Prologue
The silk of Isabella’s nightgown whispered against her thighs as she paused in the shadowed hallway, one hand pressed to the cool wall for balance. Moonlight spilled through the tall windows at the end of the corridor, painting faint silver stripes across the marble floor, but her eyes were fixed on the sliver of golden light leaking from beneath the guest bedroom door.
She should have gone back to her own room. She should have closed her eyes and pretended the ache between her legs was nothing more than fatigue from another long day at the design firm. Instead she stepped closer—silent, barefoot—until her palm rested flat against the doorframe and her breath fogged the air.
Through the narrow gap where the door hadn’t quite latched, she watched.
Riley stood with her back to the entrance, unaware, or perhaps pretending to be. The overhead light was off; only the soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminated her. She had already shed the hoodie and jeans she’d worn on the flight from Portland. Now she wore only black cotton panties and a thin white tank top that clung to the damp skin of her shoulders after the long, humid cab ride. Tattoos curled like dark vines over her collarbones, down her arms, disappearing beneath fabric. Her hair—shorter than Isabella remembered, choppy and dyed midnight with streaks of electric blue—was still mussed from travel.
Riley reached behind her neck and pulled the tank top over her head in one fluid motion. The motion lifted her small, firm breasts; pierced nipples caught the lamplight and glinted like tiny silver secrets. Isabella’s mouth went dry. She pressed her thighs together, feeling the slick heat already gathering there, traitorous and insistent.
Riley let the top fall to the floor. Her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her panties. She paused—head tilting slightly, as though listening to something only she could hear—then slid the cotton down her legs in a slow, deliberate drag. The fabric caught briefly on the curve of her ass before dropping to her ankles. She stepped out of them, kicked them aside, and stood naked in the warm pool of light.
Every line of her was taut, alive. The ink on her ribs shifted with each breath. A faint scar curved along her left hip—something Isabella had never known the story of. Riley’s hand drifted up her own stomach, fingertips tracing the underside of one breast, then circling the pierced nipple until it pebbled harder. A soft exhale escaped her lips, barely audible, but it hit Isabella like a physical blow.
Isabella’s free hand slipped between her own thighs, pressing the silk against her swollen clit through the thin barrier of her nightgown. She bit her lip to keep from moaning.
Riley turned toward the dresser mirror, giving Isabella a perfect side profile. She spread her stance slightly, slid one hand down her belly, over the neatly trimmed patch of dark hair, and cupped herself. Two fingers parted slick folds; the middle one dipped inside, slow, then withdrew glistening. Riley’s head fell back, throat working on a silent gasp.
Isabella mirrored the motion without thinking—pushing the silk aside, sliding two fingers into her own dripping heat, matching Riley’s lazy rhythm. Her pulse thundered in her ears. She was going to come like this—standing in the hallway like some depraved voyeur, watching the girl she’d once read bedtime stories to now fuck herself with unhurried confidence.
Riley’s hips rocked forward into her hand. Her other palm braced on the dresser. She whispered something—too low to catch—but the shape of the word on her lips looked dangerously like Isabella.
The sound of her own name in that husky, needy voice snapped something inside Isabella. Her fingers curled harder, thumb grinding against her clit. She came with a choked, shuddering breath, knees threatening to buckle, vision blurring at the edges. Across the room, Riley’s body arched—thighs trembling, fingers plunging faster—and she followed a heartbeat later, a low, broken moan spilling into the quiet.
For a long moment they stayed frozen: Riley panting against the mirror, forehead pressed to cool glass; Isabella trembling in the shadows, fingers still buried inside herself, slick and shaking.
Then Riley straightened. She wiped her hand on her thigh, turned off the lamp, and slipped beneath the covers without closing the door all the way.
Isabella retreated down the hall on unsteady legs, heart slamming against her ribs. She didn’t bother wiping the wetness from her fingers before she climbed into the cold marital bed beside her sleeping husband.
Tomorrow Riley would wake up in this house. Tomorrow she would look Isabella in the eye, perhaps sensing the change, perhaps already knowing.
The seed had been planted.
