Alex's POV
"Some brides dream of white lace; I dreamed of escape."
Clad in black lingerie that felt more like a costume than seduction, I waited. Hunter, my husband, the man who adored me, was due any moment. We'd done things the "old-fashioned" way, a conscious choice that felt increasingly like a burden in a world of fleeting connections. Twenty-six years old, a virgin on her wedding night – a concept as antiquated as the lace doilies gathering dust at my grandmother's house.
The door swung open. "Holy shit," Hunter breathed, eyes wide, a nervous nibble at his lip.
"What?" I purred, attempting a seductive tone that felt foreign on my tongue.
Desire flared in his eyes as he moved towards me, and a primal instinct kicked in. I retreated, each step forward from him met with a step back from me until the cold plaster of the wall pressed against my spine. "Why didn't I want him? Why didn't I want this?" .Trapped. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the suffocating silence.
He loomed over me, blocking the light, his touch tentative as his hand brushed against my arm. A dispassionate wave washed over me, leaving me strangely detached. I watched his eager face, the flicker of lust in his eyes, and felt…nothing. My mind raced, conjuring images of a forgotten grocery list, a looming work deadline, anything but the present moment. This intimacy, meant to be the culmination of our love, felt like a performance. I was an actress who'd forgotten her lines, the thrill replaced by a creeping sense of dread. I wanted to feel something, anything, but the spark refused to ignite.
Morning arrived, painting the room in a soft, forgiving light. But the guilt remained, a heavy weight in my chest. I felt ungrateful, broken, as if my lack of passion was a personal failing. Was there something fundamentally wrong with me?