Burning Memories

**Charlotte’s (formerly Sophia’s) Point of View**

**Three Years Earlier**

The rain was pouring down heavily that night, pounding against the apartment windows in a relentless, rhythmic assault. The sound was almost hypnotic, but instead of calming me, it seemed to amplify the whirlwind of thoughts spinning in my mind. I was wrapped in a blanket on the couch, a book open on my lap, though the words on the pages failed to capture my attention.

Richard occupied every corner of my thoughts. Our relationship had always been complicated—a constant oscillation between magnetic attraction and the fear of completely losing myself in him. Richard was a man who radiated power and control, and at the same time, always seemed on the verge of something I couldn’t decipher. That night, however, there was something different in the air. A palpable tension that I couldn’t ignore.

I heard him before I saw him. Heavy footsteps in the hallway, followed by the sound of the apartment door opening. When he entered the room, I immediately sensed that something was wrong. Richard was clearly drunk. The strong smell of alcohol filled the room, and his movements were slightly uncoordinated, something unusual for a man who always prided himself on his self-control.

"Sophia," he murmured, his voice rough, laden with a raw emotion I wasn’t accustomed to hearing from him. "I need to talk to you."

I nodded, swallowing hard, unable to respond immediately. My heart raced, and part of me wanted to run, to avoid whatever was about to happen. But another part, the one that had always been inexplicably drawn to Richard, kept me there, anchored to that moment.

Richard walked over and sat down beside me on the couch. His proximity made my whole body react, a warmth spreading through my skin despite the coldness of the situation. He looked into my eyes, and for a moment, all the power games and control that had always existed between us seemed to vanish. What I saw in his eyes was honesty—a vulnerability that took me completely by surprise.

"I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel anything for you," he confessed, his voice a whisper that seemed to resonate deep within me. "But I know this is wrong... I know I’m doing everything wrong."

My heart pounded erratically. Part of me wanted to believe he was being sincere, that this was something real. But the other part, the rational one, reminded me that he was drunk, that anything that happened that night would be a mere shadow of reality.

"Richard, you’re drunk," I said, trying to bring some reason to the situation. "This isn’t the time to talk about this."

"Maybe," he murmured, leaning closer, his warm, alcoholic breath brushing against my skin. "But it’s how I feel right now. And I can’t fight it anymore."

Before I could react, Richard kissed me.

The kiss was overwhelming. There was no softness or hesitation—it was as if all the pent-up desire, all the frustration that had hovered over us for months, was exploding in that single gesture. His strong hands gripped my waist, pulling me closer, and I completely lost myself in that touch, in that moment.

The blanket that had wrapped around me slipped to the floor as he laid me down on the couch, his lips never leaving mine. The urgency of his touch matched the urgency I felt within me, as if we were racing against time, as if this was our last chance to truly connect.

"Oh Richard..." I moaned as he slid his fingers inside me, realizing that I was already completely wet. "You’re incredible, Charlotte Anderson."
Richard was relentless, almost desperate, as if trying to drown something that was eating away at him from the inside. His hands roamed my body with a familiarity and a need that made me forget everything—forget the world outside, forget that he was drunk, forget the consequences that would inevitably follow.

I didn’t know how much time had passed, but when we finally pulled apart, both of us were breathless, our bodies still entwined. The silence that followed was heavy, filled with unspoken meanings, with promises that perhaps would never be fulfilled.

Richard moved away slightly, his eyes locked on mine. There was something broken in him, something I had never seen before. "I knew this would change everything," he murmured, his voice tinged with regret, as if the weight of what had just happened was finally settling on him.

"Richard..." I began, but he shook his head, the effects of the alcohol and the act still weighing on him.

"Let’s... let’s just forget this for now," he murmured, pulling away further. "We’ll talk about it later."

He stood up, staggering slightly as he walked towards the bedroom, leaving me alone on the couch, with my heart and mind in turmoil. I knew this wouldn’t solve anything, that it would only complicate what was already complicated. But at that moment, all I could feel was the mixture of desire, confusion, and regret consuming me.

I was just the contracted wife and the surrogate mother, and nothing I did or thought could change that.