Smells Like Deceptions.

I should’ve been relieved. Elena was back. So why the hell did everything in me feel off?

The moment she returned, something shifted. The same face. The same voice. But everything else felt... wrong. Subtle, but wrong. It was like walking through a house you’d lived in your whole life, only to find the furniture rearranged and the walls painted a different color. Unsettling in a way you can’t quite name.

She moved differently. Spoke more carefully. Looked away when I got too close. Elena never looked away. She thrived on confrontation. She fed on control.

Now she was... hesitant. Hesitant with me?

I started watching her every move. The camera in her room became my ritual. I studied her. How she lay in bed and tossed restlessly. How she clutched her stomach in the dark. Maybe she was acting. Maybe it was guilt. Or a new game.

I must’ve dozed off for a few minutes. When I blinked awake, the bed was empty. Cold. Sheets tangled like she’d wrestled with ghosts.

My heart dropped. Had she run?

I moved fast, following instinct more than reason, and found her exactly where I feared she’d be: by the back garden fence. Fingertips white-knuckling the bars, eyes scanning the perimeter like she was planning a prison break.

I should’ve called Peter. But no. I followed her myself. I needed to see what she’d do alone. No audience. No pressure. And there she was—by the fence, gripping it like salvation.

I didn’t speak at first. Just watched. She looked fragile. Frail. Almost scared. I didn’t trust it. Not for a second. So I said the first thing that came to mind. Cold. Sharp.

“What exactly are you looking for?” She jumped, taking her time before she faced me.

Her excuses came fast: air, the baby, some bullshit about walks. I didn’t believe a word. But it wasn’t just the lie—it was the way she lied.

Timid. Stumbling. Off-rhythm. Elena could lie better than most people breathed. She didn’t fumble. She owned her lies.

So, who the hell was this woman?

I stepped closer. Close enough to test her. To feel her. Her scent threw me off. Not the usual heady perfume she wore like armor. This was soft. Warm. Vanilla. Cinnamon. Not Elena.

I touched the hem of her hoodie, brushing the silk beneath. She froze. Really froze. Not the kind Elena did when pretending to be coy. This was... real.

She shook her head, hesitant—like she didn’t want this. My jaw clenched.

Was she seriously backing out now?

She looked nervous. Like a bird trying not to tremble under a predator’s gaze. Was it fear or just more of her damn games?

“Hey… we should go inside,” she said softly, trying to keep her voice steady. “The weather’s getting cold.”

I raised an eyebrow. My lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“You want to fuck inside?” I asked, casual. Too casual.

Her eyes widened. She looked like I’d slapped her with the question.

“No! That’s not what I meant,” she blurted. “I just… I want to rest.”

Rest? Now she wanted to rest?

I stared at her. Something in her face didn’t add up. Too many cracks in her act. Too much pretending.

“Stop pretending,” I muttered under my breath. The words came out sharper than I intended. “It’s annoying.”

“Please, I—”

“Don’t act like you don’t want this,” I snapped, my voice low and tight. Everything I’d kept buried—the resentment, the betrayal, the memories of her walking away without a goddamn word—was clawing its way out.

“Tell me,” I said. “How many men did you sleep with for money while you were gone?”

It slipped out too easily. Years of resentment and betrayal packed into one sentence. I told myself it didn’t matter. That I didn’t care.

But it did.

It hurt to know she was pregnant… and still doing what she did. She froze. Then she looked… hurt.

I blinked.

That was new. Her face was flushed. Breathing ragged. She looked like I’d struck something deep. Like I’d actually wounded her.

The Elena I knew wouldn’t have cared. If she were confronted, she’d laugh it off. Say worse just to spite me. But this... this version?

She looked like she didn’t understand why I said it. Like she couldn’t believe I would hurt her.

“Is this how you see me?” she asked, voice quiet and shaking. “I’ve been gone for how long, and you never even asked what happened. Why would I care if you cared…” she muttered the last part, but I didn’t catch it.

She’d done worse—lied, slept around, hurt Lily like it meant nothing. Humiliated me in every way possible. But something about this outburst stunned me.

Not her words. The way she said them. Like she believed them. Like it wasn’t a performance. I clenched my jaw, trying to ground myself.

No. She’s messing with my head. Another game. Another mask. Still, I stepped forward and grabbed her arm—not tightly, just enough to stop her from walking away. There was fear on her face. Clear as day.

“I don’t know what game you’re playing,” I muttered, voice low, “but it won’t work this time. Just give birth to the baby and—”

She yanked her arm back before I could finish. And then Peter appeared behind me, like a damn ghost.

“Sir,” he said, calm and unbothered despite the tension. “The doctor is ready. She’s waiting in the lounge for the check-up.”

She went pale. Didn’t say a word. But I saw it in her eyes.

Panic. Whatever she was hiding, it was about to be exposed. And I wasn’t ready to be told she wasn’t pregnant. I started to walk away, then paused.

“You heard him,” I said without turning. “Let’s go.”

I forced a smile. Small. Controlled. It wasn’t to comfort her—it was to remind her who held the leash.

---

Back in the Room

She walked ahead of me, Peter leading the way. I followed like a shadow.

Once inside, she moved quickly—sat on the edge of the bed like it was the only thing holding her together. Her hands gripped the sheets tight. I leaned against the wall, arms folded. Watching. Always watching.

“I don’t feel well,” she said softly, voice trembling just enough to sound believable. “I barely slept. My chest is tight. My stomach… hurts.”

Not a lie. I’d seen her tossing all night. Still, I raised a brow.

“And?”

“I’m just saying maybe today’s not the best day for a test,” she added, jaw clenched. Her stare dared me to remember what just happened outside. “My mood’s already off.”

“I’ve read that stress messes with hormone levels,” she continued. “You might get a false result.”

Peter’s face stayed neutral, but his glance was telling. He was reading the room. Reading me.

“Are you suggesting we delay it?” I asked coldly.

“I’m saying it’s better to be accurate than rush it and get confused results. Right?” she said, turning toward Peter.

Her voice had the soft concern of a mother-to-be. But it still felt like a performance.

Then came a knock. The doctor entered—mid-forties, calm, confident hands. Too observant for my liking.

“I heard you’re not feeling well,” she said gently.

“I’m really not,” she replied, eyes low. “All this stress—new environment, anxiety… I’m scared it could affect the test.”

She said it with the saddest voice I’d ever heard from her.

I scoffed quietly. The doctor gave a slow nod.

“Actually, she’s not wrong.”

“What?”

“Elevated cortisol can delay accurate pregnancy hormone production,” she explained. “Especially in the early stages.”

I frowned. “So you’re saying the results could be off?”

“I’m saying we should take the blood now, but run the test once she’s more stabilized. Her vitals are erratic. We wouldn’t want to misdiagnose something this important.”

I exhaled slowly, jaw tight. Was this real?

Or was she buying herself time?

I stared at her and saw it—the faintest twitch of a smile behind the mask. Barely noticeable. But I saw it.

“Fine. Do it.”

The doctor began prepping. Swab. Needle. Vial. She flinched when the needle pierced her skin. I didn’t move. I just watched the vial fill with her blood. Thick. Red. And full of lies.

She looked pale. Too pale. I didn’t say a word. But something shifted in me at that moment.

I didn’t trust her.

And I would find out what she was hiding—whatever it took.