The clock flashed ten p.m. on the stand beside me.

One tequila. Two tequila. Three.

One wiener. Two wiener. Three.

10:01 and all I could think of at that moment was ... six more minutes. Six more minutes until he came inside me, and we were done. Done until the next time. Well, next Saturday night, just like clockwork.

Darkness surrounded us in our two-bedroom penthouse in the poshest area of downtown Rosendell, Michigan. The only light coming in through the window was from the city skyscrapers outside, the gleam highlighting the movement of his body against mine.

The sweat of his skin was slick against mine. The scent of sex permeated the air.

Sex was always the same—missionary style on our 1200-thread count sateen sheets, with him pumping into me. I closed my eyes and tried to let the sensations wash over my body. For once, I wished he'd call me sexy, talk dirty ... do anything to make me feel as though this wasn't a job that I was expected to perform.

I wanted to feel that connection—like we used to have—and not feel like we’d turned into an old married couple when we were only in our early twenties. Eight years together wasn't a lifetime. Being in a relationship shouldn't seem like a death sentence.

Sadness engulfed me while we were sharing the most intimate moment between two people. I forced down the loneliness before tears could slip down my cheeks.

I knew sex was coming tonight. After dinner, he’d made me a dirty martini. And it was Saturday. For as long as I could remember, he was the horniest at the end of the work week. Like a gourmet meal at a fancy restaurant, Saturday night seduction started with a martini, then small talk, ending with sex as dessert. I yearned for him to bend me over the couch first and then hand me a martini.

At 10:04, his movements turned erratic. He pumped into me faster. His chest heaved in exhaustion. A thin sheen of sweat covered his brow. My leg was cramping, yet I didn't care because I told myself for the millionth time—trying to convince myself—that he loved me. He still loved me. This was what couples in love did. And we were in love. This was making love.

So, why did I feel nothing?

My cheek fell to the side, and I stared at the city through our floor-to-ceiling windows because we had stopped looking at each other during sex a long time ago. Stopped talking after sex. Stopped cuddling after sex. Just stopped.

He didn't whisper sweet nothings in my ear that would send a wave of shivers up my neck, nor did he make me feel wanted for anything other than someone to get him off. The lump in the back of my throat became the size of a golf ball, the same way it had yesterday, and the days and months before when I'd thought of how we'd morphed into some fifties sitcom couple. We might as well have two twin beds in our bedroom.

"I love you," I whispered, all my pent-up emotion pouring out into those three powerful words.

Because I did. I do.

I loved him.

He was the only man I'd ever been with. The only man I'd ever known.

He didn't hear me, caught up in his own moment of getting off, so I said it again, louder this time. "I love you so much."

"Oh, baby, I love you, too." His words had once meant so much, but the meaning had dwindled over time.

He groaned, then he flipped me over, propping me on top of him. My dark brown hair cascaded over my slender shoulders. He’d said the words I wanted to hear, but I questioned whether he’d meant them. Why did I feel such distance between us even when we were in the same room?

His eyes were clenched shut. I wanted to see the spark of fire in his blue irises. Lock my brown ones with his. Feel the connection between us.

Trying something different, I reached for the ends of his light locks, tugging hard, but he pulled my hands down and moved my hips along his shaft.

I shifted until a sensation rubbed against my sensitive nub. I threw back my head as my hands pressed into his chest and I moved against him, my body beginning to let go.

"Oh, yeah. Baby, you feel so good. Does it feel good?"

"Yes," I sighed. I lifted my head, wishing, wanting, waiting for ecstasy, then finally a sliver of sensation spread down my legs.

When he gripped my hips tighter and shifted me, that slightest connection to an orgasm disappeared.

"Wait," I begged as I readjusted myself. The deep-rooted pinch under my belly tingled. Something I hadn't felt in a very long time. "Please." I took his hands in mine and urged him to let me lead the way for once.

And before I knew it, he stilled inside me and a loud moan escaped his mouth.

Done. Jilted. Robbed.

My body rolled off his. I turned my head, so he couldn't read my face, and the first tear pushed down my cheek.

He discarded the condom in a tissue on the side table then kissed the back of my neck.

