Chapter 7—Public Humiliation

"Robin's POV"

I was three hours into repainting the exterior of a small family restaurant when I felt it.

That familiar prickling sensation on the back of my neck. The same one I'd felt weeks ago when Christopher used to watch me work at Golden Anchor Homes.

I turned around, paint roller still in hand, and there he was.

Christopher stood at the edge of the parking lot, hands shoved in his pockets, looking like he hadn't slept in days. His usually perfect hair was messy, his expensive suit wrinkled. Dark circles shadowed his eyes.

He looked terrible.

And despite everything, my heart still stuttered at the sight of him.

"Robin," he called out, taking a step forward.

I turned back to the wall, gripping the roller tighter. "Leave."

"Please. Just five minutes."

"I said leave, Christopher."

"I can't." His voice was closer now. He was walking toward me. "Not until you hear me out."

I spun around, anger flaring hot in my chest. "Hear you out? What exactly do you want to say? That you're sorry? That it's complicated? I've heard it all already."

"You haven't heard everything."

"I've heard enough." I set the roller down and crossed my arms. "You lied to me. You let me believe we had something real when you were married the whole time. There's nothing else I need to know."

Christopher's jaw tightened. "It's not that simple."

"It is that simple. You're married. End of story."

"My marriage isn't real, Robin. It's an arrangement. A business transaction my parents forced on me."

"And that makes it better?" I laughed bitterly. "You still chose to go through with it. You still chose to keep it from me."

"I didn't know how to tell you."

"You didn't try."

The restaurant owner stepped out then, wiping his hands on his apron. He looked between us, clearly sensing the tension. "Everything alright out here, Robin?"

"Yeah, Mr. Chen. Just dealing with someone who can't take no for an answer."

Christopher's face flushed. "Robin, please."

Other people were starting to notice now. A couple walking by slowed down, watching. Two construction workers from the building next door paused their conversation to stare.

Good. Let them watch. Let Christopher feel what it's like to be exposed.

"You want to talk?" I said loudly. "Fine. Let's talk about how you invited me to your apartment under false pretenses. How you seduced me while your wife was out of town. How you made me feel like I mattered when I was just your dirty little secret."

"That's not true," Christopher said, his voice strained. "You were never a secret. You were never just anything."

"But I was the other man. That's what I was, right? The guy you fucked when your real life got too boring?"

Christopher flinched like I'd slapped him. "Don't do this."

"Don't do what? Tell the truth?" I stepped closer, lowering my voice just enough that only he could hear the venom in it. "You don't get to show up at my job and act like you're the victim here. You made your choice. You chose her. You chose that life. Now live with it."

"I chose wrong."

"Too late."

"Robin—"

"I'm done, Christopher. Done with the excuses, done with the lies, done with you." I picked up my roller again. "Go home to your wife."

His hands clenched into fists at his sides. For a moment, he just stood there, breathing hard, looking like he was fighting some internal battle.

Then he said, quietly, desperately, "You don't know the whole story."

"I don't need to."

"Yes, you do. If you'd just let me explain—"

"There's nothing to explain. You're married. That's the only part of the story that matters."

"That's not fair."

I turned to face him fully, meeting his eyes. "You want to talk about fair? You think any of this is fair to me? I trusted you, Christopher. I let you in. And you repaid that by lying to my face every single day."

"I never lied about how I felt."

"But you lied about everything else. And that's enough."

The people watching us were multiplying now. Mr. Chen stood in the doorway, concern written all over his face. The construction workers had fully stopped working to watch the show. Even a few customers inside the restaurant were peering through the windows.

Christopher noticed. I could see the moment he realized we had an audience, the way his shoulders stiffened, the flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck.

Good. Let him be humiliated. Let him feel a fraction of what I felt when I found out the truth.

"Robin, please," he said again, quieter this time. "Just give me a chance to tell you everything. The real story. Why I married Sophie. Why I couldn't tell you. Why—"

"I don't care."

"You should care. Because it changes everything."

"It changes nothing." I turned my back on him, facing the wall. "Leave, Christopher. And don't come back."

Silence stretched between us. I could feel him standing there, could practically hear the gears turning in his head as he tried to figure out what to say next.

But there was nothing left to say.

Finally, I heard his footsteps. Slow. Defeated. Walking away.

I didn't turn around. Didn't watch him leave. I just kept painting, my strokes deliberate and even, pretending my hands weren't shaking.

Mr.Chen approached cautiously. "You okay, son?"

"I'm fine."

"That man seemed pretty desperate."

"Yeah, he'll get over it"

Mr. Chen nodded slowly, clearly not convinced, but he didn't push. He just patted my shoulder and went back inside.

After a while, the construction workers returned to their tasks. The couple moved on. The customers inside lost interest.

And I stood there, alone again, with nothing but the wall in front of me and the hollow ache in my chest that Christopher's presence had ripped open all over again.

He'd said I didn't know the whole story.

But what story could possibly justify what he'd done? What explanation could make the lies okay?

None.

There was no story, no excuse, no reason good enough.

I'd made the right choice by walking away.

I had to believe that.

Because if I didn't, if I let myself wonder what he'd wanted to say, what truth he thought would change everything, I'd never be able to move on.

And I needed to move on.

I had to.

Even if every part of me was screaming to turn around, to chase after him, to hear whatever it was he was so desperate to tell me.

I didn't.

I just kept painting.

And tried to convince myself that was enough.