Chapter 1: Blindfold and Betrayal
The room smelled of Daphne's lavender candles and the faint, clean sweat of a man who worked with his hands. Marisol stood at the foot of the bed, her bare feet cold against the hardwood, and tried to remember how to breathe.
Daniel lay on his back, shirtless, the sheets pooled around his waist. A black silk tie covered his eyes, knotted at the back of his head. His chest rose and fell in the slow rhythm of someone who had been pulled from deep sleep and was already drifting back toward it. His hands rested loose at his sides, fingers curled, calloused palms turned upward like he was waiting for something to be placed in them.
Daphne stood beside Marisol, close enough that her perfume—something sharp and green—mixed with the candle smoke. She touched Marisol's elbow, her fingers cool and steady.
"He's out," Daphne whispered. "He won't know. That's the point."
Marisol's mouth was dry. She looked at Daniel's face, at the stubble along his jaw, at the soft part of his lips. He was handsome in a way that had nothing to do with polish. His nose had been broken once, years ago, and it sat slightly crooked on his face. His shoulders were wide and freckled from the sun. He looked like a man who fixed things.
"I can't," Marisol said.
"You can." Daphne's voice was calm, almost bored. She could have been discussing what to order for dinner. "You've thought about this for weeks. You came here tonight because you want this. I'm not going to pretend I don't know that."
Marisol closed her eyes. She had thought about it. She had thought about it so much that the wanting had become a physical thing, a hollow ache behind her ribs that no amount of wine or crying or internet shopping could fill. Three years of negative tests. Three years of boyfriends who said they weren't ready, or who were ready but couldn't, or who left when it got too real. Three years of watching other women push strollers down the street and feeling something ugly and desperate claw at her throat.
Daphne had offered. That was the thing. Daphne had sat across from her at a in her own kitchen two weeks ago, stirring her coffee with a deliberate slowness, and said, "You want a baby. Daniel would make beautiful babies. The doctors say I can't have any—you know that. But he can. And I love you. So."
Marisol had laughed. She had thought it was a joke.
Daphne hadn't laughed.
"You're insane," Marisol had said.
"Maybe. But you're not going to find what you're looking for out there. You've tried. You're tired. I'm giving you a gift. One night. He'll never know. You'll have what you want. Everyone wins."
Everyone wins. The words had lodged in Marisol's brain like a splinter she couldn't dig out. She had told herself she would never. She had told herself it was wrong, that Daniel was a person, not a stud, that Daphne was playing some game she didn't fully understand. She had told herself all of that for thirteen days.
And then tonight, Daphne had texted her a single word. Now.
Marisol had showered. She had shaved her legs. She had put on the sundress she knew made her look soft and pretty, the one with the tiny yellow flowers, and she had driven to their house with her hands shaking on the wheel and a knot in her stomach so tight she thought she might throw up.
Now she was here. Standing at the foot of their bed. Looking at Daniel's blindfolded face.
"He'll feel the difference," Marisol whispered. "He'll know it's not you."
Daphne smiled. It was a strange smile, something private and knowing. "He won't. He's half asleep. And I told him I wanted to try something new. He thinks it's me being adventurous. He's been looking forward to it all day."
The casualness of it made Marisol's skin prickle. Daphne had planned this. She had primed him. She had made him complicit without his knowledge, and she had done it with the same efficiency she used to plan dinner parties and schedule his dental appointments.
"You're going to hell," Marisol said.
"Probably." Daphne stepped back, giving her space. "But you're going to be a mother. I think that's a fair trade."
Marisol's hands trembled as she reached for the hem of her dress. She pulled it over her head and let it fall to the floor. Her underwear followed. She stood in the dim light of the bedroom, naked except for the shadows, and felt more exposed than she had ever felt in her life.
Daniel shifted on the bed, a low sound in his throat. "Daph?" His voice was rough with sleep, confused.
"I'm here," Daphne said. She moved to the head of the bed and sat beside him, taking his hand. "I'm right here. Just relax."
He settled. His fingers curled around Daphne's, trusting, easy. Marisol watched the way his thumb stroked the back of Daphne's hand and felt something twist in her chest. It wasn't jealousy. It was something worse. It was the knowledge that she was about to take something that belonged to someone else, and that the someone else was helping her do it.
She climbed onto the bed.
The mattress dipped under her weight. Daniel's head turned slightly toward the sound, but Daphne leaned down and pressed her lips to his forehead, a soft, shushing kiss.
"It's just me," Daphne murmured. "It's just us."
Marisol positioned herself over him. Her knees sank into the sheets on either side of his hips. She could feel the heat of his body rising up to meet her, could smell the soap he used and something underneath it, something warm and masculine and real. Her heart was a fist slamming against her ribs.
She lowered herself slowly. The first brush of contact made her gasp. He was warm and heavy and already half-hard, responding to the promise of what was to come even in his sleep-drunk state. Her body clenched in anticipation, a deep, primal pull that was stronger than shame and stronger than guilt.
"Please," she whispered, though she didn't know if she was talking to him or to herself or to some god she hadn't believed in since she was a child.
She sank down.
The pressure was immediate and overwhelming. Her breath caught. Her thighs trembled. She felt him fill her in a way that was different from all the careless, forgettable nights she had spent with men who didn't matter, men whose names she barely remembered. This was Daniel. Kind, gentle, trusting Daniel, who kissed his wife goodbye every morning and never questioned her, who had no idea that his body was being borrowed in the dark.
His hips shifted beneath her. A low groan rumbled in his chest. His hands came up, not to grip her hips or pull her closer, but to reach for Daphne's hand again, to anchor himself to the woman he believed he was inside.
"I love you," he murmured.
Marisol's eyes burned. She didn't move. She couldn't.
Daphne leaned over him, her auburn hair falling like a curtain. "I love you too," she said. Her eyes found Marisol's in the dim light. They were calm. Steady. Almost kind.
Then she mouthed a single word.
Move.
Marisol closed her eyes and obeyed.