Lines Begin to Blur
474 Words
Emma stood at the doorway to the dining room, adjusting the strap of her dress. It wasn’t anything fancy—just a simple green number she had found in the back of the closet. Alexander’s assistant, Claire, had added a few dresses to the wardrobe when she moved in. Emma never thought she’d have to wear one.
But tonight, Alexander had asked her to join him for dinner—with a few colleagues.
Not as herself.
As his wife.
When she walked in, Alexander was already seated at the long dining table, checking his watch. His charcoal dress shirt hugged his frame, and for a moment, Emma forgot to breathe.
He looked up. His eyes paused on her.
“You look… nice,” he said, clearing his throat.
Emma raised an eyebrow. “That’s your version of a compliment?”
A ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips. “It’s as good as it gets.”
The doorbell rang before she could answer.
She pasted on her smile. Showtime.
The dinner guests included two other doctors from the hospital—one older, one around Alexander’s age—and their spouses. There was laughter, polite conversation, wine. Emma played her part well: charming, affectionate, the supportive wife.
She touched Alexander’s arm when she laughed. Refilled his glass before he asked. She listened intently when he spoke, as if every word mattered.
And oddly… it didn’t feel like acting.
Across the table, one of the wives leaned toward her. “So how did you two meet?”
Emma’s heart skipped. They hadn’t rehearsed this part.
Alexander spoke first.
“Coffee shop. She served me the wrong order—twice in a row.”
Emma glanced at him, surprised.
“And still,” he added, smiling, “I went back the next day.”
Laughter followed.
Emma blinked. That part was true.
“I guess I grew on him,” she added, catching his gaze.
His eyes softened. “Something like that.”
After the guests left and the dishes were cleared, Emma stood on the patio, letting the night breeze cool her face. The stars blinked above, and for a moment, she let herself feel the peace.
Alexander joined her, a glass of water in his hand.
“They liked you.”
Emma looked up. “Did I pass the test?”
He didn’t answer.
“I meant what I said, by the way,” he said after a pause. “About the coffee shop.”
Emma glanced at him, heart beating faster. “Why do I feel like we’re not pretending anymore?”
He looked at her then—really looked at her.
“Because sometimes,” he said quietly, “pretending feels easier than facing what’s real.”
Her breath caught.
And in the silence that followed, something shifted.
Something dangerous.
Something real.
- Writer
