When love lies

“Come on, Tristian… pick up your phone.”

The call goes straight to voicemail again.

I let out a quiet laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

Of course.

He always does this.

“Ma’am, we’re here.”

The driver’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts. I blink, realizing we’ve stopped.

I look up from my phone, the screen still lit with the call that just ended.

“That’ll be $59.28, ma’am.”

I nod and open my purse, pulling out a $100 bill.

“Keep the change.”

His face lights up instantly. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Charlie steps out to help with my luggage, like he always does.

Charlie has been my ride for months now, on days I’m too tired to drive or when my ride disappoints me.

Like today.

Tristian was supposed to pick me up from the airport.

I waited for almost an hour before I called Charlie—long enough to feel stupid for texting him.

Called. Texted. Called again.

Nothing.

“Have a nice day, ma’am.”

“You too, Charlie.”

At least someone is reliable.

He drives off, leaving me standing in front of the apartment complex I share with a man who can’t even pick up a phone call.

I should be used to it by now.

Still…

Waiting at the airport for almost an hour?

Even for Tristian, that feels like too much.

I drag my suitcase inside.

“Miss Anna.”

Ben, the doorman, quickly steps forward and takes the handle from me. I smile, grateful.

“Thanks, Ben.”

He nods, but something about his expression feels… off.

Ben has been our doorman since we moved into this building. He’s a young man, early thirties, well-built, always polite.

“Miss Anna…”

“Yes, Ben?” I look at him.

He looks like he wants to say something, but then he hesitates. His grip on my bag tightens slightly.

“How was your trip?” he asks instead.

I study him for a moment.

“It was good. Are you okay, Ben?”

He clears his throat. “Yes, ma’am.”

“How’s Julie?”

“She’s doing well.”

“That’s good to know, Ben. Have a nice day.”

I step into the elevator.

Julie is Ben’s seven-year-old daughter. He sometimes brings her to work. She’s such a sweetheart.

I press the button for my floor, the doors sliding shut.

Finally alone, my thoughts begin to wander.

A mirthless laugh escapes me as I press the third floor.

I wonder what his excuse will be this time.

The ride is short. Too short.

Soon, I’m dragging my suitcase behind me, walking down the hallway. Each floor hosts three apartments, and I make my way to ours, Tristian and mine.

I input the password and step in.

The first thing I notice—he’s home.

I can tell from his shoes, placed neatly by the side where I always insist they go.

The second thing?

There’s another pair.

A woman’s.

I pause, my eyes lingering on them.

Strappy. Black. Elegant.

She has good taste.

I lift my gaze and take in the state of the apartment.

Clothes—male and female—strewn carelessly across the sofa.

Two glasses of unfinished wine.

A bottle of MY favorite wine sitting on the center table.

Tristian’s phone lies beside it.

So that’s why he wasn’t answering.

A red bra rests at the foot of the stairs.

For a moment, I just stand there.

Then it comes.

Not an explosion.

Not a scream.

Just heat.

Slow. Steady. Burning.

Red-hot rage settles over me.

That bastard is cheating on me.

In my house.

He doesn’t even have the decency to hide it.

I start toward the stairs, but the sound of a woman’s moan stops me.

I pause.

Then exhale.

On second thought, I don’t feel like being further irritated.

I turn and walk to the kitchen.

I grab a glass.

Walk back to the couch and pour myself some wine from the already opened bottle.

I sit.

Calm. Still.

My mind, however, is anything but.

Violent thoughts take the lead.

I should castrate him.

Stab him in the chest with my heels.

My fingers find the ring on my left hand, absentmindedly turning it.

It suddenly feels too tight.

The diamond too bright.

Tristian and I have been together for two years.

Engaged for six months.

I knew he had his problems.

But cheating?

That’s where I draw the line.

I let out a quiet scoff.

That arrogant idiot.

Two years of my life.

And this is what I get?

Yes, it started as business.

But somewhere along the line… I fell for him.

I was loyal.

He said he loved me.

I shake my head slightly.

My fault for believing a man anyway.

