Just One Kiss Before Goodbye

Deep into the night, at the seaside estate, the only sound was the crashing of waves against the cliffs, a rhythmic roar that bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows and echoed in the hollow expanse of the living room. Aria D'Alessandro sat on the window-side chaise, the moon painting her white silk nightgown a ghostly shade of pale blue. She hadn't bothered with the lights. She knew Julian would return tonight. Every Thursday, without fail.

The manor was too large. Living here alone often left her feeling small and exposed. Three years ago, when she first moved in, she thought it looked like a castle from a fairy tale. Now, it just felt empty—too vast, too silent, filled with nothing but the sound of her own breathing.

From the direction of the garage, the low hum of an engine died. Aria's fingers tightened, bunching the silk of her gown. She heard the heavy front door open, followed by the measured strike of leather soles against the marble floor. The footsteps were steady, unhurried, carrying that unshakable composure that belonged only to him.

Julian D'Alessandro. Thirty-four years old, the mastermind behind C.R. Tech, a business prodigy in the eyes of the media, and a regular fixture on the cover of Forbes. He was also her husband—at least, in the eyes of the law.

The footsteps ascended the stairs and drew closer down the hallway. Aria didn't stand. She simply tilted her head, watching as the bedroom door was pushed open.

Light from the hallway spilled into the room, silhouetting a tall, imposing figure. Julian stood in the doorway, the sharp lines of his black suit looking jagged against the backlight.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, plunging the room back into shadow. He didn't turn on the lights. He never did.

"Still awake?" his voice was low and level, devoid of any discernible emotion.

"Waiting for you," Aria replied.

Julian approached until he stood directly over her, looking down. Moonlight caught the side of his face, illuminating deep-set eyes and a sharp, defined jawline that remained perfectly still. He reached out, his thumb grazing her cheek. The touch was light, yet it carried a weight of command that brooked no refusal.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked.

Aria shook her head. She knew he didn't actually care about the answer. This was a ritualistic opening, much like everything else between them.

Julian’s hand slid from her cheek to the nape of her neck, applying just enough pressure to tilt her head back. He leaned down, his lips trailing across her collarbone. Aria closed her eyes, her body softening under his touch.

They had a set pattern: Julian led, and she followed. He knew every sensitive spot on her body; he knew exactly what pressure and what rhythm would draw a specific sound from her throat. His technique was flawless, as precise as if he were operating a piece of high-performance machinery.

As Aria was pressed back into the mattress, a muffled gasp escaped her. Julian’s palm covered her waist, his fingers sinking slightly into her soft skin. He kissed her neck, her shoulders, and the bare skin of her chest, but he never touched her lips.

That was the core rule of the contract. She remembered it vividly.

When they had signed the agreement years ago, his lawyer, Owen Crawford, had sat across the long table, reading the clauses in a tone of professional neutrality. One line stated: "Both parties shall refrain from any intimacy of an emotional nature in non-public settings, including but not limited to kissing, embracing, and declarations of affection."

She had sat there with her palms sweating, feeling as though she were signing her very soul away.

Julian had been sitting beside her, posture relaxed, never once glancing in her direction.

"This is for the benefit of both parties," Owen had said. "It ensures that once the contractual obligations are met, the marriage can be dissolved cleanly."

Now, three years later in the dead of night, that contract was being executed upon her body.

Julian’s pace quickened. Aria gripped the sheets beneath her, her knuckles turning white. her breathing grew frantic, her mind went blank, and her body surged toward a stifling peak under his control. She could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the lingering scent of cologne and cigar smoke clinging to his jacket.

The climax was swift and jarring. Her body arched, a broken moan spilling from her lips. Then came the long, trembling afterglow. She kept her eyes shut, letting the soft exhaustion wash over her like a tide.

Julian paused behind her for a moment, his own breathing ragged, though he regained his usual composure almost instantly. He pulled away and rolled over to lie beside her. The mattress dipped under his weight.

