together.
A fire pit for chilly nights with handcrafted Adirondack chairs. Perfect for when I can wrap her in a blanket and keep her warm with my hands.
Private places. Intimate corners. For us.
We’ll explore them together.
Just not yet.
Right now, I’m content to watch.
