BTT Chapter 8: An Unfair Cir-CUM-stance
I left Iluzhan’s side for the first time that weekend, forcing myself back into the house to pack for my trip home. Walking through her sanctuary felt different now—heavier. Every detail seemed to glow with meaning: the African wall art arranged with intention, the warm earth-tone décor, and the family photos lining the hallway. Everyone was smiling in those frames. And in several of them, she stood beside her husband, their arms wrapped around each other in ways that spoke of history and commitment.
Seeing those photos sealed the truth I’d been avoiding. I might hold her heart in stolen moments, but he held her life in the daylight.
“Though I hold her heart every second, his presence claims her body each night; yet our souls remain intertwined beyond the reach of time or distance.”
I placed the last of my belongings into my Armani bag—so focused on escaping the ache in my chest that I didn’t realize she had come up behind me. Her arms circled my waist, and she pressed soft, warm lips between my shoulder blades.
“Sticks and stones may break bones, but words will never harm me,” I whispered. “Your words didn’t just hurt me… they shattered me, Iluzhan.”
I turned to face her. Her eyes were just as wet as mine, glistening with sincerity and sorrow. She held my gaze without flinching.
“I’d rather hurt you unintentionally with honesty,” she said softly, “than make you smile with a lie, Sir.”
Her conviction cut deeper than any blade.
“Unlock your phone and give it to me,” I said, my voice firmer than I felt.
She obeyed instantly. I opened the Genesis app—our old battleground, Words With Friends.
“Let’s play for us. If I win, we promise to visit each other four times a year. If you win… I’ll step aside and let you live your happy life without me interfering.”
We both knew the odds. After 538 games, I had only won seven.
She took her phone back, and the game began. But then she smirked—dangerously—and said, “Let’s sweeten the pot.”
Before I could question her, she undressed herself with a slow, deliberate grace, then began peeling my clothes away. She pushed me back onto the ottoman and straddled me, lowering herself onto me with a tight, breathtaking grip that stole every thought from my mind.
The game hadn’t even started, and I already felt undone.
Her first three moves were seven-letter words. Of course they were. The score flashed 177 to 65. I could barely remember how to spell my own name, let alone compete with her genius. The stakes were too high, and her body was too distracting—her walls pulsing around me, her breasts rising and falling inches from my lips. I was losing my mind point by point, breath by breath.
And yet… it was heaven.
An emotional rollercoaster doesn’t begin to describe it. I was drowning in dread knowing defeat meant losing her, yet soaring high when her body trembled around me in a mini-orgasm that left her moaning softly against my neck.
I tried to match her—if she was going to school me in the game, then I’d school her in the bed. But strategy means nothing when desire and heartbreak collide.
Eventually, the game ended.
407 to 238.
A massacre.
A farewell wrapped in numbers.
She looked just as sad as I felt.
“I love you so much,” she whispered. “So even though you lost… you still get a consolation gift.”
Then she tightened her grip around me—slow, rhythmic, deliberate—like she was wringing juice from fruit. Her walls pulsed with an intensity that made my breath hitch.
“I’m never going to see you again, Flower,” I choked out.
She giggled softly, almost painfully sweet.
“But you’re seeing me now… silly.”
We used the rest of the afternoon like it was borrowed time—hot, sweaty, desperate lovemaking with something to prove. I’m not sure what either of us was trying to prove, but I knew one thing with certainty:
This was the last time I’d feel her body flood over mine.
The last time I’d taste her rain.
The last time our worlds would collide in the flesh.
And that truth hurt more than any defeat ever could.
