Virgin Dot Com Novel

[Jasmine's POV] The recording studio occupies the top floor of Finn's production company-all exposed brick and soundproofing, expensive equipment humming with latent potential. I'm here for a commissioned track, something I should be excited about. Instead, my stomach is tight with an anxiety I can't name, some animal awareness that the day is already tilting wrong. She appears before Finn does. Vibrant is the only word-she radiates energy that makes the air around her seem dull by comparison.

Twenty-six, maybe twenty-seven, with hair dyed an impossible shade of burgundy and fashion sense that suggests deliberate curation rather than accident. Her vintage band tee is perfectly distressed, jeans cuffed just right, boots that probably cost more than my mortgage payment. "You must be Jasmine." Her smile is genuine, immediate. "I'm Sienna. Finn's told me so much about you." The familiarity in her voice-Finn, not Mr. Blackwood or boss-sets something churning in my gut. I take her extended hand, and her grip is confident, warm.

The kind of person who makes friends in elevators, who lights up rooms just by entering them. "Nice to meet you." My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears. Finn arrives moments later, coffee in each hand, and his face transforms when he sees Sienna. Not attraction-I know that look, have been on the receiving end of it. This is different. Delight. Genuine pleasure at her presence, the kind of uncomplicated joy I haven't inspired in months. "Sienna, you didn't have to come in early." He hands her one of the coffees, and she takes it with a laugh that's bright and unself-conscious. "Please.

You think I'd miss watching you work with the Jasmine Harlow-Blackwood? I've been listening to your stuff since college. The track you did for Vesper's album? Absolute genius." The compliment should feel good. Instead, it's another reminder that this woman knows my work, knows my career, exists in the professional sphere where I'm Jasmine the producer instead of Mommy who smells perpetually of finger paint. "Thanks." I can't quite meet her eyes. She perches on the edge of the console, completely at ease, and starts telling some story about a disastrous session last week.

Finn leans against the desk, listening, and then he's laughing. Full-body laughter that crinkles the corners of his eyes, that makes his whole face light up in ways I've forgotten he could. The sound hits me with physical force-not just jealousy, though that's there, acidic and unwelcome. This is grief. Mourning for the version of him that disappeared somewhere in the exhaustion of raising twins and maintaining impossible schedules. When's the last time I made him laugh like that? When's the last time I was the source of his joy instead of another obligation to manage?

The session starts, and I try to focus. Try to lose myself in the music, in the technical precision of production work. But Sienna's there, always there, somehow essential without being intrusive. She brings Finn coffee halfway through-doesn't ask how he likes it, just knows. Three sugars, no cream, the specific ratio he's particular about. She sets it beside him with easy efficiency, and he smiles his thanks without breaking focus on the board. She makes a joke about the artist's vocal run-something self-deprecating about her own terrible singing-and the whole room dissolves into laughter.

Even the artist, initially tense, relaxes into giggles. Sienna has that effect, I realize. She makes people comfortable. Makes spaces feel safe and playful and uncomplicated. Everything I used to be before maternal anxiety and relationship maintenance became my full-time occupation. During a break, I slip out for water. The hallway is glass-walled, affords a view into Finn's main office. Sienna's there, talking on the phone, and I watch her animated gestures, the confidence in her posture. She hangs up, says something to the intern passing by, and I catch fragments through the glass.

"Finn's such an amazing boss. Seriously, best gig I've ever had." The words shouldn't sting. They're professional, appropriate, exactly what a good employee should say. But they land with the weight of accusation because I can see it-the easy rapport, the uncomplicated dynamic. She sees the fun, charming Finn every day. The one who makes jokes and has time for conversation. The one who isn't so exhausted by ten PM that speaking in complete sentences feels impossible.

While I get the version who drags himself home at nine, too depleted for anything beyond microwaved leftovers and falling asleep mid-conversation. The evening stretches long, both girls fractious and refusing dinner. I'm navigating the chaos alone-Liam's working late, Asher's at the office, Finn's still at the studio finishing the mix. By the time he walks through the door at eight-thirty, I'm wrung out, hollow, vibrating with emotions I can't articulate. He finds me in the kitchen, staring at dishes that multiply despite my best efforts.

