Was It All a Lie

The ride home was a blur of hands and whispered promises. Damian acted like a man possessed. Like he couldn't get close enough to me. When the car pulled into the driveway, he didn't even wait for me to open my own door. He lifted me out of the seat and carried me inside, his kiss never leaving mine.

He dropped me onto the living room couch, his hands already working at the zipper of my new dress. We were lost in each other, the tension of the last two days finally exploding into something desperate.

A soft, polite cough broke the silence. We both froze.

Rosa was standing by the kitchen archway, her eyes on the floor looking mortified.

“I am so sorry, Mr. Winchester,” she murmured. “I was just finishing the laundry. I'll take my leave now.”

Damian let out a breathless laugh, leaning his forehead against mine. 

“It's fine, Rosa. Head home. We'll see you tomorrow.”

As soon as the front door clicked shut, he scooped me up again.

“Where were we?” he murmured, carrying me up the stairs to our bedroom.That night, it felt like we were finally back. In the bedroom, then later in the shower, he was attentive and vocal. He held me like he was afraid I'd disappear.

For a few hours, I let myself believe the lie. I stepped out of the shower first , wrapping myself in a towel. I felt soft, glowing and finally at peace.

Wanting to keep the house tidy, I gathered our discarded clothes from the bedroom floor to take them to the laundry bin.

As Damian’s suit jacket, something fluttered out of the pocket. It was a small, creased piece of paper. I bent down to pick it up, expecting a dry-cleaning slip.

My heart skipped a beat. It was a hotel reservation confirmation from Chicago. I stared at the bold letters. The date matched the last two nights. Our anniversary night. I tried to find an excuse. Maybe the merger was in Chicago? But then I remembered his slip-up in the living room. He had said Chicago, then corrected himself to San Francisco. He had lied to my face, then laughed it off as “brain fry.”

A cold shiver ran down my spine, replacing the warmth of the shower. My hands started to shake and then a sharp and ugly curiosity took over. I reached into his trouser pockets. My fingers brushed against something else. I pulled it out.

 A strip of condoms.

 I stared at them in the palm of my hand. My breath hitched. We hadn't used condoms in years. “Why would a married man who just spent the night reconnecting with his wife have these in his pocket?”

I held the fabric of his shirt up to my nose one last time. The floral smell was faint, but it was there, trapped in the fibers of his expensive clothes.

I felt my heart ache. I wanted to scream but I was terrified. I was terrified that everything I had been afraid of, every dark thought I had pushed down with wine and routine was actually the truth.

The water in the bathroom suddenly cut off.

The silence that followed was terrifying. I heard the glass door slide open. The wet thud of his feet on the bathmat.

I panicked. My mind raced. Should I scream? Should I throw these on the bed and walk out? But my body moved on its own. I shoved the paper, the receipt, and the condoms back into the deep pocket of his jacket. I smoothed the fabric with trembling hands and tossed the pile of clothes into the laundry bin, just as the bathroom door creaked open.

Damian walked out, a towel slung low on his hips, steam billowing out behind him. He looked refreshed. He looked happy.

"You okay, Emil?" he asked, noticing me standing by the hamper. He walked over and wrapped his arms around my waist from behind, pressing his damp chest against my back. "You’ve been quiet."

I couldn't breathe. His skin felt like ice against mine.

"I'm just tired," I lied, my voice sounding like it belonged to someone else. "It’s been a long day."

"A good day," he corrected, nipping at my earlobe. "The best we've had in a long time."

I looked at our reflection in the mirror. We looked like a perfect couple. The successful husband, the beautiful wife, the expensive bedroom. But all I could see was the jacket in the bin. All I could feel was the weight of the lies.

"Yeah," I whispered, staring at my own haunted eyes. "A good day."

“Dae, is there anything I need to know?"

The question hung in the steam of the bedroom. I felt his body stiffen against my back. His hands, which had been roaming over my waist, went still. The playful mood vanished instantly.

"What do you mean, Emil?" he asked. He tried to keep his voice light, but I heard the shift. The "charming husband" was gone.

I pulled away from him and turned around. I couldn't look at our reflection anymore. I needed to look at him.

"The meeting," I said, my voice trembling. "You said it was in San Francisco. Then you said Chicago. Then you said San Francisco again."

Damian let out a short, frustrated breath. "We already talked about this. I was tired. I slipped up. Why are you bringing this up now, after such a perfect night?"

"Because I found the paper, Damian."

I walked over to the laundry bin. My heart was thumping against my ribs like a trapped bird. I reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the crumpled reservation. I threw it on the unmade bed. Then, I pulled out the strip of condoms.

They looked small and ugly against the white sheets.

"Chicago," I whispered, pointing at the paper. "A hotel room in Chicago. On our anniversary. And these? We haven’t used these in five years. 

Why are they in your pocket, Damian?"

“What is a married man doing with condoms in his pockets.?”

Damian stared at the items. For a second, he didn't move. He didn't even blink. I waited for him to explain it away. I waited for another lie about a "work event" or a "joke from the guys at the office."

But he didn't laugh. He didn't apologize.

His face went completely blank. He looked at me, and for the first time in five years, I saw a man I didn't recognize at all. The warmth was gone.

 The guilt was gone. There was only a cold, hard wall.

"You went through my pockets," he said. It wasn't a question. It was an accusation.

"Is that all you have to say?" I was crying now, the hot tears blurring my vision. "I’m standing here with proof that you were in a different city with someone else, and you're mad that I checked your jacket?"

"I told you I was working," he said, his voice dropping to that dangerous, low level again. "Everything I do is for this house. For that ring on your finger. Do you have any idea of the pressure I'm under?"

"Does the pressure require condoms, Damian? Does the pressure smell like lilies?"

He stepped toward me, and I instinctively took a step back. He didn't touch me, but he felt huge in the small space of the room.

"You're being paranoid, Emilka. You ruined a perfectly good night because you wanted to play detective.

" He snatched the paper and the condoms off the bed and shoved them into his own palm. "I'm going to sleep in the guest room. I can't dealwith this drama tonight."

 "Don't you dare walk out of this room!" I screamed.