Semua Bab The Lie We Called Love : Bab 1 - Bab 10

CLAIREOne 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 h

CLAIRE I thought I hated surprises. I was wrong. I was not built for every kind of truth. I thought confetti and balloons were the worst surprises. It turns out a living, breathing ghost is a far more effective party trick. A truly catastrophic one is a man who lies about his family, and then you stumble upon a skeleton in his closet. I need air, need space to clear my head. Stay calm, not recalling the sick feeling of being lied to for two good years. I trusted Levi; I believed everything he told me. I was certain he was the right man for me, like he's good enough in most important areas. He’s loving, kind, and treats me right. He's not abusive, not controlling, nor dominating. He supports my career, played a big role in improving my fame, and all. So why would he keep such a secret from me? Assuming this blew up when we were already married, how would I have reacted? Would it be worse? Would the truth come out after we had a child of our own, after I had fully intertwined my l

CLAIREI'm finally healed enough for discharge, though the scars on my face are anything but. And the worst pain didn’t come from the crash; it came from the call.My manager, Steven, had the audacity to call me. He didn't ask how my recovery was going or when I might be cleared for travel. He just offered a sweet tone and a professional lie."We love you, Claire, you know that. The agency thinks it's best you take enough time to recover."And he stressed the 'enough time' a little too much.More like a deadline disguised as concern. They are already running the math: every day I spend recovering is a day I spend becoming a forgotten story in the industry. The longer I take, the more "enough" that time becomes for them to find my faster, better, unbandaged replacement.Thinking about it makes me want to hit my head on the wall, to swap this emotional agony for a physical one I can actually fight.I called Cassie to take me home. To HER home. Parents’ home? Not an option. I'm going to

CLAIRE “A single room, please,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Top floor. As far away from other guests as possible.” “And for how many nights, ma’am?” “Just one for now. I’ll extend if necessary.” I give them the payment information. The transaction confirmation dings on my screen, giving me a solid destination and a twelve-hour reprieve. But then… a ripple of heat spreads across the nape of my neck like a prickle of awareness. The air behind me just shifted. I don't turn around. I don't need to. “Good morning, sir. Your suite is ready. We have prepared the ocean-view penthouse, just as you requested. Your luggage is already on its way up,” the receptionist says, smiling politely with the kind of tone reserved for the owner of an establishment. My heart hammers against my ribs. I clutch the room key card the receptionist handed me—Room 1207. Too late. I can feel him standing right behind me. “Thank you.” That voice. Damn, it's him, isn't it? I'm tempted

CLAIRE “What’s with you?!” I snap, yanking my wrist back from his grip. My insides are vibrating. “You don't expect me to remember overnight, do you? I literally just walked in here three minutes ago because I’m losing it! You think you can just… assault my mouth and suddenly I’m going to recall our past? I don’t know you, Zeke!” He doesn't answer. He lets me go and walks away, going straight for a door on the far side of the room. It looks like the bedroom. Bathroom. Whatever it is. “Hey!” I call after him, feeling completely abandoned and furious. “If you know me so well, you know I hate riddles. Start talking!” He stops, his hand resting on the knob, his shoulders rigid. “You know me,” he says, his voice flat and tired. “You just forgot how. Even my…” he sighs then turns. “You're not even helping; you're not making this easier for me.” I scoff. “Guy, you're not being realistic—.” “Stop calling me that. Guy. Dude. What's all that?” he snaps. “Now you’re acting like a