Someone Who Truly Appreciates Her

Chanel sits at the table waiting. Dee leans in, and that scent hits her. She studies Dee’s throat as she talks, watches the tight cotton shift against her skin. Homework lies open between them, but the real heat comes off Dee’s words—her husband barely looks at her anymore. The woman straightens, brushes the subject away, goes back to equations and deadlines. Days slip by. Dee tests new soaps, new blouses, new hours at the gym. Chanel watches the effort pile up with every failed reach for affection. Dee brushes off sympathy, smiles like it doesn’t sting. Chanel keeps quiet, heart knocked sideways by how much a man can waste. Tonight the bedroom door is half-open. Chanel means to check in, then stops cold. Dee’s wearing next to nothing—lace that cuts high on hip and low between breasts, the color expensive and merciless. White teeth snag on a red lip when she notices the stare. She tries to pull a robe, color flooding her cheeks, voice cracking when she admits her husband still looks past her. Lingerie was a last shot. “Fuck that,” Chanel says, heat rushing up her spine. “If he doesn’t see you, he never did.” Dee looks stunned. Heat flickers under the lace. Everything she’s changed—every scent, every hem, every wasted minute—meant nothing to the man she tried to keep. But Chanel’s gaze hits low and sure, no discount, no empty praise. Want lands between them like a key turned twice. Dee exhales, raw. Chanel steps inside. Her mouth finds Dee’s wrist, the scent there stronger than perfume. She pulls the strap aside, thumbs finding skin, the desperate cadence of a woman finally noticed.