The Lie We Called Love

CLAIRE

One of the many things I hate? It's surprises. Don't take me unaware. Just don't. Be it birthday, Christmas, anniversary—whatever—you'll have to tell me there's going to be a party. And if I walk into a dark room and you turn the lights on and shout "SURPRISE!" with confetti everywhere, balloons flying, and whatnot, you're gonna eat shit.

But not with my fiancé. At least, my tolerance level is higher with him.

At seven PM, he shot out of nowhere and waltzed into the studio with a pink bouquet—Pink? God! For two years we've been dating, and he still doesn't know I hate the color pink. If he even brought a black flower, I'd marry him right there. I swear to God.

I'm not a normal romance girl; hell, I hate sweet cuddling, cutie, all butterflies and rainbows stuff. I want raw passion, dark obsession, bone-chilling love—call me weird; I don't fucking care.

Unfortunately, my fiancé… Well… he's okay. He's what many would call a perfect man: good-looking, nice career, dollar bills in his bank account, but he just doesn't meet my expectations sometimes. He's too sweet, too lovey-dovey, and I like it, though it's nice… but.

*Sigh*

Despite that, I'm ready to spend the rest of eternity with him because, as they say, love is blind. Bonus: he's not a red flag.

He catwalks up with black glasses, a sharp suit, and a smirk on his face that just oozes confidence and screams a man that's in love. I was fuming a second ago, ready to tear into him for the pink roses, but the sight of him in those glasses—damn it—made me pause.

He held up the bouquet. "I know. Pink. It's your favorite color, isn't it?"

My eye twitches. I want to scream, to shove the whole ridiculous, frilly thing in his face. But then he laughs, a cute sound that makes my stomach flip.

"Just kidding, babe," he says, setting the flowers down and pulling a small black box out of his pocket. "I know you hate pink. These are for show."

Oh, he knows. Good thing he didn't lose an eye before confession.

He opened the box, and inside, nestled on black satin, was the most stunning black necklace I had ever seen. The pendant was so dark it looked like velvet, a single, vibrant ruby at its center.

"Happy Anniversary, my love," he smiled wide. "I wanted to give you a piece of my darkness, a part of my soul that only you can see."

Oh, the cheesy talk again. Sweet. Talks as if he has darkness.

I try hard to blush, but it's just not coming. I have to admit he did touch my soul. At least I bit my lips. Squirmed a little. Forced.

“How about a nice restaurant?” he added, winking.

I sigh, stuck between yes and no. After my long, hectic shoot, he wants to take me to a restaurant when I'm supposed to be resting on my couch with my cat, fueling my energy for fashion week. I'm not complaining, though. In fact, I love it. So, restaurant, here we come.

I smile. “That'll be great."

****

“Here you go, milady," Levi purrs, performing a dramatic flourish as he opens the door.

My shoulders practically dissolve with relief as the cool, familiar air of our little hideaway—I mean, secluded villa—wraps around me. We've been living here for a year now, our own private little corner of an estate, so we don’t have to suffer the prying eyes of... what was it again? The public? The commoners? It’s hard to remember; my brain cells have been pretty busy trying to keep me upright all day.

The dinner was, I'm told, a masterpiece. The food was "exquisite," the conversation "light and easy," but all I could really think about was how many calories I was burning just trying to look awake. I’m fairly certain I blacked out for half of it, caught between trying to look engaged and simply trying to breathe. And my feet. My God, the glorious, burning agony.

He takes the bag from my hand as if I can’t possibly hold a tiny purse anymore, his fingers brushing mine in a gesture that is probably meant to be romantic but just feels like a preemptive strike. As we step into the living room, I spot my one true soulmate: the couch. The thought of collapsing on it with a warm blanket is about a million times more appealing than any five-star meal.

Speaking of meals, why do I hear cutlery clinking? Is someone dining? It's noisy.

“Is Graham eating at this hour? Shouldn't he be in bed by now?” I toss Levi a side-eye. He can already guess his son will take a scolding or the maid is in for a lecture… which one is it this time?

“Buddy, we're home,” Levi echoes, reaching for the light switch. The sudden flood of light makes me wince, and I instinctively shield my eyes.

“I swear to God, Levi, if you do that again without a heads up—”

He laughs and gropes my ass, leaving the rest of the words stuck in my lungs. Did he just...? When did he learn that? Oh, I see how it is; he's trying to divert my attention, calm my stress-induced irritation. And it's working.

The fight drains from my body in an instant. He knows me so well he doesn't even have to look back to know he's won the argument. He's halfway across the dining room while I kick off these damn heels.

I hear a “Dad? You're home,” and the next second, Levi is walking back to me, face pale, movement frantic, and then without warning, he sweeps me off my feet.

“Levi, what the—”

“I'm taking you to your room,” he blurts out. “You need to rest. You are exhausted. You're exhausted, right? Right?”

He said "right" twice. He's repeating himself. Either he's up to something or there’s something weirdly wrong with him. Did he flip a switch in his brain? There are too many surprises for one day.

I dangle my legs like fish out of water. “Levi, put me down! I want the couch. Hope it's not one of your freaking surprises!"

He climbs the stairs in a flash, three steps at once, while he presses me so tightly to his chest. Sometimes I forget how insanely fit he is. But I don't remember him being unhinged; he's acting crazy right now.

“Levi, for the last time, drop me—”

He snags the room door open, zooms me inside, and tosses me onto the bed. Before I can process this madness, his weight is pinning me down.

“Levi—” my words vanish as his lips crash onto mine, his hands on either side of my head, completely trapping me. It's nothing like his usual sweet kisses. It's brief, punchy, rough, rushed, and tasting of panic.

God.

What's happening to my boo-boo?

He pulls back, panting slightly. “Be right back shortly; just give me five—no, ten.”

He doesn’t wait for my response. He spins on his heel, and all I hear is a loud click as he jams the door shut.

I lie there for a moment, catching my breath, my brain rebooting from the shock. Give him five? The audacity.

I scramble off the bed and stomp to the door, twisting the handle.

It's locked.

I stand there, just staring at the wood, mouth agape.

This is ridiculous. What am I? A child?

Then I hear it.

“Keep your voice down.” A whisper; Levi's usual voice, especially when he's shrinking.

“Who the fuck is that woman, Levi?” Another voice, shrill and loud, that knocks the wind out of me. It's unrecognizable: deep, but feminine.

Another woman? In our home? While he locked me in a room?

Levi, you're so dead!

“LEVI!"