In the quiet seconds that followed, Aria could hear the thumping of her own heart. She rolled onto her side, her gaze lingering on the profile of Julian’s face. His eyes were closed, his lashes casting small shadows in the moonlight. The flush of their recent intimacy still marked the side of his neck, but his entire demeanor had already cooled, like a high-end machine powering down.

Then, she felt his palm land on her hip, giving it a light, casual pat. It was a careless gesture, almost habitual—the way an athlete might pat a teammate on the shoulder after a game.

In that moment, Aria’s heart skipped a beat.

She watched him, noting that his eyes remained closed and his breathing was becoming slow and deep, as if the gesture had been nothing more than an unconscious instinct. Yet, a warmth swelled in her chest. Perhaps, she told herself, perhaps it meant something. Perhaps beneath those cold, choreographed movements, there was a flicker of something even he hadn't realized was there.

She remembered an incident three months ago. She had been down with a fever and had staggered out of bed in the middle of the night to get water. She thought she had been quiet enough not to wake him. But when she reached the kitchen, she felt a presence behind her. She turned to find Julian standing in the hallway, his hair slightly disheveled, eyes barely open. In his hand, he held a glass of water and two fever reducers. He set them on the counter without a word and went straight back to bed.

That one act had left her in a daze of sweetness for the entire following week. She had dissected every detail of that night: When did he wake up? Why did he get up? Where did he find the medicine?

Later, she told herself not to overthink it. He probably just didn't want her sick for the charity gala the following month.

But now, in the warmth following their intimacy, that pat on her hip lured her back into a brief, self-deceptive softness. She even let the corners of her mouth curl into a tiny smile and edged a fraction closer to him, wanting to soak up a little more of his warmth before he fell completely asleep.

Then she heard his breathing turn even and heavy. He was out.

Aria’s smile slowly faded. Silence reclaimed the bedroom, broken only by his breath and the distant roar of the surf outside. Her body still held the residual heat of their lovemaking, but her chest was growing cold, degree by degree.

She rolled over, turning her back to him, and stared at the dark blue sky through the window. The moonlight turned the floor into a sheet of silver, and her shadow stretched across it—a single, lonely shape.

Aria hadn't known it would be a contract marriage from the very beginning.

Three years ago, she was twenty-five, a fresh graduate from an MFA program in creative writing with a resume of a few published short stories and a stack of unpaid bills. Her parents ran a small farm in Texas, earning just enough to survive. She had no connections, no resources—only a nebulous dream of becoming a writer.

Then she met Julian D'Alessandro at a friend's party. At the time, she didn't know who he was; she only felt the overwhelming gravity of the man, a presence so strong she could feel his attention from across the room. She had been so nervous she could barely hold her glass of sparkling water steady.

They spoke for about twenty minutes. She forgot the specifics of the conversation, only remembering the low, pleasant timbre of his voice and how he asked her several questions about her writing—questions so sincere they didn't feel like polite small talk. After the party ended, she received a text from an unknown number: "This is Julian. Consider marrying me."

She thought it was a prank and nearly deleted it.

Later, his lawyer, Owen Crawford, tracked her down. In a high-rise office with floor-to-ceiling windows, she was presented with a forty-seven-page agreement.

Julian sat nearby, expressionless the entire time, speaking only at the end. "You’ll have your own room. You will cooperate with me in public. After three years, the contract terminates, and you leave with the money."

All he needed was a "wife"—a respectable companion to fend off the aggressive marriage proposals from business associates and to project a stable image. A married status would also help him gain favor with the conservative shareholders on certain family-controlled boards.

C.R. Tech was in a critical phase of expansion at the time, and several old-guard shareholders were skeptical of a "young, single CEO," viewing him as potentially unstable. A well-timed marriage solved many problems.

Aria needed the money. Her father had just been diagnosed with heart disease, and the cost of the surgery and follow-up care was a figure she couldn't even imagine paying. She stared at the compensation clauses in the agreement for a long time before finally saying, "Fine."