I glanced at the clock.

10:07.

My whole body tensed, and I exhaled, half-frustration and half-relief that it was over. I had a week until we'd do it again.

"That was amazing, baby."

"Yes." Amazing for you.

10:08, just like a clock, he flipped over, conked out, and I stared at the ceiling, feeling empty inside as the thought pushed to the surface ... There has to be more to my life than this.

* * *

Careful not to wake him, I slipped out of bed, threw on my robe, and darted toward the kitchen. I knew he had to go into the office today. Being a top investment banker for the largest private equity firm in the nation, he worked almost every weekend.

He said he'd take the weekends off, but so far, he hadn't. What had gotten Roland to greatness was his drive for work and his need to always have the best and be the best.

I had been getting up earlier for the past few years, cooking him a full breakfast almost every day. Growing up in a family where my mother cooked constantly, I found myself believing that a good breakfast had the power to push the day in the right direction.

Reaching in the overhead cabinet, I pulled down the pancake mix, bowls, and sugar. When I heard the shower running, I moved faster, darting to the fridge to get out the eggs and milk.

I was about done—our plates and meal set on the table—when Roland strolled into the kitchen.

"Good morning," I said in my singsong voice.

Today was a new day. He had promised we'd go to that new Italian restaurant tonight, and I was more than a little excited for date night. We were double dating with my sister. I couldn't remember the last time we’d gone on a date that didn't consist of a business meeting with other investment partners and me on Roland's arm as his eye candy.

"Good morning," he replied, methodical and robotic, proceeding to the door as usual to pick up the newspaper.

He never looks at me anymore.

Roland strutted to the table in an Armani suit, handsome and professional in a 6’1” lean package.

In high school, where we'd met, he’d been a scrawny teenager with the best hair. And I had always been petite and dainty with stick straight dark brown hair.

But by our freshman year in college, he had grown into his skin nicely, working out constantly and running marathons. He was handsome, beautiful, and kind, and any girl would be lucky to have him.

I placed his favorite mug on the table and sat right next to him. After he opened his Wall Street Journal, he picked up his mug. His coffee was made just how he liked it. Black. No cream. Two sugars.

I cooked for him and, in return, he folded and put my laundry away. Our relationship was oddly even regarding house chores, and from the outside looking in, we were the perfect couple.

I stilled. No, we are the perfect couple.

I poured the syrup over his pancakes and watched him eat and read his paper like he did every morning. We hadn't said anything to each other except, "Good morning," and my stomach dropped because I realized, lately, that had been the norm between us. Our everyday routine included pancakes, me watching him read his paper and not talking. I blinked, letting my reality seep in.

After five minutes of his head in the paper, I pushed out of my chair, sat on his lap, and wrapped my slim but strong arms around his neck. I needed to break the cycle. "I can't wait for tonight. I've only heard good things about Italia Clement. Your work schedule has been crazier than ever."

I leaned in closer, getting a whiff of his Creed cologne, a bottle of heaven for the insignificant price of five hundred dollars.

He leaned back against the chair, his features tightening, the stress of work evident on his face. "I know. I'm just trying to establish myself securely at the firm. I've been stressed out, and you know this is important to me."

I nodded because I knew. Inside, I truly knew he needed to succeed, do well in his job. But where did that leave me? Or, more importantly, us?

"Yes," I sighed. "I know."

Still, I couldn't help how I felt about our relationship lately. That we were drifting apart, and I didn't know how to salvage us because it seemed as though our relationship had been in this lull for a while. A long while.

"You love me, right?" I asked sweetly, peering down at him, needing him to say it, mean it, needing to believe it. "Yes, Angie. Of course." His tone was dismissive.

"Say it, then." I needed him to say it in full light, not in the heat of the moment.

"I love you, Angelica Armstrong." He took one brief second to look at me, but then his eyes flicker to his paper.

He’s distracted.

I tried to let those words wash over me, like a tidal wave, but there was no passion behind his voice, no light in his eyes. I swallowed back the lump in my throat and closed the gap between us, capturing his lips with mine. God, I needed more. We used to have electricity.

