THE ART OF PRETENDING

For the next few days, Alina lived inside a performance.

Every breath, every smile, every word she spoke was rehearsed — a role she played for survival. Nathan believed her. He always did. He mistook fear for devotion, silence for obedience.

That was his weakness.

Alina had learned that power didn’t always roar. Sometimes, it whispered. Sometimes, it waited.

She spent her mornings the way he liked — cooking breakfast, listening to him talk about work, nodding at the right moments. He didn’t notice that her eyes no longer followed his hands, that her mind was somewhere else.

When he left for the office, she moved fast.

She took photos of the laptop screen with her phone, every file, every message. She printed copies at the library two streets over, hiding them beneath a loose tile in the bathroom there. She even began building a timeline — dates, patterns, places — proof that Nathan’s charm was his weapon, and his victims were not accidents.

Each discovery was a knife in her chest. But pain had become a familiar companion. What mattered now was evidence — and control.

On Wednesday, Nathan came home early.

Alina was in the living room, pretending to read, when the door clicked open. He smiled at her — too broadly, too suddenly. Something was wrong.

“Hey,” she said carefully. “You’re home early.”

He tossed his jacket on the couch and walked toward her, eyes dark. “I had a strange call today.”

Her pulse quickened. “Oh?”

“From your office. They said you haven’t been in for weeks. Funny, right?”

She froze. He’d never cared about her work before. “You must have misunderstood.”

Nathan laughed, low and sharp. “Do you think I’m stupid, Alina?”

She swallowed, forcing calm into her voice. “No. I just— I quit. I was going to tell you tonight.”

He stared at her for a long moment, then smiled — that terrifying, perfect smile. “See? Honesty feels better, doesn’t it?”

He leaned down and kissed her forehead. His touch burned.

She nodded, forcing a trembling smile. “It does.”

Inside, she was screaming.

He didn’t know the real reason she hadn’t been at work. He didn’t know about the hours she spent at the library, the police forums she’d been reading, the women’s shelter she’d secretly contacted. Not yet.

But the danger was getting closer. He was watching her more. The walls were closing in.

That night, she wrote an email to her sister on the hidden phone:

Subject: If anything happens

Mira —

If you don’t hear from me by next week, go to the police. Tell them to check his computer. The folder is called “Projects.” There are names. Dates. Faces.

I’m okay for now. Don’t worry. Just… be ready.

Love you,

A.

She saved it as a draft instead of sending it. If Nathan found the email on her account, she could claim it was old. If she disappeared, Mira would know where to look.

It wasn’t paranoia anymore — it was preparation.

A few days later, Alina discovered something new.

Nathan had begun talking about a promotion at work, about a business trip in a few weeks. “You’ll come with me,” he said casually over dinner. “I’ve already booked us a room.”

Alina smiled, her fork shaking slightly. “Of course.”

But inside, her plan shifted. The trip was the perfect opportunity — new city, new people, no one who knew him. If she could get him away from home, she could finally escape with everything she needed.

And she could make sure he paid for what he’d done.

Over the next few days, she gathered what she could — a hidden USB drive with copies of his files, her identification, a small envelope of cash she’d hidden inside a shampoo bottle.

She began leaving little traces of compliance — soft notes on the fridge, reminders of his favorite meals, compliments whispered when he least expected them. It lulled him.

He started trusting her again. That was her greatest weapon.

But even the strongest act can crack.

One evening, she came out of the shower and found him sitting on the bed, holding her phone. Not the prepaid one — her regular one.

“I found this under the dresser,” he said quietly.

Her heart stopped.

Nathan turned the screen toward her. “Who’s ‘M’?”

For a moment, her mind went blank. Then she smiled — the way she used to. “Mira,” she said softly. “My sister. I just… miss her.”

His expression softened just enough. “You know how I feel about you talking to people who don’t understand us.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

He searched her face, then placed the phone on the nightstand. “I believe you,” he said. “You wouldn’t lie to me, right?”

“No.”

When he turned away, she exhaled slowly — not relief, but rage.

She realized then that she couldn’t wait much longer. If he found the other phone, the USB, or the letters, everything would fall apart.

It was time to accelerate the plan.

That night, she didn’t sleep.

She sat in the dark, watching the rise and fall of his chest, memorizing the sound of his breathing. Every part of her body trembled — not from fear, but anticipation.

She whispered to herself, “Soon.”

She imagined the moment she would walk away, the click of the door behind her, the cold air on her face. She imagined him realizing too late that he’d underestimated her.

For now, she would keep pretending. The art of survival was in pretending — in smiling while you sharpened the knife behind your back.