UNHINGED (R-18) ENGLISH

INTRO V: THE FALSE ENDING PT. 2

INTRO V: THE FALSE ENDING PT. 2

THE DEVIL

From Massachusetts back to Paris; from our home to the office. Heather hugged me. I asked, she answered: yes, no, good, or fine. When it was open-ended, she responded with clarity, with competence—with an assurance that blocked any follow-up.

I entered a door—any kind—and looked at her. She hugged. She kissed. She smiled. One of the rituals she learned from me. A predictable rhythm I designed to recalibrate her.

All of it continued. But slightly different: her eyes... they never met mine, not since the night she collapsed and knelt.

Fifteen days. She never looked at me.

Fifteen days. She never saw me.

Fifteen days. I was air—felt, but never seen.

She stays for pretension. Pretension needs full engagement. But Heather does it differently—completely different from what I expect. An anomaly... again, coming from her. How was she able to do all this? What was her thinking while pretending?

Fifteen days. I tried to find the answer. To read her. To discover more of her. It was a stimulation—the kind that even my patience couldn't ignore. She kept me focused... Heather—my wife—the only person who keeps me from the void—from being bored.

Fifteen days. I never found the answer.

Fifteen days. Unexpectedly but no surprise, she signed the divorce papers—the only thing that welcomed me as I entered our empty house.

On the fiftieth day. At 3:00 P.M. Divorce papers in hand. I haven't signed. I could. But I won't—not yet.

Fifteen minutes later. Now. Alone. In silence. In my office. Inside our room. For fifteen days, it housed only me.

"You haven't shared with her what's on your mind," Madison says, her face flickers—pixelated precision on the laptop screen, "what's truly on your mind. That's your first assignment from the last week's session, Mr. Fabian."

My back leans against my seat. The swivel chair creaks. A few seconds of noise before silence reclaims my office.

"And you," Madison continues, "you desire to know what's on hers. She won't share, unless you do. Connection is shared through right communication."

"She wouldn't let me," I reply. "She knows, Madison, everything I do is manipulation. Whatever I say is manipulation."

"Try. Ask her if she still wants to push the divorce. You want to keep—" She pauses, not her, but the connection.

Three seconds later, 'Connection lost. Attempting to reconnect...' appears on the screen.

"Connection lost. Attempting to reconnect..." I scoff. "The irony..." I close the laptop's lid. Stare at the divorce paper in my hand.

If I sign, Heather would think that I didn't care. Well, I don't care if she feels that way. First, I do care for her, right from the start—I care for her safety. Foremost, especially now that she has become important to me.

She's the only person who remained whole—even after I nearly consumed every part of her identity. That very night—when she triggered the piercing in my chest—I considered her my equal.

Not because she chose to stay, but because she sees through me.

She fights me with the very weapon I use to win: performance. She knelt. She begged to keep pretending.

Submission on the surface. Strategy beneath. It's as if she were saying: You think you destroyed me, Hugo? No. You didn't. I own this narrative. I destroyed myself—not you.

Now—only now, she's absent. Her presence—once ambient—now gone.

I've always preferred solitude; no need for performance. I could just be me. But this silence... this thing they call loneliness. I get it now. For a normal person, they'd feel sad or even long for their significant other. For me, no stimulation, and the silence starts to creep in—only now does it happen.

I should call Heaunice. Tell him to track Heath—no, I can't. Madison prohibits me from stalking my wife. I won't get better if—

Still, my hand pulls the phone out from my pocket. Ready to tap Heunice's number. My thumb stops—the phone vibrates. A caller ID registers on the screen.

Frida

+33-6-12-XX-XX-XX

A woman.

A brow flicks. The name: unknown. This phone is personal. Only the phone numbers of people who matter were saved here.

Still, my thumb taps the screen; call accepted.

"Hi!" A background noise.

I press the loudspeaker. Phone goes to the desk. The back of my head against the seat. Eyes at the ceiling. Let the silence answer. She's lucky enough that I let her speak.

"Boss, it's me: Frida. One of the interns in your wife's office. Don't you remember?"

I don't.

