I catch Marcus staring at me again as I step out of the shower, water still beading on my skin. His eyes travel over my curves with that familiar hunger, the same look he's given me every day for the past three years. At twenty-eight, I still have the body that made me a star on stage—full breasts, a narrow waist that flares into hips that once commanded standing ovations, legs that seem to go on forever. My husband's obsession with my physical form hasn't dimmed one bit since he first saw me dance at that charity gala when I was twenty-five and he was barely twenty-two. "God, Viv," he breathes, already moving toward me. "You're so fucking perfect." I force a smile, wrapping the towel around myself. "I need to get ready for dinner with the Harrisons." "We have time." His hands are already on my waist, pulling me against him. Marcus Sterling inherited his family's tech fortune at nineteen, and he's used to getting what he wants when he wants it. What he wants most is me, apparently. Lucky me. The bitter thought surprises me with its venom. "Marcus, I just showered—" "I'll be quick." He's kissing my neck now, his hands roaming over the towel. "Please, baby. I've been thinking about you all day." He's always thinking about me. Always wanting me. Always ready to worship at the altar of my body with an enthusiasm that would be flattering if it led to anything resembling satisfaction. I let the towel drop because it's easier than arguing, and because some pathetic part of me keeps hoping this time will be different. Maybe this time his eager hands and hungry mouth will translate into something that actually makes me feel alive instead of just... used. Marcus groans appreciatively, his fingers tracing the curve of my breast. "How did I get so lucky?" We end up on the bed, him on top of me, and I go through the familiar motions. I arch my back at the right moments, make the sounds he expects, run my fingers through his dark hair. He's handsome—devastatingly so, with sharp features and a body maintained by personal trainers and expensive gym memberships. Any woman would want him. Except wanting and being satisfied are two entirely different things. It's over in maybe seven minutes. Marcus collapses beside me, breathing hard, a satisfied grin on his face. "Jesus, that was incredible. You're incredible." I stare at the ceiling, my body still thrumming with unfulfilled need, that familiar ache of frustration settling deep in my core. "Yeah," I manage. "Incredible." He's already getting up, heading to his own shower, completely oblivious to the fact that I'm lying here untouched, unsatisfied, desperate for something he apparently doesn't know how to give me. Or doesn't care to learn. No, that's not fair. Marcus cares. He's attentive in his own way—he remembers my favorite flowers, buys me jewelry I don't need, tells me constantly how beautiful I am. He just doesn't seem to notice that I never actually finish, that my orgasms are as fake as the smile I'm wearing right now. I close my eyes and slip my hand between my legs, quickly bringing myself to the release my husband couldn't provide. It takes less than two minutes. When I'm done, the satisfaction is hollow, mechanical. Not at all what I'm craving. This isn't what I signed up for when I married Marcus Sterling. I met him at a charity gala where I was performing—one of my last shows before I retired from dancing. He'd watched me with such intensity, such raw desire, that I felt it from the stage. After the performance, he'd found me, introduced himself, and within five minutes made it clear he intended to marry me. "I've never seen anything more beautiful," he'd said, his young face earnest and determined. "I know this sounds crazy, but I'm going to make you my wife." I'd laughed, charmed by his boldness. The three-year age gap seemed insignificant—he was mature for twenty-two, already running a multi-billion dollar company. And the way he looked at me, like I was a goddess made flesh, was intoxicating after years of being treated as just another dancer. We married six months later in a ceremony that made the society pages. My former colleagues whispered that I'd landed the ultimate prize—a gorgeous billionaire husband who was obsessed with me. They didn't know that obsession isn't the same as understanding, that desire isn't the same as skill. Now, three years later, I'm trapped in a gilded cage with a man who thinks he's the world's greatest lover because I'm too proud or too kind or too something to tell him the truth. I get up and take another shower, washing away the evidence of both encounters. In the mirror, I examine myself critically. My body is still incredible—I've maintained the discipline of my dancing days, and at twenty-eight, I'm in my prime. My honey-blonde hair falls in waves past my shoulders, my green eyes are bright, my skin glows. I'm everything Marcus thinks he wants. But I'm withering inside, dying of thirst while drowning in attention. At dinner with the Harrisons—wealthy friends of Marcus's family—I play my role perfectly. The beautiful wife, the former dancer who gave up her career for love, the woman who adores her successful young husband. I laugh at the right moments, touch Marcus's arm affectionately, and ignore the way James Harrison's eyes linger on my cleavage. James is older, maybe forty-five, with silver threading through his dark hair and the kind of confidence that comes from actually knowing what you're doing in life. He's nothing like my eager puppy of a husband. "Vivienne," James says, refilling my wine glass, "Marcus is a lucky man. Though I imagine you must miss performing." "Sometimes," I admit. "But I have everything I need now." It's the lie I've perfected, and everyone believes it because why wouldn't they? I have the life every woman supposedly wants. Marcus's hand finds my thigh under the table, squeezing possessively. "She's amazing," he says proudly. "I still can't believe she chose me." James's eyes meet mine over his wine glass, and something passes between us—a flicker of understanding, of recognition. It's gone in an instant, but it leaves me unsettled. That night, Marcus wants me again. Of course he does. He always does. This time, I can't even fake enthusiasm. I lie there, letting him have his way, and when he finishes with his usual satisfied groan, I feel something inside me crack. "That was so good, baby," he murmurs against my neck. "You're so perfect. I love making you feel good." And that's when I realize the terrible truth: Marcus actually believes he's satisfying me. He genuinely thinks our sex life is incredible, that I'm as fulfilled as he is. His ego won't let him see the reality. I'm trapped in a marriage with a man who will never understand what I need because he's convinced he's already giving it to me.