Love, Lies and Power

Broken Heart 💜 Sandra’s POV I step back from the window and let my fingers trail over the sill. The evening breeze carries memories I have tried to bury. My heart feels raw tonight, exposed by the harsh truth I carry inside. I remember the first time I met Fergus. His words still echo in my mind. He clasped my hands and said he loved me, that he wanted forever with me. His eyes were bright, full of hope. I nodded, pretending to share his hope. I smiled, though my lips trembled. Inside, my heart was burning with love, not for him, but for someone else. I pressed my lips together. I could not tell him that truth. I could not let him see how torn I was. I told him I did not feel anything. I told him he was only a distraction. I watched confusion and hurt flash across his face. My voice sounded cold even to my own ears. I lied to protect him from the storm inside me. The villa feels empty in the twilight. Its European arches and polished floors once made me feel safe. Now they remind me of every silent meal and every quiet room I have endured. For five years I wore the title Madam Rogers. I was the mayor’s wife. I attended all the official dinners. I gave polite speeches when guests praised my life. No one guessed the truth behind my smile. Steph Rogers, the city’s mayor, was a man of order and duty. He provided well. He guided policies. He took pride in his work. He never struck me, never spoke cruelly. But he never held me like a wife who was loved. He never looked at me with warmth. He treated me as a necessary companion, someone who fulfilled the human need for marriage, someone who bore his children. I would sit beside him at dinner parties and watch his face come alive when he spoke with other politicians. I would smile at the women who whispered praise about how gracious I was, how beautifully I carried myself. I felt my smile freeze every time I realized I was merely a prop in his life. Last night he returned from a three-week trip. He said it was for mayoral duties. I was alone here in the cool halls, waiting. When he stepped through the door, he did not greet me. He did not pause to look at me. He removed his suit and tie and walked into our bedroom without a word. I told myself he must be tired. I tried to believe he cared. I slipped into the sheets beside him and waited. Hours passed. At midnight, I called him by name as he prepared to sleep. “What would you like to do?” I asked, voice soft. I held a magazine with pictures of new positions I hoped might bring us closer. I dared to hope he would try something different with me. His eyes sharpened. He tossed the magazine aside, called it vulgar, and stormed out of the room. I lay alone, my heart pounding with embarrassment and anger. * The next morning, I met my friends at our favorite café. Vera, Lily, and Katy waited at our usual table. I felt safer with them than I had in weeks. “I cannot live like this,” I said, stirring my coffee. “One more day and I might lose my mind.” Vera laughed and tipped her wine. “You should grab the first handsome man you see and never look back.” Lily frowned. “He is your husband. You committed to him. You cannot just leave.” Katy reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “Sandra, we will stand by you. You deserve happiness.” They cheered when Vera reminded me of my upcoming birthday. I will turn twenty-eight in two months. We did nothing to plan my party. The thought of celebration made my chest tighten. I wanted a moment of joy, a memory that was mine alone, not marred by politics or empty speeches. “Let’s do it ourselves,” I said. No event planner. We will create something real. They cheered again, and hope fluttered in my chest. I walked back to the villa with them, sunlight dancing on the trees. Steph had funded the party without question. He never asked me what I wanted. He said only, “Make it grand.” I thanked him in public. Inside, I hated him for using my birthday as a stage for his political friends. I will enjoy my own celebration. I will laugh until my cheeks ache. I will stand surrounded by people who know who I really am. That night I lay awake, my mind replaying every cold glance, every lonely night. I kept thinking of Fergus. His touch was gentle, his words honest. But I could not trust myself. I could not let him see me break. My phone vibrated with a text from Vera. A reminder of our planning meeting. I closed my eyes and drew in a steady breath. Tomorrow I will choose. Tomorrow I will see if I can find a way to free my heart. I pick up my journal at my bedside. I write a single line: My heart is a canvas of scars. I stare at the page. No matter how many layers of paint I add, the scars remain. I close the journal and press my hand to my chest. The villa is silent around me, but my heart still thunders. I promise myself this: I will not lie again. I will speak my truth, no matter the cost. I slip into sleep with that promise guiding me. Tomorrow I will begin to paint a new picture, one where my scars do not control my story.