They always fail me.

I take a slow sip of my wine and release a deep sigh.

My gaze sweeps through the apartment. I decorated this place. It was supposed to be our home. It was an engagement gift from our parents. We moved in right after the party.

Soon, I hear footsteps coming down the stairs.

Tristian’s.

I put on my mask of indifference. He can’t know how much he hurt me.

Relaxing into the sofa, I take another sip of my wine.

He comes into view—only a robe and slides on, like nothing is out of place.

He’s heading for the kitchen.

I can tell the exact moment he notices me.

His back stiffens.

Then he turns around, a careful look in his eyes.

“Anna… babe, how are you here? When did you get back?”

“Oh, hi, babe,” I reply, stressing the word with a fake smile.

His eyes flick around the room, taking in the mess. The glasses. The clothes.

Understanding settles on his face.

“Look, babe, it’s not what you think—”

“So what is it, Tristian?” I cut in, rising to my feet.

“How are you back? You weren’t supposed to be back until…” he checks his phone, “…two hours.”

“Not important. But you would know if you picked up your bloody phone, Tristian.”

“Babe, I can explain—”

“Explain what?” My voice sharpens. “That you’re cheating on me? That you brought your cheap prostitute into my house?”

“Babe…” he steps toward me.

“If you come any closer, I swear I’ll scratch your eyes out.”

He stops.

“I’m a man, Anna. I have needs.”

A hollow laugh leaves me.

“And I told you I was waiting. You agreed to that, Tristian. Don’t rewrite the story now just because you couldn’t keep up.”

“Babe…”

“I was gone for just three days,” I continue.

“Babe,” a third voice cuts in.

Not his.

Not mine.

We both turn toward the stairs.

The ‘cheap prostitute’ finally decides to show herself.

And the moment I see her, it’s like I’ve been punched in the gut and all the air leaves my lungs.

“Oh… hello, sister.”

Sharon.

She stands there like she belongs, wearing my purple robe and grey flip-flops. Her hair is messy, makeup smudged—evidence of everything I didn’t need to see but heard anyway.

Her lips curl into that familiar smirk.

The one that drags me back to places I don’t like to remember.

She always takes my things.

But this?

This is new.

This is low, even for her.

For a second, everything inside me collides.

Hurt. Disbelief. Anger.

Then I breathe.

And I regain control.

My gaze shifts to Tristian.

“You are such an animal.”

“I’m a man with needs, Anastasia. You keep depriving me.”

“No, Tristian,” I say calmly. “You’re a wild animal who can’t control his urges. A man who would sleep with his fiancée’s sister.”

“Step-sister,” he corrects.

I stare at him.

“You are unbelievable. How did I not see you for what you are?”

“We can fix this, baby.”

I laugh.

“There is nothing to fix, moron.”

“You see, this is my problem with you,” he continues. “You act untouchable. Nonchalant. Like you don’t need anyone. A man wants a woman who needs him. You just found out your fiancé is cheating, and you don’t even look hurt.”

Unbelievable.

“Well, Tristian,” I reply, my voice steady, “I’m sorry if I’m not begging you to take me back after you cheated on me with my sister, sorry, STEP-sister. It’s called self-respect. Something you wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh, Anna,” Sharon says softly, stepping into his arms, “Tristian and I didn’t mean to do this to you. We are in love. I’m so sorry.”

She looks so fragile in that moment.

So this is what he likes?

My eyes snap to hers.

The look in her eyes says otherwise.

Love?

“I’m not sure you’re capable of that, Sharon,” I say. “You only know how to love yourself.”

Silence settles between us.

Cold. Final.

“We’re over,” I say, pulling the ring off my finger and throwing it at him.

I pick up my purse. My luggage.

And walk toward the door.

“You’re unlovable, Anastasia,” Tristian says behind me. “Men don’t like women like you.”

I almost flinch.

Almost.

I stop, then turn back, meeting his gaze.

“No, Tristian,” I say quietly. “You’re not a man. You’re a coward.”

I turn.

I don’t look back.

Some things aren’t worth turning around for.