Chapter 2

When Linda pulled open the heavy front door, a blast of cold, wet air slammed into her bare skin. And there, framed in the doorway like a ghost from a half-forgotten dream, stood Nina.

Drenched to the bone.

Silver-blonde hair plastered to her flushed cheeks.

A white tank top clinging so tightly to her body it was almost obscene — the soft weight of her big, beautiful breasts pressed against the fabric, nipples hard and desperate from the cold.

Her jeans molded her thighs like a second skin, every trembling curve visible.

But it wasn’t her body that broke Linda’s heart into jagged pieces.

It was her face.

Wide, broken blue-grey eyes, rimmed red from crying.

Mouth trembling.

Arms crossed tight over her chest — not to shield her body, but to hold herself together.

Linda’s whole chest seized.

The flood of memories was instant.

Nina at fifteen, laughing wild in the sun.

At eighteen, fearless, stubborn, dreaming of love.

At twenty-four, walking down the aisle to Roger, blind and hopeful, despite everything.

And now, at thirty — here she was.

Shattered. Defenseless. Her bright spirit battered almost beyond recognition.

Linda’s throat closed.

The ache inside her was volcanic — a rage at Roger, at the world, and worst of all, at herself.

She should have fought harder. She should have protected her child better.

Without thinking, Linda stepped forward and crushed Nina into her arms.

The towel slung around her hips slipped and dropped to the floor — forgotten.

Linda wrapped herself around Nina, bare and golden and fierce, shielding her with her body, her warmth, her love.

Nina sobbed against her shoulder, clinging like a drowning girl.

“Oh sweetie,” Linda whispered into the wet tangle of her hair. “You’re home, baby.”

She pulled her inside — kicking the door closed behind them.

Without letting go of Nina, Linda quickly scooped up the towel from the floor, wrapping it loosely around her hips again with one hand.

She didn’t even think about it — modesty wasn’t important between them — but she wanted to make Nina feel more comfortable, more grounded.

The villa’s warmth wrapped around them like a thick blanket — golden light, the soft scent of oil and wax, a slow hum of music.

Linda led her into the kitchen, still holding her close, feeling every tremble.

Nina slumped into a chair — wet clothes clinging mercilessly to her curves, nipples sharp against soaked cotton, thighs squeezing together unconsciously as she shivered.

Linda moved fast, grabbing the whiskey bottle and pouring a heavy shot.

Nina’s hands shook as she took it — downing half in a single gulp.

“I’m done,” she rasped. “With Roger. With pretending. With being the fucking perfect wife to a soulless, cheating man who doesn’t even want me.”

Tears slid down her cheeks — hotter, harder.

“Mom! He’s fucking his new secretary. Having the time of his life. And ... I haven’t had a fucking orgasm in...”

She laughed, bitter and broken.

“I don’t even remember what it feels like. I feel dead inside.”

Linda’s heart twisted brutally.

She crouched beside Nina again — her hand wrapping around Nina’s knee, squeezing firmly, anchoring her.

“You’re not dead,” Linda said fiercely. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. So full of love and passion.”

Nina laughed again — hollow, jagged — and fished a slim metal cigarette case from the pocket of her soaked jeans.

Her hands trembled as she flipped it open, pulling out a cigarette with careful fingers.

She tried to light it, but the lighter slipped against her shaking thumb.

Without a word, Linda reached over — steady, sure — and took the lighter from her.

She cupped her hand around the flame, shielding it from the draft, and lit the cigarette for Nina.