3. He Breaks His Promise
1243 Words
Freya paused for a moment, then reread the message Ethan had sent her. It didn't tell her to stop their forbidden affair—instead, it told her to be more careful.
It was beyond reason, but there it was. Ethan had written those insane words.
Freya bit her lower lip. The same lip whose lipstick had been wiped off by Ethan's mouth in the office.
[ Talk tomorrow?] she asked.
[ Yes. Tomorrow we talk.]
[ At the office? ]
[ No. Somewhere no one knows.]
Freya stared at her phone screen. Her heart was pounding erratically.
[ Where? ]
Ethan's last reply before he turned off his phone for the night.
[ I'll pick you up at 8. Don't tell anyone.]
Freya placed the phone on her chest. She stared at the apartment ceiling, cracked in the far right corner. The kitchen light was still dimly on. From behind the bedroom door, she could hear Edgar moving on the mattress.
Her boyfriend.
Who was sleeping separately from her tonight.
Because she had lied.
Then Freya asked herself the question she least wanted to answer.
'Since when did I become like this?'
'Since when did lying feel easier than telling the truth?'
'And since when... did Ethan Crawford become the reason I smile in the middle of the night?'
She had no answer.
But her eyes stayed open until two in the morning, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the morning that would take her back to the man who wasn't her boyfriend.
....
Morning came with gray light slipping through the gaps in the bedroom curtains. Freya opened her eyes with a stiff neck and an aching back. The sofa was too short for her body. Edgar had warned her when they first bought it two years ago. But last night, Freya hadn't wanted to hear Edgar's voice.
She sat up, and the blanket fell to the floor.
The room was still silent. The clock on the wall showed 7:13 AM. From behind the bedroom door, there was no sound.
Freya stood, walked slowly to the bathroom, then peeked into the bedroom while brushing her teeth. The room where she and Edgar usually slept was already empty and tidy.
The surface of the mattress was cold. Edgar's pillow was flat, with no dent from his head. He must have left before six, as usual when he had a client project chasing a deadline.
Freya looked at the closet. Edgar's black leather jacket was gone. His work shoes were also missing.
He had left without saying goodbye.
No kiss on the forehead. No "be careful on the road." No arm wrapping around her waist while she was still half-asleep.
Back then, in their first year, Edgar would never leave without kissing her. Even if Freya was sound asleep, he would whisper something in her ear—"I'm going now, Bae"—then kiss her messy hair.
Now?
Freya couldn't remember the last time Edgar had done that.
Maybe it had been a long time.
Maybe she had deliberately forgotten.
...
After her shower, Freya stood in front of her closet with a towel wrapped around her body.
Her phone lay on the vanity table.
No notifications.
She picked up the phone. Opened w******p.
One gray check.
Her last message to Ethan hadn't been read.
[ Where? ]
That message was sent at 11 PM yesterday. Ethan hadn't replied after saying he would pick her up at eight in the morning.
Freya bit her lower lip. Her fingers almost typed again, but she stopped herself.
"Don't look desperate," she told herself. "You're not even his girlfriend. You're just—"
Just what?
Just a secretary sleeping with her boss?
Just a symbiotic mutual relationship that was starting to lose control?
Just a foolish woman willing to surrender herself to a man who was already engaged?
Freya put down the phone and chose her outfit. A white long-sleeved blouse, a black pencil skirt, cream pumps. She looked professional, like any ordinary secretary—nothing wrong.
She dried her hair, styled it carefully, then stood in front of the mirror.
Light makeup. Nude lipstick, not the fiery red that Ethan liked.
'Not for him,' Freya thought. 'Today, I need to be professional again.'
Her phone vibrated.
Freya's heart jumped.
She grabbed it—but the message wasn't from Ethan. Just a promo from an e-commerce site. Why did she feel disappointed?
....
The clock showed eight in the morning. No Ethan in front of her apartment.
Then the clock showed 8:15 AM, and Ethan was still nowhere to be seen.
Freya stood by the living room window, staring at the street below. No luxurious black car. No tall figure in a neat suit waiting on the sidewalk.
She picked up her phone again.
She reread Ethan's message from last night. Now twenty minutes had passed, before she finally decided to type a message to Ethan.
[ Where are you? ]
One gray check.
Unread.
She sat on the sofa. Her phone lay in her lap. Her fingers gripped the edge of the sofa so tightly her knuckles turned white.
"Maybe he's busy," Freya murmured. "Maybe there was an unexpected meeting. Maybe Karina is at his place. Maybe something else?"
Or maybe this was a sign—the universe trying to save her from this unhealthy relationship?
Finally, at 8:30 AM, Freya stood up. She had no interest in waiting any longer.
Waiting was the most boring thing of all!
'He's the CEO. I'm his secretary. Nothing more.'
'Our agreement is only about mutual satisfaction. Not a date like a real couple.'
'He doesn't owe me anything.'
She repeated those sentences in her head like a mantra as she took the elevator down, walked through the apartment lobby, and waved for a passing taxi.
But mantras couldn't stop the ache in her chest.
Couldn't stop the questions circling endlessly:
'Why did he say he'd pick me up, then disappear?'
'Did he change his mind?'
'Did Karina finally find out about this?'
'Was last night the last time she and Ethan made love?'
The taxi crawled through the New York morning traffic. Freya stared at the tall buildings outside the window, but she wasn't really seeing them.
She opened her phone again.
The message to Ethan still had one gray check.
No reply.
She opened the chat with Edgar.
Their last message was from three days ago. Edgar had sent a meme. Freya had replied with a laughing emoji. That was it.
Two men in her life.
One who didn't care enough to say goodbye this morning.
One who promised to pick her up and then never showed.
And Freya sat in the cramped taxi seat, wondering where she had gone wrong.
Was she asking for too much?
Was she too easily to forget?
...
The Crawford Group building appeared in the distance. Its greenish-blue glass rose forty-two stories high, reflecting the gray clouds in the sky.
Freya paid the taxi, got out, and walked through the revolving doors.
The lobby was still quiet. It was only 8:50 AM. Most employees wouldn't arrive until nine.
She stepped into the executive elevator, pressed the button for the 37th floor, and stood still in the silent cabin.
The elevator mirror reflected her face.
She looked fine. Neat. Pretty, as usual.
No one knew her heart was falling apart.
No one knew she had been waiting for someone who never came.
- Writer
