His Untold Lies

Kianna

Have you ever caught yourself laughing at how completely, utterly naive you were—all while convincing yourself it was love?

Yeah. That kind of love. The kind that blinds you so thoroughly that every single red flag just looks like a pretty piece of festive decoration. You twist your own mind into knots trying to make 'yourself' the problem. You aren't enough. You aren't exciting enough. You tell yourself that maybe—just maybe—that’s why his eyes are wandering.

A million questions keep slamming into the walls of my skull like a pile-up on the interstate. Do you actually have to be stupid to fall in love? How long was he sneaking around before the floor gave way beneath me? Why didn’t he just have the decency to leave if he wanted to cheat? How could he look me straight in the face every single day and lie with a smooth, unblinking smile? Did he ever feel even a microscopic shred of guilt?

What did I do wrong?

All I ever did was love him. Completely, without a safety net or a backup plan. Just pure, unconditioned love. But it turns out... sometimes love is just a word that doesn't hold enough weight to keep things from shattering.

So here I am. Kianna Myst Saavedra. The girl who just got her heart handed back to her in sharp, jagged little pieces. And the best part? The people holding the hammer were my fiancé and my stepsister. Because why not dial up the cheap television drama to an absolute ten, right?

Out of all the women on this earth, he picked her. Out of all the men walking this planet, she chose him. My fiancé. Her boyfriend. It’s so poetically twisted I could choke on it.

You'd think that's where the curtain falls. Girl gets cheated on, cue the melancholy piano music, roll the credits.

Not even close. That was just the prologue. Because right after my life turned into a wreckage, I tried to drown the noise in alcohol, stumbled into a stranger, and—look, don't judge me yet. Just let me tell it. Because what came next was something I never could have anticipated.

...

Barely an hour ago, my chest was tight with a completely different kind of excitement. I was putting together this ridiculous, hopeful anniversary surprise. We’d had a massive screaming match the night before, and I thought a sweet gesture might mend the cracks. A second chance.

Instead, I got executioner's orders.

I parked outside his condominium building, the steering wheel slick under my palms, my stomach fluttering with nerves. Then the glass doors slid open, and he strolled out into the humid night. His arm was slung heavily over my stepsister's shoulders, pulling her flush against his side like they were the only two people in the world.

I followed them inside, my pulse hammering in my throat, praying to whatever god was listening that I was misinterpreting the view.

Spoiler alert: I wasn't.

What I saw when I followed them up... it physically robbed the oxygen straight from my lungs. Five years. Five entire fucking years, dissolved into nothing in the span of a single heartbeat.

Now, I’m leaning against a wall somewhere, clutching a half-empty bottle of cheap California Red like it’s some kind of survival kit that might magically scrub the memory from my brain. It’s not working. The alcohol is only sharpening the blade, making the walls press closer, making my chest tighten until I can barely draw a full breath.

A hot, stinging tear slips down my cheek, followed immediately by another. Traitors. My hands shake as I try to wipe them away, but they keep coming, blurring the polished, upscale hotel corridor into a smear of gold and cream.

I’m stumbling forward now, blindly searching for a restroom. The floorboards feel like they’re tilting at a violent angle under my sandals, or maybe that’s just the wine taking its toll.

"Why does this hall look exactly the same?" I mutter, my voice cracking in the empty space. I’ve passed this identical mahogany door three times now. I’m drunk, I’m lost, and a ragged sob catches in my throat.

The world is spinning like a carousel losing its brakes, and my stomach heaves in warning. I clamp my jaw shut. I can't get sick right here in the open, not on the pristine carpets of a luxury hotel where staff or guests could walk out at any second and see what a spectacular disaster I’ve become.

The silence in the corridor is deafening. I’ve been walking for what feels like miles without a single living soul in sight. Just one person—that’s all I need to point me toward a toilet. Please.

The dizziness hits a sudden, violent peak, and my knees buckle. I throw my weight forward, slamming my palms against the nearest heavy wooden door just to keep from collapsing onto the carpet. I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my forehead against the cool, dark wood, silently begging the room to stop rolling.