His arms come around me from behind, solid and familiar, and his chin settles on my shoulder in the way that usually grounds me. Tonight, it just makes my chest tighter. "Hey." His voice is low, concerned. "What's wrong?" "Nothing." The lie tastes like battery acid. "Just tired." His hands tighten on my waist, not buying it. "Talk to me, bunny." The endearment nearly breaks me. I turn in his arms, and his eyes search mine with an intensity that makes me feel exposed, vulnerable in ways I'm not ready for. My throat is closing, words sticking there, but he waits.

Just holds me and waits until the truth forces its way out. "I felt jealous today." The admission scrapes out, raw and humiliating. "Watching you with Sienna. Watching you laugh with her." His face shifts-surprise, then understanding, then something that might be guilt. His hands frame my face, thumbs tracing my cheekbones with devastating gentleness. "You're the only woman I want. Always." The words are fierce, almost angry in their conviction. "Jazz, she's my assistant.

You're my everything." Then his mouth is on mine, and the kiss is nothing like the distracted pecks we've traded in passing. This is consuming, desperate. His hands tangle in my hair, angling my head, and I'm dissolving under the onslaught. He tastes like coffee and urgency, and I open for him, let him take what he needs while simultaneously trying to crawl inside his skin. His body presses mine against the counter, and heat floods through me-visceral, undeniable, the kind of want that's been dormant for months suddenly roaring to life. The kitchen feels too small. Too exposed.

His hand slides down my spine, cups my hip, pulls me harder against him, and we're both breathing ragged. I can feel his heart racing, feel the tremor in his hands, feel the barely controlled need radiating off him in waves. Footsteps on the stairs. Small, padding, unmistakable. We break apart, gasping. My lips are swollen, hair disheveled, and the look in Finn's eyes is pure frustration. He rests his forehead against mine, both of us breathing hard, trying to collect ourselves before Zoe appears asking for water. "Later," he mouths. A promise and a threat. But later comes and goes.

The girls resist bedtime with the determination of tiny insurgents. By the time they're finally asleep, Finn's back in his home studio, working on the mix that's due tomorrow morning. I watch him through the doorway-headphones on, lost in the work, the same focused intensity he'd given Sienna earlier. I find him at midnight, still working. Lean against the doorframe and wait for him to notice me. When he does, he pulls off the headphones, and there's exhaustion carved into every line of his face. "I'm jealous of your assistant." The words come out flat, too honest. "Not jealous of her.

Jealous of her access to you." He stands, crosses to me, but there's something defensive in his posture. "You're jealous of my assistant? Jas, come on." "I'm not jealous." My voice is sharper than intended. "I'm just... noticing." "Noticing what?" "That she gets the fun version of you. The one who laughs and makes jokes and has energy for conversation. While I get-" I gesture vaguely at the studio, at the evidence of work bleeding into every hour. "This." His jaw clenches. "That's not fair." "No.

It's not." I should stop, should let it go, but something in me is bleeding and won't be stanched. "But it's true." He pulls me close, arms banding around me with something that feels like desperation. "You're everything to me. Everything. Don't you know that?" I do. God, I do. But knowing doesn't change the fact that Sienna sees him present and engaged while I get the exhausted shell left after everyone else has taken what they need.

Knowing doesn't change the fact that I'm starting to envy anyone who gets the versions of them I used to have-the ones who existed before crisis management and parental obligation consumed everything. His hand cups the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair. "I love you. Only you." The words should reassure. Should sink into the hollow places and fill them with certainty. Instead, they just echo in the space between us, highlighting all the ways love isn't enough when presence is fractured across too many obligations. I pull away gently. "I know you do.

But love and being present aren't the same thing." His face crumples, and I can see the hurt land. But I can't take the words back, can't soften them into something more palatable. They're the truth I've been avoiding, the accusation I've been too scared to speak. I leave him standing in the studio and climb the stairs to our empty bed. Lie there in the dark, body still humming from that kiss in the kitchen, and wonder how many more times we can fracture before the breaks become irreparable. Downstairs, I hear his music start again.

He's gone back to work, choosing the comfort of production over coming to bed. Choosing Sienna's next day over my tonight. And I lie here realizing that jealousy isn't about attraction. It's about watching other women-competent, magnetic, uncomplicated women-get the best parts of my partners while I'm left holding the weight of everything they can't carry anymore. Virgin Dot Com