Mon Cher.
1616 Words
“Bobert.” A nickname Maya generated for his nerdy personality in school.
I hear him chuckle from the phone, “Aurora Hale, or should I say, Stone. Who am I thanking for this?” his mild baritone voice booms in my ear.
“Maybe, Maya?”
I know it’ll pique his interest since he’s been after her since forever, but I don’t have time for that.
“How’s she—”
“She’s great. Hey, I need your help with something, but I don’t want to get caught.”
“You’re speaking my language. What’s up?”
I frantically twist the gold ring on my finger, hesitating. “I need you to tap into someone’s phone for me… It’s my husband’s.”
“Something’s wrong in paradise?”
“I don’t have time to explain, okay? Can you do it?”
“Yeah, sure. You want me to go through his files for you?”
“NO!” My reaction is instant and weird. “Uh, where can I meet you?”
I write the location down and start the car. Driving for 30 minutes, I park my teal BMW IX, by a small playground and wait for him.
I look out my window and watch kids having the time of their lives, swaying down slides and screaming on swings, some adults watch, while others parade the place, cheering their kids on.
Staring wistfully at them, a knock on the other side of my car draws my attention. Robert still looked the same.
I unlock the car and he enters, shrugging off his backpack. He smelt like old books and socks.
Nerd!
“You look great, Aurora.”
I smile and nod. “You look… great, too.”
He smirks, pulling out his laptop. He asks for Lucian’s details, as he types furiously on his laptop and I give it to him, mine included. My heart races in my chest.
What am I doing? I almost tell him to stop, when a notification flashes on my screen. My thumb hovers on the accept icon on my screen, and I feel Bob’s eyes on me.
I click on it, and many files pop on, documents, call logs, search history… I lifted my head to look at Bob, who was tidying up his laptop.
“Wait,” I say, my eyes glued to his laptop. “Nothing’s connected to you, right?”
He shakes his head, “Are you sure you don’t want to meet the police about whatever this is?”
I shake my head, “It’s… fine.”
I thank him again before he exits the car.
Back home, my eyes remain on my phone, and I force myself not to search very deeply. It’s his privacy after all, he has a reason for not sharing.
I wait on my phone all day, hoping, praying I’m wrong. Many messages pop in—report reminders, meeting schedules.
I quickly texted Maya what I’d done.
I just want to know I’m not crazy, or punishing myself with terrible imaginations, is that so wrong?
I get so focused on reading, that I merely realize when her text returns.
Maya: Babe, do you listen to anything I say to you at all?
I screenshot his texts and sent them to her.
Maya: Looks like work stuff. Stop torturing yourself if he hasn’t cheated yet.
Maya: Don’t spiral.
Maybe she’s right. I’m only torturing myself. I throw my phone aside, brooding.
There’s no woman, maybe he’s just stressed. I shake my head at myself for thinking otherwise, and stand, making my way to the kitchen to prepare dinner.
Lucian comes home early again, which is weird, but I say nothing. He’s not going to answer me anyway.
When I’m done with the parmesan, I stroll to Lucian’s study to find him buried deep in whatever reports he was reading. I narrow my eyes at the farthest from him, but catch him looking at me through his glasses.
“Uh, dinner’s ready?”
His reply is a grunt and I nearly scoff at the man. Turning on my heels to leave, his voice stops me in my tracks.
“Are you busy on Friday?”
I c**k my head; he’s never asked me something like this before. “No,” I say, expecting him to say he wants to take me out or we can talk about whatever this situation is by then.
I catch him glancing at my body for a split second, before he returns his eyes to my face.
Ah, Luce, say what you’re thinking.
He clears his throat, eyes retreating to the paper in his hand. “Mom wants a family dinner. I’ll send you a dress, and a car to pick you up.”
What the…
Is that it? No ‘let’s talk after dinner?’
Has he told his mom already? Gosh, that woman frightens even the heavens.
The things she would say to make my life more miserable than it is.
A reply is already on my lips, but I swallow it. It’s no use anyway.
I’m almost out the door when it slips out.
“Can we talk after dinner then?”
He tips his head up, hooded grey eyes stare back at me. We don’t say anything for a long time.
Exhausted, I walk out leaving him to his space.
This has been my life for the last year: unanswered questions, hushed replies, s****l tensions, and loneliness.
I’m in the middle of my dinner when my screen lights up with a notification.
Another work message, I guess, still reaching for it from across the table.
Mon cher, dinner tonight? Same place?
Wide-eyed, my fork wobbles out of my fingers as I read the text again. In minutes, Lucian strolls out of his study, blazer in hand.
My chest constricts and it’s suddenly hard to breathe. He’s going to meet her, that fast.
“I’ll be back,” he calls out, which is weird too.
I never know when he leaves or returns.
The door shuts behind him with a click and I keep staring at it, long after he’s gone.
Maybe it’s work, a business meeting with a foreign business partner.
Who am I kidding?
I dash out after him, limping as I struggle to slip my sneaker, then I take the public elevator to the basement to avoid colliding with him.
My heart drums in war beats. The phone buzzes in my hand, and I pause, heart thudding, fingers trembling.
I missed you today.
What?
I glance around before hiding behind a pillar in the parking lot, watching Lucian get into his car in the VIP section.
I wait till he drives past me, before I hurry into mine.
He texted her back. God… he said he missed her. I wipe my face, hesitating.
I’m just going to check, to ease my mind, that's all.
Sending Maya another text, I push the ignition button and ease out of the building.
Drops of rain pelt on my windshield, I turn the wiper and the heater on, my gaze pinning the white Audi A8 ahead of me, separated by two cars between us.
One year with him and he has never responded to me like that, never said he missed me before.
All of a sudden, this chick from nowhere texts, TEXTS!
And he’s running like the apocalypse is upon him.
Mon cher…
Isn’t that French? Or is that a nickname? I exhale in the dark space of my car, feeling like a Sherlock for all I care
The traffic just had to clear up fast tonight, because even they suspect Lucian Stone. How ironic is that?
I park several feet away from him, turning off my engine, while watching him step out of his car in my rear-view mirror.
Is that a flipping rosebud in his hand? Where did he get that from? And since when does he know flowers exist?
He walks leisurely to a red-lit, single building, with steam puffing out at the rear end.
There are other cars and bikers parked out front, making man noises and arguing over the beers tucked into their hands.
He strolls past them, pushes the door open, and disappears into it.
I wait in my car, the windshield wipers beat like a clock, and somehow, my heart beats in sync with it.
The rain sputters on the car, raising my raw nerves, wishing it were all a dream. After waiting for so long, my hand moves to open the car door.
Taking a deep breath, I step out of my car, running in the same direction. The bikers give catcalls at something, but I’m too beat-up from the rain to turn around.
Stopping at the door, realizing it’s a private diner, I scan the whole place for any sign of Lucian, embracing the warmth of the room.
Red painted walls, a yellow bulb hanging from the ceiling, pristine seats huddled together, food on some tables with people having fun conversations.
No Lucian.
No Mon cher.
Someone ushers me to the bar, but I’m twisting in my seat, turning my head sideways.
Where did he go?
After a few minutes with no sight of them, I resort to staking out in the car instead.
Slipping out of the seat with my head down, I bump into someone. Amber cologne fills my nostrils like a drug.
Shut up!
“Aurora?” his deep voice calls as he steadies me with his large hands around my upper arm.
It’s been so long since he called my name like that.
Slick palms, with cold sweat trickling down my spine; I lift my head and we lock gazes.
Shit!
- Writer