"I went to your office a few weeks ago," she says. I stay silent. "I'm the one who told you about Jean and Heather's affair."

My eyelid twitches. So she's the one who spread the rumor across my office. I remember that day, not her face. I yank the phone.

"What can I do for you?" I ask, "Frida."

"Is my internship with your company still on now that your wife's office has been dissolved?"

Only question. But enough to make me remember: First, I got my latest PrEP shot two weeks ago—Cabotegravir, long‑acting. A protection I never miss, part of a routine I keep with my HIV testing every two months.

Second: Last thing I would let happen is to have an STD.

Third: Heather isn't here. She wouldn't know. But what I'm about to do isn't all about her, nor the problem and issue with our marriage—this is all about me.

Lastly: Whatever happens, Heather isn't the problem. I choose this—and I own it.

"If you come into my house, I'll be happy to answer your question."

She does come to my house. I f*ck her—out of boredom. The woman, completely naked. Me: Not a single clothing ever leaves my body when I hook up with a woman—even my belt.

And so, as Heather catches us in the middle of the act, the naked woman frantically scrambles off the office table. Picks up her clothes and leaves. I remove the condom. Throw it in the trash. Zip up my pants after.

Heather just stands at the door. The other hand grips the knob, the other a green envelope. Tears keep running down her cheeks. No blinking. No sobbing. Not even breathing. Just staring at me.

F*ck...

There's that piercing in my chest again. This surprises me—not the piercing—but Heather at the door. She was supposed to come home at 6:00. It's only 4:30 P.M. Now she's crying.

And I feel normal—I feel what she feels at this moment—not in the same intensity. This pain in my chest is nothing compared to hers. Mine: shallow; hers... probably deeper, more pain.

I messed up—again. And I don't feel sorry for what I did.

Crossed arms over the chest. Lower back leans against the edge of my desk. I sigh. "Why, Heat? Why are you doing this?" She wasn't supposed to open the door. It was locked. The woman was a screamer. And yet, Heather chose to see. She decided to face the pain instead of escaping it—just like she did that night when she knelt.

Why?

Her brows shift. I can't tell if it's anger or grief.

"What do you want me to do?" she asks, voice cracks. She smiles, but the pain... her smile is all about pain. "Smile? After I saw you f*cking that b*tch?"

"That's not what I'm aski—"

"You are so cheap, Hugo," she cuts me off. Her eyes—pain, then fire. "You are so cheap to f*ck a woman like her!"

My lips curl—almost, but I hold it in. Not because the sensation in my chest fades—but because she's strong enough to show me the only thing I wasn't supposed to see. She didn't beg out of love. Not even for my affection. And then now, the possibility of jealousy appears on the surface.

Her unpredictability... so consistent.

"I hate you." Calm. Direct. Her tone: Low. Her eyes: still in tears, still fiery.

I don't care if she hates me. What I care about is her.

"Heat, I know—"

She turns—fast. Almost runs. I stay still. And then the room door—not my office door—slams.

I'm surprised for a moment. No one has ever slammed a door on me.

And I smile. God... that woman. I'm supposed to feel her pain. But her rebellion... it amuses me.

And yet... the silence wins—again. My smile fades.

Ten seconds. I calculate. Another ten seconds. I end up with nothing.

What the f*ck am I going to say? If I tell the truth, it's still manipulation—even if it's not. If I pretend, it is still manipulation.

"F*ck." I exit my office. The moment I open the room door, Heather opens the guest room across the hallway. I follow. She enters the room. I take one more step. She slams the door in my face.

"Heat," I knock. "Open the door. We have to talk. Now—"

She does. Door wide open. I stop by the entrance—shoulder leans against the frame. She never looks at me; she turns away. Her feet meet the floor—so light as a feather, body moves—so swift as a hurricane. Even when she throws herself on the bed, even when she wraps herself with the white blanket. Fast. Selfish.

No skin to be seen, not even a strand of hair.

It's as if she says: 'You want to talk?' Okay, let's talk—no touch, no look. I still hate you!

