THE BOY NEXT DOOR

Chapter 3 : The Cold Morning After

The words "*She bought it?*" felt like ice in Elena’s stomach. She stood frozen in the moonlight, Marco’s dead phone heavy in her hand. His breathing was deep and steady in the bed. He looked peaceful. How could he sleep while her world was cracking apart?

Carefully, like moving through thick fog, Elena put the phone back in his jacket pocket. Her fingers felt numb. She turned and stared at Marco’s sleeping face. This was the boy next door. The man she’d loved since she was ten. Now, he felt like a stranger wearing a familiar face.

*What did I buy?* The question screamed inside her head. *What is Phase 1? What comes next?*

She couldn’t stay in the room. The air felt too thick, too full of lies. Silently, she slipped out onto her small balcony. The cool night air of Lisbon brushed her skin, carrying the distant sound of the city and the salty smell of the river. Below, Alfama’s narrow streets were quiet. The pretty, painted buildings looked like a stage set now – fake and hiding secrets.

She leaned against the cold iron railing, trying to breathe. The antique key Marco had given her felt like a burning coal in her pocket. A key to a dream… or a trap?

Hours crawled by. The sky slowly turned from black to deep blue, then pale pink. Birds began to chirp. Lisbon was waking up. Elena felt hollow, scraped raw inside. She hadn’t slept a wink.

Inside, Marco stirred. Elena quickly wiped her eyes, took a deep breath, and forced her face into something she hoped looked normal. She walked back into the bedroom just as he stretched, yawning.

"Morning, beautiful," he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep. He smiled, the easy, charming smile she knew so well. He reached for her. "Come back to bed."

For a second, she almost did. The pull of habit, of love, was strong. But the memory of that cold look he gave the waiter, the text message – *She bought it?* – stopped her.

"Morning," she managed, her voice sounding strange to her own ears. "I… I couldn’t sleep. Made some coffee." She gestured vaguely towards the kitchen.

He sat up, the sheet falling to his waist. He looked perfect, relaxed. "Thinking about our penthouse view?" he teased, his eyes bright. "Exciting, right?"

*Exciting?* It felt like a trapdoor opening under her feet. "Yeah," she lied. "Overwhelming, in a good way." The words tasted sour.

"Good overwhelming is the best kind," he declared, swinging his legs out of bed. He stretched again, muscles flexing. "Let’s celebrate properly today! Brunch at **Pastéis de Belém**? My treat. We can watch the boats on the river, dream about *our* view." He emphasized "*our*".

*Our view.* The words that once sounded like heaven now sounded like a prison sentence. "Brunch sounds nice," Elena said, trying to sound enthusiastic. She needed time to think, to figure out what to do.

As Marco showered, Elena moved like a robot. She made coffee, the strong Portuguese kind he liked. She tried to eat a piece of toast, but it felt like cardboard. Her mind raced. *Phase 1 complete. She bought it?* What did Marco get for tricking her? Money? Power? Why?

Marco emerged, dressed in crisp chinos and a light blue shirt, looking effortlessly handsome. He smelled of cedar soap and confidence. He took the coffee she offered, his fingers brushing hers. Once, that touch would have sent sparks through her. Now, it just made her skin crawl.

"Ready for pastéis?" he asked, grinning. He seemed genuinely happy. Was he happy because he loved her? Or because his plan was working?

They walked down the steep, winding streets of Alfama. The morning sun was warm. Tourists were starting to appear. Marco held her hand, chatting easily about the Ribeira project, about how successful Silva Ventures was becoming. He talked about the penthouse details – the huge windows, the modern kitchen, the terrace just for her art.

"It’s going to be perfect, Elena," he said, squeezing her hand. "Our perfect life starts now."

"Marco," Elena ventured carefully, her heart pounding. "It all sounds amazing. Really. When… when can I actually *see* the warehouse? Even just walk past it? I’d love to picture it properly." She tried to sound eager, not suspicious.

Marco’s steps didn’t falter, but his smile tightened just a tiny bit. He waved his free hand dismissively. "Soon, *Amor*, very soon. There’s a small hiccup. See, there’s this grumpy old man who owns the tiny lot right next door. He’s being difficult about selling. If he sees us snooping around the warehouse, looking like the new owners already, he might jack up the price or refuse to sell altogether. Nasty piece of work." He sighed dramatically. "Real estate, right? So annoying. But don’t worry, I’ll handle it. Just trust me, okay? You’ll see it soon enough, and you’ll love it. No point stressing over the outside now when the inside will be so spectacular."

*Trust me.* The words landed like stones. He wouldn’t show her the building. Another excuse. Another wall.

Her phone buzzed in her bag. Sofia.

> **Sofia:** SOS. My place. ASAP. Washing machine exploded? More like my BRAIN exploded worrying about you. *Worried face emoji.* Please?

Elena grabbed the lifeline. "Oh! That’s Sofia," she said, holding up her phone. "Her washing machine flooded her apartment. Again. Total disaster. She needs help moving stuff before it gets ruined." She tried to look apologetic. "I should probably go… it sounds bad."

Marco’s smile slipped for a fraction of a second. He quickly plastered it back on. "Of course. Saint Elena to the rescue," he said, a slight edge in his voice. "But tonight? Dinner? Just us? I feel like last night was all about the penthouse. Tonight should be just about us." He pulled her close, kissing her forehead. "I’ll make reservations somewhere special."

"Dinner sounds perfect," Elena agreed, already desperate to escape his touch, his lies. "I’ll text you later?" She pulled away gently.

"Sure thing, *Amor*," Marco said, watching her. His eyes seemed sharper suddenly, more watchful. "Help Sofia. I’ll see you tonight." He turned and walked down the street towards the tram stop, his posture relaxed and confident.

Elena watched him go, the cold dread from the night before solidifying into a hard, heavy lump in her chest. The boy next door was walking away, and she felt utterly alone. She needed Sofia. She needed the truth, or at least, someone else to see the cracks in the perfect picture.