Astrid, who at some point had stopped kissing him, now rested her head gently on Aziz's shoulder, as if that casual gesture concealed an entire universe of silent intentions. Her eyes, half-lidded and calm, observed everything unfolding before her like a carefully choreographed play. The smile on her lips was enigmatic—subtle, restrained, yet filled with a mischievous kind of pleasure. She didn't intervene. Didn't say a word. She simply watched.
Like a goddess admiring her altar, Astrid was there—present and omniscient—while Isis carried out the climax of a performance that clearly hadn't been improvised. The way she moved, the way she halted the pleasure at the very last second, the way she withdrew triumphantly toward the bed... it all had an almost cruel precision, as if it had been rehearsed before. And perhaps, it had.
Because the look in Astrid's eyes wasn't one of surprise.