I could sit on the bed. Get close to her. But I choose not to. I hooked up with a woman whom she hates—Heather is disgusted with me.

"Why, Heat," I ask again. "Why do you still choose to stay in the same house and keep hurting yourself? Your parents aren't here. They won't know we're not living together."

Curiosity. Fascination. I need data. She insists on walking into the fire instead of stepping away. The women I had encountered before Heather walked away by this point. But Heather... After everything I've done, she stays.

Why?

"Keep hurting myself?" She says it like a joke. Her voice shakes, muffled under the blanket. The laugh is there—not joy. Likely pain, rerouted sideways."You're the one who's hurting me."

"Exactly," I say. "So why? Why stay?"

No response. Only sobs. I have to choose. Staying silent means manipulation. Asking again implies pressure. Either way, I have no intention to control—only curiosity.

My mouth is about to open. But she moves first. Barefoot, still in her office attire: pencil skirt, nude long-sleeved blouse. Afternoon sunlight streaks across her face. Eyes fiery. Cheeks soaked in tears.

Our faces... just over a foot apart. My head bows. Hers tilts upward. Then the two-inch space between my chest and her chin.

Heather wins. She knows I like it when she positions herself like this in front of me. I see her see me—clear, close, candid. Another ritual she learned from me. Now she uses it against me.

But once I say the words, 'Tongue. Out,' her body will comply, it always does—even if her mind doesn't want to.

I could say it. Yet I don't. Talk is what we need right now.

"Does it bother you if I stay here?" She challenges me.

Of course, this bothers me—this position. So I stay silent. Eyes on every corner of her face.

Beautiful.

And too small. Petite. The kind of woman I could carry all day. From this house to my office. And then back. No fatigue. No strain.

But she's also the kind of woman predators—worse than me—want to consume.

Hugo, stop!

Yet I don't: Heather, I carry darkness—and I know you do too. Surrender to it, and I'll let you in. You may hate me today. But tomorrow, you'll crave me. The day after, you'll need me. Until desire devours you, and no one else can love you but me. Only me. The Devil.

"Yes, it bothers me," I reply instead. "Because that's all you can do, cry and tell me you hate me. You're so kind, Heather... to me. Why?"

"I don't know." She hasn't avoided my eyes. This is the longest she's ever held my gaze. No blink. No uncertainty. Just fiery. "Maybe because I love you, or I already know that I love you, but I can't accept it! You're ruthless! You're dangerous! And I hate you! I f*cking hate you!"

It's no surprise, but still unexpected. Another revelation. Another shift. Another anomaly.

My wife wins again.

Heather, a brilliant young woman, definitely not naive, knows what I am. She would never confess to me. 'I love you' means vulnerability—a weapon I could use. And now, she uses it against me.

Intentionally or not, or this confession is the result of my conditioning, I don't care.

True love, trauma bond, manipulation—it doesn't matter.

What matters to me is—my shoulder drops; heart rate increases; skin even gets goosebumps all over, mainly at the back of my neck.

A real dopamine hit.

But if her love is true love...f*ck me...

"You love me, but I hurt you, Heat."

She shakes her head. "Forget it. I chose this anyway. I knew you were a sociopath. I knew your tendencies: you manipulate, you can't love. You don't even see me as a human. You see me as a tool you can use whenever you want. I knew all that, but I married you. I played along with your games. I even played well. I wouldn't have lost..." She swallows. Her eyes, blurred by tears, haven't blinked, and never leave mine. Her voice trembles, but never cracks. "I wouldn't have lost Hermione, our baby. I wouldn't have had her in the first place. It's all my fault."

The way she says the last word—fast. Yet her tears fall, so slow, gentle... almost deliberate yet countless.

The piercing in my chest comes back.

"It's my fault, Heather," I say. Admitting mistakes is different from saying sorry. I don't seek forgiveness. I simply recognize my bad behavior.

Her face goes blank. But eyes never lie—she's repulsed.

Reasonable.

She never sees me take accountability. I always rationalized. Not this time. Heather had enough. I take responsibility—only if she and our daughter are involved.