I moved to straddle him, trying something new as my kisses intensified. My robe exposed my bare breasts, and I didn't readjust myself. I wanted him now, to live in this moment.

A pure desperation tore through my soul. I wanted him to take full advantage of me. I wanted to have hot, wild sex in the open, in the daylight, not on our bed on a Saturday night.

When his breathing was labored, my hands moved to his waist to undo his belt.

Then he stilled, pulling back, and held my hands. "I'm going to be late for work if you start that."

"That was the point," I said in a silky tone.

"We can't. I need to be focused today." His tone leaked annoyance. He pecked me one last time and disentangled my fingers from his.

His words doused the flame inside of me with cold water, and all my muscles tensed. My jaw tightened, and I tried to hide the hurt behind my composed demeanor. "Sometimes I wish you'd focus on me," I said, surprised that I let those words slip out.

His look was that of my mother, serious, meaning business, and I didn't appreciate it. "I'll focus on you tonight at Italia."

"But I want you." I didn't mean for my voice to sound whiny, but it did.

He forced my robe shut and moved me off him. "And you have me." He nodded toward my food before ducking his head back into the Wall Street Journal. "Eat your breakfast, Angie, it's getting cold."

I bit my tongue before something crazy flew out and caused a full-blown argument. Picking up my plate and my mug, I proceeded to our bedroom. He wasn't going to talk to me anyway, not when he had his boring business news in front of him.

"Are you eating in the bedroom?"

"Yes," I said curtly, but you could still hear the hurt behind that one word.

He didn’t seem fazed, only saying, "Uh ... Don't get crumbs on the bed, Angelica. I read an article on bed bugs the other day."

I gritted my teeth before I said something I'd regret. I never lost my temper, and I wasn't going to start now. That was something I prided myself in, something my own mother had instilled in me—composure.

At our bedroom doorway, I reminded him, "Our reservations with Christene are at eight. Please don't be late, Roland." Then I shut the door behind me, jumped into bed and grabbed my half-eaten pancake. As if flipping him the middle finger, I ate it with my hands, getting crumbs on the bed on purpose.

* * *

My hair dryer blew on high as I held my round brush above my head in our oversized bathroom. I took in my heart-shaped face in the mirror. My smooth, pale skin glowed with a rose flush on my cheek bones.

The noise from the hair dryer almost drowned out my phone ringing on the counter. One look at Christene's goofy face—cross-eyed and sticking out her tongue—had me smiling. Though I was the younger sister by only a few years, I acted like the older one.

After I switched off my dryer and placed it on the marble countertop, I reached for my cell.

"Angieeeeeee," she squealed in her typical greeting. "What time is dinner again?"

I wondered how Tene could remember every workday appointment but failed to keep her social calendar organized. All she had to do was scroll up on our texts on her phone to see what time I'd made the reservations.

"Eight." I pulled a strand of hair out of my eyes, staring at my brown-eyed reflection in the mirror, my dark locks cascading down my back. "Brad’s still going tonight, right? I included him in the head count."

"Uh, well, it's Tim now."

"Who's Tim?"

"This guy I met at a bar last night." She laughed.

"Tene." I heard the scolding tone of my mother in my voice, and I bit it back. "Okay, sorry. As long as you're being safe, I shouldn't even care. You are, right? Being safe, I mean."

"Safe and sound. Nothing is popping out down there anytime soon."

My sister, though she was a party animal, was a business woman at her core. That's why my father trusted her with his company: Armstrong Real Estate Corporation. Our family owned more than half the real estate in Rosendell and the neighboring towns.

My sister had taken a more active role a year ago when our father had become ill. She was cutthroat and a no bullshit type of business woman. Our tenants knew she wasn't a pushover, and my father knew she could handle the business just fine. Now it was my turn to step up to the plate, and since I was finally done with my master’s degree, I was more than ready to contribute to the family—finally.

"That's good." I pulled the cell closer to my ear, gripping it tightly. "I can't wait to see you tonight. It's been tense with Roland lately, and I think a double date would be good. I purposely invited you, so he wouldn't cancel."

"Okay, I won't cancel, then." Christene's voice tinged with humor. "I was going to ask you to go to Allswell tonight after dinner."