The wood suddenly vanishes.

The door pitches inward under my weight, and with a short gasp, I stumble across the threshold, falling directly forward.

I don’t hit the floor. I collide hard against a solid, unyielding chest, my hands instinctively clawing at a crisp fabric to steady myself. A pair of steady hands instantly grip my upper arms, catching me before my knees can touch the tile.

"Are you all right?" a low, gravelly voice asks, the tone rough and deep, as if it hasn't been used in hours.

I force my eyelids open and look up. My breath hitches again, but not from the wine. The man towering over me looks less like a hotel guest and more like a classical sculpture that walked off a pedestal out of sheer boredom. Sharp, dangerous jawline, dark, intense eyes that seem to cut straight through the haze in my head. I find myself staring, completely frozen, before a sharp spike of nausea jerks me back to reality. 'Focus, Kianna.'

I yank myself backward, breaking his grip and nearly tripping over my own feet as I straighten up. "I—I’m sorry! I didn't mean to... I just lost my balance, I swear I'm not trying to break into your room—" The words tumble out of my mouth in a frantic, slurred rush. My stomach gives another violent contraction, and it has absolutely nothing to do with his face.

"Can I... please use your bathroom?" I ask, my voice dropping into a desperate, pathetic whine as I look up at him through my eyelashes.

He doesn’t move. He just stands there, his gaze fixed on my face with an unblinking, heavy intensity, as if trying to decipher a strange dialect.

"Excuse me," he says finally, his tone measured. "You are...?"

"Kianna," I stammer, my tongue feeling thick and uncooperative. "Kianna Myst Saavedra."

A short, dry scoff escapes his lips, and a faint, unexpected color rises along the edge of his cheekbones.

I blink through the fog, taking a cautious step away from him. What is wrong with this guy? One second he looks like a high-end model, and the next he’s radiating pure, unpredictable energy. A chill runs down my spine. 'What if he's dangerous? What if this is exactly how a true crime documentary starts?'

Before I can back out into the hall, he leans down slightly, closing the distance between us. I’m five-foot-three, and next to his frame, I feel completely swallowed by the shadow of the doorway. His eyes lock onto mine, fixed and unreadable, so close I can catch the sharp, clean scent of mint on his breath.

"You—" he begins, his voice dropping lower.

I don't let him finish. I slap my palm directly over his mouth, yanking him down another inch as my vision swims. "Later! Tell me whatever it is later. Just... please, where is the toilet?!"

His eyes widen against my fingers, a flash of absolute shock crossing his features. He doesn't answer. He just continues to stare at me like I’m some kind of feral animal that just disrupted his isolation.

Then, my throat tightens. My stomach does a full, agonizing flip.

'Oh, no.'

I rip my hand away from his mouth and slap it over my own, but the wave is already breaking. The nausea wins.

A heavy, miserable sound escapes me as I heave, the contents of the wine bottle hitting the polished entryway floor right between our feet.

"Wh—what are you doing?!" he stammers, his voice cracking as he takes a frantic, chaotic step backward into the room. "Shit! Are you sick? Wait—don't—don't do that here! Oh, fuck."

It's way too late for warnings. I let out another ragged breath, the final wave leaving me completely empty and shaking from head to toe. The agonizing pressure in my chest lifts instantly, replaced by a strange, cool wave of absolute relief.

My legs turn to water. I slide down the wall, collapsing straight onto the floorboards, a long, exhausted sigh escaping my lips. "Finally... I thought I was going to die out there."

The man looks down at me, his face pale, his hands twitching at his sides as if he doesn't know whether to grab me or run. "What the fuck, woman?! Get up! Don't sleep right next to the vomit!"

I hear his voice, but it sounds like it's coming from the end of a long, dark tunnel. My body feels entirely weightless, the pounding in my temples fading into a dull, rhythmic throb as the room finally stops its violent spinning. My eyelids grow impossibly heavy, fluttering shut against the bright light of the suite as I let myself drift into the dark, praying this whole night dissolves before morning.