"Seeing you like this, it hurts me, Heat... right here." I point to my chest. Too late for me to notice—my mask slips. And this surprises me. Especially when my mouth keeps saying words I never meant to say: "If only I could get that pain off your chest and make it mine, I will do it. And if only I knew better, I would turn back time and choose not to hurt you."

Worse part: nobody can turn back time.

Worse still—Heather doesn't respond. She just stares, cries in silence.

In that silence... My eyes burn. My jaw clenches. My chest tightens.

What the f*ck...

It all happened—fast—before I could make sense of everything: Heather slams the door in my face; a tear escapes my eye; my middle finger catches. I examine the liquid. Rub it between my fingers. Not a lot, but it's cold.

It sure is a tear...

Not the first time. But it's been ages since I cried—when my little sister died.

You truly are one in a million, Heather.

I let Heather be—for now. Let the silence take over. I take a shower, and think think think. Five hours. I wait. Sit. Stand. Walk. And then sit again in the living room. I tried to be agitated, frustrated, anxious, in distress—any kind of feelings a normal person would experience. Nothing comes. No matter how perfect I simulate, nothing comes.

F*ck. I've never been like this before. I always calculate. I always plan. Now—none. Only a steady heart and a blank mind.

Then... a thud. The soft click of a door meeting its frame. Quiet and precise. Like someone trying not to be heard.

I don't look up. I don't need to. It's her—Heather, and the sound of something dragging to the floor—suitcases.

No surprise. I've seen this coming. And I reach for that feeling—sadness, misery—still nothing. Just a simple reaction: my body turns, my eyes look up at the stairs.

She's leaving.

And still beautiful. Even when leaving, she's beautiful.

Admiring all her qualities I've seen so far, I choose to care. I choose to block her way out before she passes. Doesn't matter if she doesn't look up. Doesn't matter if she doesn't react.

I choose to speak, "Heather, I—"

"Don't talk." She stole the rest of my sentence. Worth the shot. She tilts her head up and stares back. "Just listen."

Goddamnit—I don't want to. But I will.

"Sana nag-sorry ka na lang. Kahit alam kong peke, sana nag-sorry ka na lang. Pero hindi mo gagawin 'yon, alam ko. Alam na alam ko. Kaso ang tanga ko kasi, e. Kahit alam kong hindi totoo, ang sarap sa pakiramdam kung sakaling sinabi mo 'yon. Siguro may saltik din ako tulad mo, noh? Kasi gusto ko pa ring tuparin ang pangako na binitiwan ko noon sa 'yo—noong kinasal tayo—samahan ka sa hirap at ginhawa."

Her chin trembles. Instantly, her eyes cloud with tears again. I don't understand the language, but there's that piercing in my chest again.

"Mula ngayon, itatago ko sa isang kahon kung ano man 'tong nararamdaman ko para sa'yo—kung pagmamahal ba, o sadyang purong sekswal lang... Kung infatuation ba, o pisikal na atraksyon lang... basta lahat ng pakiramdam na hindi ko dapat maramdaman, itatago kong lahat sa kahon. Isi-seal ko ng duct tape." She scoffs. Tears don't stop falling. Her smile is genuine; likely she says something sardonic as she shakes her head slowly. "Kung puwede kong balutan 'yung buong kahon ng duct tape, gagawin ko. 'Tapos ibabaon ko 'yon sa pinakailalim ng utak ko at hinding hindi ko na kakalkalin pa kahit kailan."

"Heat, I can't—"

"I said, don't talk."

My shoulder drops.

"If you'd ask me to translate, I won't. You wouldn't even care to know what I said. It won't give you any gain. Just take care of yourself."

She walks past me, dragging two suitcases behind her.

I follow. Then I help her load the luggage into the car's trunk. The sensation in my chest fades. For the record, I don't care what she says. She's leaving—I'm allowing her. I respect her decision. I even admire her courage—the wholeness of her agency. For now, she needs someone who can protect her.

Me.

I must find the right person who won't hurt her. Maybe Jean, her true love. He's competent, loyal, and most of all, he loves her. I had witnessed him protect Heather many times. He was even ready to die for her.

