The Forged Lies

I didn't go up to our bedroom after the banquet.

I went straight to the study instead. The house was quiet, the hum of the central heating the only sound. I loosened my tie and sat at the desk, but the whiskey in my hand didn't do a thing to steady me.

I could still hear the words from earlier in the night, said in Evangeline's soft, almost apologetic voice in front of the entire table: "It's strange Zephyrine hasn't borne you a child after all these years."

The looks that followed. The silence. My own reply.

I ought to have defended my wife. Instead, I had spoken the truth that had felt like a boulder on my chest: "Maybe Evangeline is right. You've given me nothing in this marriage."

The memory clenched my jaw.

I told myself it was frustration. Anger. Decades of waiting for something that never came to fruition.

But when the clock struck after midnight, the knock on my study door broke through my daydream.

"Enter," I said.

The door opened and Vivienne came in. She walked as if she owned the place, though she was not even related to this family. She was Zephyrine's stepmother, a woman who had always regarded me with a look of pity, as if sorry that I was stuck with her husband's disappointing daughter.

She held a folder in her hands. The logo of the private hospital on the corner instantly caught my eye.

Callum," she said warily, "I wasn't sure if I should give this to you. But after tonight… you have a right to know."

My eyebrows contracted. "What is it?"

She placed the folder on the desk and slid it over to me. "Take a look."

I hesitated, then opened it.

My eyes scanned the lines once. Then twice. And then a third time, slower, as if the words would rearrange themselves if I hoped hard enough.

Patient: Zephyrine Imogene Wilder Bronson.

Tests. Scribbles. Doctor's jargon. And at the bottom, the conclusion:

Infertility. High likelihood of permanent condition. Conception not possible.

I froze.

The air rushed from my lungs in a sudden breath, and I gripped the edge of the desk until my knuckles were white.

Vivienne's voice was soft, brimming with sympathy. "I didn't want to be the one to show you this, but it's better you know now than keep waiting for something that will never happen. She should have told you, Callum. She should have been honest."

"She knew," I said, my throat dry, the words ashes. "She must have known."

Vivienne nodded slowly. "Of course she did. That's why she's avoided questions all these years. Why she's never pressured you to see specialists together. She's been protecting herself, not you."

I shut the folder with a snap.

It was betrayal. Not just of me, but of the Bronson name.

I had no opportunity to respond before the door opened again.

Evangeline entered. She was changed tonight—no longer the dazzling woman of the banquet, but more vulnerable, softer in a pale blue dress. Her hair was down and cascaded over her shoulders.

Her eyes flicked to the folder on the desk. She stopped, lips parting slightly. "You found out."

Something in the way she said it caused a commotion within me.

"You knew?" I asked, more harshly than I intended.

She hesitated, then nodded slowly. "I didn't want to be the one to tell you. I hoped maybe Zephyrine would confess herself. I told myself it wasn't my place. But… I've suspected for some time. I'm sorry, Callum."

The words weren't cruel, not like the whispers at dinner. They were kind. Soft. And for some reason, they were comfort.

"She's been lying to me," I said, the anger finally breaking through. "All these years. Pretending."

Evangeline stepped closer, her voice barely above a whisper. "You don't deserve that. You've carried this marriage on your back, and for what? She can't give you what you want. What you need."

Her eyes met mine, unwavering and sympathetic.

Vivienne brushed off her coat, preparing to take her leave. She gave me a look of mock regret. "I only wanted you to know the truth, Callum. Think about the future you want—yourself, and this family."

And she sailed out, leaving Evangeline and me alone.

The silence hung between us. She walked over to the side table, refilled my glass with whiskey, and held it out.

Her hand brushed against mine as I accepted it. A slight contact, yet sufficient to set off something I did not wish to speak of.

I looked at the amber liquid in the glass, then at the folder. "All this time," I said bitterly. "I wondered maybe it was me. Maybe I was impatient. But she—she knew."

Evangeline's expression grew even gentler. "You've always given more than you got, Callum. You married her because it's what was expected, because I wasn't ready then. But deep down… we both know who you should have been with."

I looked at her. Really looked at her.

The girl I'd fallen in love with. The woman I'd told myself I moved on from.

The ache in my chest roiled.

My voice was low, almost involuntarily. "I should have married you instead."

Evangeline's breath caught. Her eyes sparkled for a moment, and then she smiled. Not in triumph, not in mockery—just softly, as if she had been waiting years to hear me say it.

And the worst of it was, part of me had been waiting too.

I reclined, pressing a hand to my forehead. The folder sat like a weight on the desk, heavier than the whiskey in my hand.

Barren.

The word resounded in my mind, louder than anything else.

From that evening, I knew something between Zephyrine and me had been permanently broken.