"Allswell?"

"Yes, hello! The former Clyde's Bar and Restaurant. I filled that space a couple months ago."

I furrowed my brow. "I thought our new tenant owned a restaurant."

"Restaurant by day, hopping club by the weekend. There’s a ton of press on these owners and their clubs and restaurants nationwide. They opened last week, and it’s the hottest spot in Rosendell right now."

My eyebrows pulled together. No wonder she was able to jack up the rent, and the tenant was able to afford it. My father had been singing her praises for weeks at filling that space. I hoped someday I'd be able to contribute to my family in the same way.

Glancing at my half-done hair in the mirror brought me back to the present. "Roland's not the clubbing type. Please, Christene. We need this." Roland had been so focused on work, he needed a break. He needed a night out, other than dinner with his clients. And selfishly, I wished for a real date with my boyfriend.

"Okay, sounds good.” Her tone was tinged with disappointment. “But maybe you and Roland would want to head to Allswell right after?"

I laughed. "I doubt it." My Roland at a club? If the place wasn't serving caviar and champagne, he wasn't a fan.

I glanced back at my reflection in the mirror, seeing a hopefulness in my eyes. A dinner date with two of my favorite people. Maybe tonight was the night he'd try something different. "I'll ask him."

After getting ready, I plopped down on our leather couch in the living room and watched TV. When a couple of hours had passed, I tapped my finger on my chin, staring at the phone resting in the middle of our circular glass coffee table. My feet pushed against the hand-knotted Persian Rug that Roland had ordered from Iran.

I had called him, yet nothing. I'd left a voicemail twice, but nothing.

He was late.

Patience was a virtue, but my patience for Roland's tardiness flew out the door about thirty minutes ago. Minutes ticked by and I wrung my hands together, wishing his neck was in between them.

It was seven-thirty. Our reservations were for eight, and Roland had said he'd be back home at seven, so we'd make it to the restaurant in time. It had taken months to get this reservation. Italia Clement's management didn't care what my last name was. They occupied one of the few properties that we didn't own, so I didn't have any clout.

"Damn it, Roland." I stood and picked up the phone again, waiting for his voicemail to beep. "Roland, this is my third message. Please call your girlfriend back." My tone was calm, cool, and collected, opposite the burning ball of anger inside of me.

I ended the call quickly as my face burned bright and glanced at the clock again as I'd done just seconds ago.

In ten minutes, I was leaving with or without him.

Suddenly, my phone pinged with a text. Hope bloomed in my chest, but then I read his text, and that hope was obliterated like a bomb blowing up in my face.

I should've known better.

I'd heard that excuse before. Many times before. Like a broken record.

I squeezed the phone hard enough that the edges caused an indentation on my skin.

Anger was a crazy emotion. It could consume me and cripple me into someone I didn't like to be. As I slumped against the wall and read his text again, the thought of bleaching all his ties crossed my mind. Or even better yet ... throwing out his very expensive Edward Green leather shoes that had cost thousands. Though I'd never do it, the thought did float to the surface.

I huffed. It didn't matter anyway; I bet he'd just buy himself three more pairs.

If I didn't know him as well as I did, I would have thought that he was having late-night affairs. But since I'd met Roland sophomore year in high school, I knew that he was forever married to excelling in school and work and winning. It was his gasoline. His drive to be the best was what kept him alive, ticking, and well.

So why did I feel so much resentment?

I didn't respond as I stared at my phone, and then I did something unlike me. I texted Tene and did the unthinkable.

It didn't take long for her to text me right back.

My insides lightened, and a smile surfaced on my face. I bit at my thumbnail and peered down at my black tapered pants and cream, button-down silk shirt. I didn't have anything even remotely club appropriate, so I texted her again, and she promised to bring me something.

Most likely, my night would end up with me taking care of her or catching a cab home while she made out with some random dude, but I shrugged. Because that was more exciting than waiting around for Roland to come home and risk the possibility of me going crazy and destroying his wardrobe.

I glanced at my phone again, debating on texting him back, but thought better of it.

He wouldn't be thinking of me tonight, anyway, and I would try my hardest not to think about him.