"I'll sign the divorce papers," I say. A thud follows as I close the trunk.

Three seconds. Her eyes fix on me. Pain sneaks in there for a while. Before I see it fade, before I open my mouth to speak words I know shouldn't say, she nods. Her eyes land on her feet. She looks up to me again. The pain, gone. A half-smile spread across her face.

She's hurt. I'm not. But I want to.

Heather walks past me again. She never looks back as I follow. She still doesn't when she climbs into the driver's seat.

My arm moves fast, blocking the entrance just before Heather closes the car. She pauses. Puzzled. Her eyes were asking questions. Too many. I don't waste time decoding them all, even if I can.

Instead, I bend down, take her hand—enclose it in my palms. I kiss her knuckles, longer than I should.

For the first time, I don't count. For the first time, I give time to name the perfume she's wearing, not just woody—it's sandalwood. I've been with her for almost a year—the audacity I have to overlook that little detail about her. I don't even know what her favorite color was. The food that made her happy. The movie title that made her laugh and cry. Even every book she read before she went to sleep.

I was there all the time; I didn't ask—because they didn't matter.

"I know you said don't talk," I murmur. Eyes on hers. Her hand still touches my lips. "I only want you to know that you are the strongest woman I've seen. Meeting someone like you will always be the best thing that has ever happened to me. And I don't care if you don't believe me."

Heather's face softens. Her gaze flickers between my eyes. Searching. Asking. Her free hand cups my cheek.

And God—her touch. Warm and soft. It steals the air from my lungs. She's touched me many times before. This one hits me differently. I'm alive. I'm human.

She pulls her hand free from my grasp. Places it on my jaw. Before I process what's happening, she kisses me.

Softly.

So softly that my heartbeat goes wild, I forget to breathe. My feet: numb. My body, weightless. My skin: prickly with goosebumps.

Hell—it's pure dopamine hit...

Usually, it takes manipulation, s*x, or even killing to make me feel this way.

Now, it comes from a kiss. A simple kiss on the lips. No tongues. No sounds. No moans even.

I will be disappointed if she pulls back. And she does.

I should drag her out of the car. Carry her back inside the house. Tie her limbs with a rope. Seal her mouth with duct tape. Make sure she never leaves me again.

I could. I wouldn't care about the consequences.

But I clench my jaw. I stand. Step back a few feet away from the car.

Heather shuts the door without looking at me. The car rolls forward. I watch. It leaves the front yard. Turn down the road. Then disappear around the corner.

Just like that, she's gone.

I expect the piercing in the chest. None comes.

Of course. She's not with you anymore.

I should follow her. And know where she lives.

Stop—my left hand already pulls my phone. Ready to call Heunice. I tap and tap the screen. One more to go—but I stop.

"That your wife?"

A voice came from behind. Crisp. Monotone. Not high, not even low.

I turn. A blue-eyed teenager, wearing a bonnet, hoodie, and jeans. A cigarette hanging from his lips. A large camellia tattoo bloomed on his neck, peeking out from the collar of his coat. Piercings glinted on his lower lip and both ears.

The boy stood only an inch shorter than me.

"Excuse me?" I ask.

The teenager grins, pulling the cigarette from his mouth. "I'm asking if that's your wife."

Narrowed eyes. My chin lifts. Hands go inside my front pocket. "You need something, kid?" My jaw clenches, instinctively.

The boy scoffs. He takes another drag. Smoke comes out through his nose as he speaks. "You don't remember me, do you?"

"Do I have to?"

"Not now. But you will, eventually. Name's Vassi Kazeev, by the way."

I don't speak. I stay still. My eyes don't even blink, scanning him from toes to head.

The surname—Kazeev—brings a faint recognition. I've seen this boy once before, back when I was in college.

Only a toddler by then.

Serene's younger brother.

__________

Every choice, every tear, every betrayal—I catalog them all. Heather leaves, but the shadow she casts follows me. Pain, desire, love—they are data points, and I am patient enough to wait until the pattern reveals itself. The breakup is a phase, not an ending.

–Hugo

__________