Revealed
895 Words
The car choked on silence.
His hand stayed on the gear shift. Knuckles white. Mine stayed in my lap. White bandage against my thigh. Every red light, I felt sweat bead at my temple and the cut throb under the gauze.
Michael didn’t speak. Neither did I.
Not after the garden. Not after why do you keep choosing this life.
The city slid past the windows. Blurred lights. Too fast. Too slow.
He parked. Got out. Opened my door.
Didn’t touch me.
The elevator was quiet. His reflection beside mine. Ring on his finger. Gold. Catching the downlights.
I thought he’d take it off after the vows. After the cameras. After the contract was signed.
He didn’t.
The doors opened.
The penthouse didn’t welcome me. Glass walls. Marble. White duvet already turned down like someone expected us. His space. His rules. No garden. No lies to hide behind. Just the sound of my breath and his shadow cutting across the floor.
I went straight to the bathroom. Locked the door.
The water was scalding. I let it hit my shoulders, my back, my face. Makeup ran down the drain in beige streaks. Foundation. Concealer. The armor.
For a while I was just skin. Just the birthmark. Real.
Then I heard the door.
He knocked once. Didn’t wait.
“Michael—”
“I’m not leaving.” His voice through the wood. No CEO. No soft. Just tired.
I shut the water off. Wrapped a towel around me. Heart hammering.
I stepped out.
He was on the bed.
Not standing. Not pacing. Sitting on the edge of the duvet. iPad in his hands. Eyes on the screen.
Our wedding photos.
Him in a black tux. Me in white. His hand at my waist. My face turned just enough that the camera didn’t catch my left temple.
The wedding ring shone on his fingers. Heavy. Real.
I thought he would take it off after the wedding vow.
He didn’t.
Michael looked up.
I moved fast. Hand flew up. Covered my bare face. All of it. Palm flat against my cheek and temple.
“Don’t.”
His voice was rough. He stood. iPad clattered onto the duvet.
“Don’t hide from me.”
I stepped back. Heel hit the bathroom doorframe.
“Don’t look,” I said. My voice cracked. “Please.”
He stopped. Three feet away. Close enough that I could see the gold in his eyes. Close enough to see the hurt from the garden was still there.
“Ariana.”
He said my name like it wasn’t on paper.
“Why do you think I haven’t taken it off?”
He lifted his hand. The ring caught the light.
“You think this is fake to me?”
I couldn’t breathe. The towel wasn’t enough. The bandage wasn’t enough. Nothing was covering me.
He stepped closer. I flinched.
“Don’t,” he said again. Not an order. A plea.
His hand came up. Slow. He hooked two fingers under my wrist. Gentle. Pulled my hand down from my face.
The air hit my skin. Cold.
I turned my head. Fast. Sharp. Made sure the stained side faced the wall. Away from him. My good side to him. Only my good side.
His fingers went still on my wrist.
He didn’t see it.
He saw my jaw. My neck. My ear. Not the port-wine stain. Not the dark purple across my temple and cheekbone.
Then he let go.
The disappointment was quiet. In the way his shoulders dropped. Just a fraction. In the way his breath left him.
“Is that how much you dislike me?” His voice was low. Flat.
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
He nodded to himself. Like he’d gotten his answer.
“I think it’s high time I let you be.”
No ice. No CEO. Just a man who looked tired of bleeding.
He turned.
I wanted to grab his arm. Wanted to drag him back. Wanted to press my face into his chest and tell him I’d been crushing on him since I was sixteen. That I memorized his interviews. That I knew he took his coffee black with no sugar. That I yearned for him until my ribs ached.
But then I remembered.
The boardroom.
His mouth.
Warning label.
Fear came in. Wearing self defense like perfume.
So I stood there. Towel clutched to my chest. Bandage on my finger. Birthmark hidden.
And I watched him leave.
His broad shoulders. The way his shirt pulled across his back. His waistline. The way he moved like he owned the air.
Only if he knew.
But what does a warning label know?
The door creaked when he shut it. Soft. Final.
I heard his voice outside. Low. Talking to someone. Couldn’t make out the words.
My feet felt wobbly. Knees wanted to give out.
A knock.
I sucked in a breath. Anger rushed up, hot and fast. I wanted to yell What’s wrong with you, Michael? Come back and fight me!
The door opened.
Not Michael.
Xavier. Twenty-two. Housekeeper. Black uniform. Eyes kind.
She stepped in. Saw me.
I turned too late.
She saw my face.
The port-wine stain. Dark purple across my temple and cheekbone. Wet hair. Bare skin. No mask.
Her mouth opened. Just a little.
And I had nothing left to cover it with.
- Writer
