Chapter 12: The Ledger of Lies
1204 Words
The heavy door to our suite clicked shut, sealing out the muffled laughter and the clinking of crystal from the dining room downstairs. The walk up the grand staircase had felt like an ascent to a gallows.
Michael didn’t wait. He was behind me in two steps, his hands sliding over my shoulders, his thumbs tracing the line of my collarbone with a familiarity that used to make my skin hum. He leaned down, his lips ghosting against the sensitive skin behind my ear.
"You were incredible tonight," he murmured, his voice that low, gravelly vibration that usually signaled the end of my resolve. "The way you handled Sloane… I missed that fire. I missed seeing you stand your ground."
He turned me around in his arms, his eyes dark and hungry, seeking a connection I wasn't ready to give. His hands moved to my waist, pulling me flush against him. I could feel the heat of him, the sheer physical gravity he exerted on everyone in his orbit. He leaned in for a kiss, his eyes fluttering shut, but I turned my head at the last second. His lips landed on my cheek instead, dry and misplaced.
The silence that followed was deafening. Michael didn’t pull away immediately, but his body went still, his grip tightening just a fraction.
"I’m exhausted, Michael," I said, my voice steady despite the roar of my thoughts. I stepped out of his embrace, the sudden absence of his heat making the room feel ten degrees colder. "The journey, the dinner, the… atmosphere downstairs. I just want to sleep."
He watched me for a long beat, his expression a mask of controlled disappointment. He wasn't used to being told no, especially not when he felt he’d been "generous" all week. But he was playing the part of the loving man now, and that meant he had to be patient, even if it cost him.
"Of course," he said softly, though the edge in his voice was sharp enough to cut. "Get some rest, Olivia. We have a long weekend ahead of us."
I didn't wait for him to say more. I climbed into the massive, silk-draped bed, turning my back to the center of the mattress and pulling the duvet up to my chin.
I stared into the darkness, the ceiling fan spinning like a slow, hypnotic blade. Seeing Sloane tonight hadn't just been an insult; it was a physical trigger. It sent me spiraling back to the exact moment the version of Michael who had lied to me repeatedly just to hide his the side piece,Beatrice.
We had been together a year when the shift happened. The lovey-dovey phase was supposed to be deepening, but Michael had suddenly become a shadow. He was "busy"—meetings that ran until 2:00 AM, weekend trips for "logistics" that didn't make sense, phone calls taken in the hallway with his hand cupped over the receiver.
I remember the day I finally broke the unspoken rule and looked at his phone. It had been sitting on the kitchen island, glowing with a notification. My hands had been shaking so violently I nearly dropped the glass of water I was holding. I bypassed the code—he used my birthday back then, a detail that felt like a mockery once I saw the truth—and there it was.
A thread of messages. A contact saved simply as “Baby” followed by a string of heart and fire emojis.
The messages were a roadmap of betrayal. “I miss your touch.” “Can’t wait for Friday.” “The office or the hotel?.” My stomach had lurched, a cold, oily slick of nausea rising in my throat. I didn't scream. I didn't throw the phone. Instead, a terrifyingly cold clarity had taken over. I copied the number into my own phone, my fingers flying across the screen with a precision I didn't know I possessed.
At the time, everyone was using VibeCheck, a social platform where the elite shared "Day-in-the-Life" snippets. I saved her number and synced my contacts, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I found her almost instantly.
She didn't have a face in her profile picture yet, just a stylized, minimalist logo: B. House Esthetics.
But the adrenaline didn't care about a logo. On the day I found that number, I had a million-dollar deal to close for the firm I worked for back then. I remember sitting in my car in the parking lot, the steering wheel slick with my sweat. Tears welled in my eyes, hot and stinging, threatening to ruin the makeup I’d applied so carefully that morning.
“Not now,” I whispered to my reflection, my voice sounding like it belonged to a stranger. “Suck it in. Win the deal. Cry later.”
I walked into that boardroom and performed. I was sharp, aggressive, and brilliant. I closed the deal, shook hands, and smiled until my face ached. The moment I walked out, I made it to the executive restroom, locked the stall, and collapsed. I cried until I couldn't breathe, the sound of my sobs muffled by the hum of the hand dryers. I cried for the girl who believed him. I cried for the year I’d wasted building a future on a foundation of sand.
I cried for days in secret after that, putting on my "dutiful girl" mask the moment I heard his key in the lock. I practiced my smile in the mirror until it looked authentic. I needed him to believe I was in the dark. I needed the time to dig deeper.
And I did
.
I followed her on LinkUp, another platform where the elite posted their "aesthetic" lives. That was where the real evidence lived. I saw the pictures of the luxury hotels in Dubai on the exact weekend Michael told me he was at a tech conference in London. I saw the back of his head in a photo she captioned “My King.” I saw the flirty comments he left—words he used to say to me, now repurposed for Beatrice.
“You look breathtaking, B.”
“Count the hours until I’m back.”
Every comment was a jagged piece of glass embedded in my heart. The pain was so intense it felt like a physical weight on my chest, making it hard to take a full breath. I realized then why he didn't want to commit to me officially. He didn't want to give me the title of "girlfriend" or "fiancée" because he wanted the freedom to be "busy" with Beatrice and the others without the pesky burden of guilt. He wanted to keep his options open while keeping me on a leash.
As I lay in the dark villa now, listening to the man who claimed to love me breathe in his sleep, I reached into my mind and touched those memories again. They didn't hurt less; they just felt more like fuel.
- Writer
