CHAPTER 4 — The Lie She Chose

{Alora’s POV}

I did not look back.

The door closed behind me with a soft click, final and unremarkable, and I stepped into the hallway as if nothing in my life had just been torn open and stitched back together by strangers.

The carpet swallowed the sound of my footsteps.

My body was stiff, sore in places I didn’t want to think about, and heavy with exhaustion that had nothing to do with sleep. The drug Damien had forced into me still lingered at the edges of my senses, dulling some things while sharpening others. Every sound felt too close now. Every shadow too deliberate.

I avoided the far end of the corridor.

I knew where that room was.

Even without looking, my body remembered it— the weight of the door slamming shut, the smell of him, the grip of his cruel hands, the sound of Victor’s voice playing calmly from a phone while my world collapsed.

I turned down another hallway instead, even though it added distance, even though my legs protested. I would not walk past that door again. I would not give the memory a chance to sharpen itself.

The elevator ride was quiet.

I stood in the corner, arms folded tightly around myself, staring at the numbers as they descended. My reflection in the mirrored wall looked intact. Pale, yes, and tired. But composed.

No one would know.

Outside, the city was already moving, indifferent to what had happened to me in its shadows. I hailed a cab and slid into the back seat without speaking, my throat tight for reasons that had nothing to do with my injury.

The driver didn’t look at me twice.

That, strangely, helped.

**

My apartment smelled wrong when I walked in.

Too clean. Too familiar. Like a place untouched by the violence of the last twelve hours.

I locked the door and stood there, unmoving, as the weight of everything finally pressed down. My hands shook now that there was no one to see them.

Victor hadn’t yet returned and Noah was at his Nanny’s place so I was all alone. 

I poured out a heavy breath and looked down to see that my clothes were stained.

A faint smear of dried blood marked the sleeve of my jacket— Damien’s blood. While my skin still carried the smell of the hotel; sweat and something sharp and masculine beneath it. I could feel it clinging to me, crawling under my skin, but I forced myself to dismiss the thoughts— all of them. 

With that, I went straight to the bathroom, but then the mirror caught me mid-step and I stopped.

For a long moment, I just stared.

This was the version of me Victor had expected to see— broken, silent, ashamed. A woman who would come home and fold in on herself, unable to accuse him of anything because she couldn’t speak and because the damage was already done.

I turned away from the mirror.

The shower water was almost scalding when I stepped under it, but I didn’t flinch. I scrubbed until my skin reddened, until the blood spiraled down the drain, until the smell of the hotel faded and then faded again.

As water poured over my face, my mind flickered— briefly, to the man from the other room.

The stranger.

The memory came uninvited and fully now: his hands, his presence, the way the world had narrowed to heat, sensation and survival. For a split second, something twisted low in my chest.

Then I pushed it away.

It meant nothing.

A night. A consequence. A closed door.

I was not the kind of woman who looked back at such things. 

**

I dressed in clean clothes and moved through the apartment slowly, grounding myself in familiar motions. Tea. A towel folded just right. 

I opened the window by an inch to let in air. Then I sat.

And I thought.

Victor would be home soon, and he would expect to see damage.

He would expect tears, collapse, accusation without words. He would expect me to carry what he had done like a secret I was too powerless to expose.

I realized this and that was when I made my decision.

I would not tell him.

Not about Damien.

Not about the hotel.

Not about the recording.

I would give Victor a version of events so ordinary, so inconveniently dull, that he would never question it.

I went to the wrong address.

A dead phone. A missed anniversary night. And a wife who came home angry— not ruined.

This was my decision and it was going to be a very difficult one to execute, considering the pain, resentment and anger brimming in my chest. But it’s better this way; smarter. 

I settled this as my resolve and when Victor finally walked in, about an hour later, his gaze found me immediately.

And I saw it.

The flicker in his eyes. The brief tightening of his jaw. The look of a man bracing himself for an aftermath.

He was ready to see me destroyed and hear the testimony of it.

I lifted my hands before he could speak.

>You sent me the wrong address.<

His expression stalled.

I signed again, sharper this time.

>The building wasn’t there. My phone died so I called through a local line. You didn’t answer.<

I watched him adjust in real time— his expectations reshaping, his relief poorly masked as irritation.

He could only understand my sign language to a fair amount so I picked up my phone and typed.

“Yesterday was our anniversary.”

He frowned. “I know. So?”

I typed again.

“We usually have Anniversary dinner. You didn’t call after I didn’t return. You didn’t even try to find me. Meanwhile, I had to rent a room for the night with the money that I had because no one could understand what I was saying and direct me back home.”

That landed.

Not because he cared— but because it accused him of something he could understand.

Neglect.

He sighed, already defensive. “I was busy.”

Busy.

I frowned, carrying on with my performance as I typed in my phone. “But we never miss the dinner. It’s traditional and important for our relationship!”

Victor frowned, seemingly not ready with a response and then he checked his watch.

“I’m late,” he said dismissively, already turning away from me. “Anna’s already waiting. I need to go join her. I have meetings at the company.”

My hands paused mid-motion.

Anna.

The name landed lightly, but it stayed

“Is that more important than this?” I typed and turned my phone to him. 

He glanced at my phone, then away again, irritation flashing briefly across his face. “You wouldn’t understand the importance of the company anymore.” He said. 

The words were casual. Thoughtless. Dismissive.

He grabbed his jacket from the chair and headed for the door. As he did, it opened from the other side and Anna stepped in, tablet tucked neatly against her chest.

“Oh,” she said softly when she saw me. “Alora. You’re home.”

Her voice was warm, controlled. Professional.

She looked exactly the same as always— hair neat, expression composed, movements efficient. I was hampered from speaking further by her presence so I could only just stare.

“I brought the updated files,” she said to Victor, handing him the tablet. “I’ve already reviewed the numbers.”

He took it without hesitation.

“Good,” he said. “You handle things better than anyone.”

She smiled at that, quick and modest. “Just doing my job.”

I watched them from the kitchen doorway, my presence an afterthought between them. 

Anna glanced at me again now, her smile polite. “You should rest, Alora. You look… tired.”

Concern. Courtesy. Nothing more.

I nodded once.

They left together moments later— Victor already talking, Anna listening, nodding at the right intervals. The door closed behind them with the same soft finality as the hotel room had hours earlier.

Silence returned.

But this time, it didn’t crush me.

I moved slowly through the apartment, replaying the morning in fragments. Victor’s expression when he saw me alive. Unbroken. Anna’s presence. The way they spoke around me instead of to me.

With that, I assessed my thoughts.

Victor believed I knew nothing.

He believed I was still the woman who stayed quiet because she had no choice. And, as always, he believed my silence meant ignorance. 

He was wrong this time.

I sat down at the table and let my hands rest on my lap, feeling the steady beat of my pulse. Five years ago, I had trusted him with everything— my voice, my success, my place in the world.

Now he saw me as nothing. 

And that, I understood clearly now, was an advantage.

I would not confront him in private.

I would not beg for answers he would never give.

I would not expose my pain where he could dismiss it.

If Victor Hale wanted to erase me privately— I would ruin him publicly.

Completely.

In five days, the company would celebrate ten years of success. And for the first time, after being absent, in years… I would be there to watch it Victor.