Page 81 of Sin

The last session of the day is a panel I should skip. I don’t. The title alone should send me straight to the bar.

Monogamy and Modern Desire: Are We Built for One?

I sit in the back. Laurel is near the front with two buyers from London. She doesn’t know I’m there at first. I plan to stay unnoticed. Listen for ten minutes. Leave. Get air. Get control.

Then the moderator starts talking. About desire. Commitment. The difference between love and possession. About how monogamy is often treated as instinct when, for many people, it is actually a choice that has to be remade, renegotiated, and honestly examined over time.

I hate every word. I hate how convenient it sounds. I hate how badly some part of me wants to hold onto it.

One speaker talks about how people use fidelity as proof of love because they are too afraid to ask what they actually need. Another talks about shame. Another about honesty. Another about the damage done when people stay inside dead agreements and call it virtue.

Dead agreements. The phrase hits too close. I think of Jenna in Kansas, relieved not to be home. I think of our separate bedrooms. Separate lives. Years of politeness where passion used to be. I think of Laurel in my bed this morning, looking at my ring and apologizing for being wanted. Something inside me twists hard.

Across the room, Laurel turns. I don’t know how she feels me watching. She just does. Her eyes find mine.

For one second, the whole panel disappears. The room. The people. The academic language wrapped around want. All of it gone.

There’s only her. And me. And the thing I said could never happen again.

Her expression doesn’t change, but her throat moves when she swallows.

By the time the session ends, I’m raw. Laurel is waiting near the exit, speaking to a woman from the panel. She looks calm. Completely composed. Then her eyes lift to mine as I pass, and all that composure fractures for half a second. Just enough to ruin whatever was left of my good intentions.

We don’t speak. In the elevator, she stands as far from me as the space allows. It’s not far enough. The mirrored walls reflect us back at each other. Me in a dark suit, tie loosened. Her in that cream blouse, hair pinned up, mouth bare now from a long day of talking and drinking coffee and pretending we’re fine.

We are not fine.

The elevator climbs. I stare at the numbers changing above the door like they can save me. The doors open and we walk down the hall in silence. At the room, I swipe the key card and hold the door open for her.

She steps inside.

I follow.

The door shuts and the lock clicks.

Laurel sets her bag down on the chair. I stand near the door, one hand still on the handle. This is the last chance. I can leave. Go downstairs. Do anything except what every part of me has wanted since the moment I woke up with Laurel in my arms.

She turns to face me. Her expression is guarded.

“You said it could never happen again.”

“I know.”

Her chin lifts. “Did you mean it?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes flash. The answer hurts her. It hurts me too.

“Then why are you looking at me like that?”

My hand tightens on the door handle.

“Because meaning it didn’t make me stop wanting you.”

Her fingers curl at her sides.

“Sin.”