"Custom-Made" Lies

By then, my emotions had already exploded, reasoning completely gone as I tore through the cramped, hidden space like a madwoman.

Marc finally snapped, shouting, "Vera, what the hell is wrong with you?!"

But I still found no one. So I yanked my phone from my pocket, opened the surveillance footage, and thrust the screen in his face.

"Where is this woman? Where did you hide her?!"

His eyes fell on the screen, and his expression darkened with fury.

"You're spying on me?"

But the glimpse of that figure had already drowned out everything else. I didn't care about his anger.

"I'm asking you—where is that woman?!"

"Woman?" A mocking laugh escaped him. He pointed to a female mannequin standing in the corner. "That's the woman you're talking about."

He walked over and positioned the mannequin in the same posture as the blurry figure that had flashed across the video.

I froze.

The silhouette of the mannequin did seem… strangely similar to the one in the footage.

Had I… really misunderstood him?

My clarity returned inch by inch, my limbs turning cold. Not only had I suspected him—I'd spied on him, stormed into his office, and practically accused him of adultery on the spot.

"I… I'm sorry…" I rubbed my forehead, my voice dry and shaky.

With his back facing me, Marc stayed silent for a long time. The line of his shoulders looked stiff, strained. When he finally turned around, his eyes were bloodshot, his face drawn with exhaustion.

"It's fine," he said quietly. "I know I've been working late and neglecting you. It's normal you'd start overthinking."

I blinked, stunned. He… was apologizing to me?

"It's my fault," he continued softly. "I shouldn't let work get to me and make you feel insecure."

He pulled me into his arms, holding me tightly, pressing his chin gently to the top of my head.

"We really haven't talked properly in a while. Go home first, take a shower, wait for me. I'll clean up here and come back right away, okay?"

His gentleness, his patience—every bit of it made my guilt swell unbearably.

What else could I say?

I nodded and went home.

But once I sat down in the living room, a strange unease twisted inside me.

Something still felt wrong. The thorn in my chest hadn't been removed—if anything, it sank even deeper.

I pulled out my phone and replayed the footage. Once. Twice. Ten times. Twenty.

Then I slowed it to half speed, staring at the screen without blinking.

And in that fleeting moment, I finally saw it. I finally realized what had felt wrong from the beginning.

Marc had lied to me.