Three years had passed.

She thought she could guard her heart. She thought that if she treated it like a job—attending events every week and sleeping with him once a month—she could walk away clean when the three years were up.

But she had underestimated his lethality.

A man used to controlling everything in the business world possessed a type of crushing focus that was impossible to ignore, even when he was just fulfilling a contract. It didn't help that Julian D'Alessandro had a face that belonged on the cover of a fashion magazine, eyes that crinkled slightly when he smiled, and a voice so deep it felt like a vibration against her skin. Occasionally, he would show flashes of unconscious tenderness—the way he draped a coat over her shoulders, the pat on her hip, the fever medicine at 3:00 AM.

You couldn't be treated like that and convince yourself it was just a job.

Aria sat up in bed, her bare feet touching the cold floor. She glanced back at Julian; his profile was quiet and distant in the dark, like an island she would never truly reach.

Aria slipped quietly into the bathroom, shut the door, and flicked on the light. The mirror reflected her face—skin still flushed, eyes shimmering with a trace of moisture. She turned on the faucet, letting the sound of running water drown out the world, then leaned against the counter and closed her eyes.

She remembered something. Something she had never told anyone.

It was about a year ago. She had returned home early and, not wanting to disturb anyone, entered through the side door. She heard Julian’s voice from the hallway and assumed he was on a business call. But as she drew closer, she heard her own name.

"...Aria?" Julian’s voice drifted through the ajar door of the study. "She's fine. We both get what we need. There won't be any issues before the contract expires."

There was a pause. She couldn't hear the other side.

Julian gave a low, casual chuckle—a relaxed sound she never heard when he spoke to her. "Owen, since when did you become so concerned? Don't worry. She gets the house and enough money; she won't have any complaints."

His voice paused again, and then Aria heard the words she had spent the last year chewing over in the dark of night:

"When I find the woman I actually want to marry, she'll step aside. It’s always been a transaction. There's no need to make it complicated."

Aria had stood in the hallway, her hand against the wall, her nails nearly digging into the wallpaper. She didn't make a sound. She didn't push the door open. She didn't confront him. She simply retreated, went back out to the front door, and came in again, calling out, "I'm home."

When Julian emerged from the study, his expression was as neutral as ever. "You're back? Handle dinner yourself; I have an online meeting."

She said okay.

She didn't sleep at all that night.

By morning, her pillow was soaked.

Now, a year later in the depths of the night, she stood before the bathroom mirror and chewed on that memory once more. She realized her tears had run dry. All that remained was a dull numbness, like a wound that had been cut so many times it finally lost the ability to feel pain.

She turned off the tap, stood in the silence for a moment, then dried her face and walked back into the bedroom.

Julian was still asleep, his position unchanged.

Her side of the bed still held the warmth of his body, but she didn't lie back down. She grabbed a throw blanket from the sofa and curled up on the window-side chaise, her forehead pressed against the cold glass as she watched the black, lightless sea.

She suddenly wondered what she was holding on to. In this marriage, Julian got what he wanted—a respectable wife for the public, a stable image for the board, and a physical outlet every Thursday night. She got what she wanted—her father's medical bills paid, three years of security, and a large house by the sea.

But the things she actually wanted—the things she had secretly hoped for—a man who would look into her eyes, someone who would say "I'm proud of you" when her novel was published, someone who would kiss her lips in the middle of the night instead of treating her like a piece of equipment that required periodic maintenance...

Those things were never in the contract.

Aria buried her face in her knees.

The sea breeze whistled against the eaves of the manor, sounding like a low sob.

Thursday was over. Next week, it would happen all over again.

She didn't know how much longer she could live like this. She only knew that the woman Julian spoke of—the one he "actually wanted to marry"—would show up eventually. And when that happened, Aria would be cleared out like a piece of furniture that had served its purpose, moved aside politely and cleanly.

The only thing she could do was make sure her heart was completely dead before that moment arrived.

Aria closed her eyes. Dawn was coming.

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