Five Years of His Lies

I found them near the conservatory, partially hidden by a towering palm. Franklyn' s voice was low, laced with a tenderness I hadn't heard in years.

He was gently stroking Heaven' s hair, murmuring something about how unfair the world had been to her.

Heaven leaned into his touch, then pulled back slightly. "I don't need pity, Franklyn," she said, her voice sharp. "I need to prove myself. On my own."

His eyes, usually so calculating, softened further. "You deserve every success, Heaven. More than anyone I know."

Then he pulled a thick, leather-bound portfolio from inside his jacket. It was too familiar. My heart dropped.

He pressed it into her hands. "This community arts center project. It needs a visionary. Someone with your drive."

"But this is… immense," Heaven demurred, but her fingers already traced the cover. "It would make my foundation's year."

"And it will be credited to you," Franklyn said, his voice firm. "Every single piece of it."

My breath hitched. The blood roared in my ears. I stepped out from behind the palm, my legs feeling like lead. "That's my design," I stated, my voice shaking despite my best efforts.

Franklyn turned, his expression quickly hardening. "Clara. What are you doing out here?" His tone was dismissive.

"That portfolio," I insisted, pointing a trembling finger. "That's my community arts center design. For our son."

He sighed, as if I were being inconvenient. "Heaven needs this, Clara. She's building something from nothing. You have everything."

"You built nothing from nothing," I countered, my voice cracking. "That project was my soul. It was for us. For him."

Franklyn's jaw tightened. "Don't be dramatic. It's just a design. And it's going to do a lot of good, now. For Heaven."

Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. Heaven clutched the portfolio tighter, a sly smirk ghosting her lips.

"Thank you, Clara," Heaven said, her voice dripping with fake sincerity. "I'll be sure to make your… original vision proud."

Franklyn opened the conservatory door for Heaven. She passed me, her perfume sickeningly sweet. He didn't look back.

The sleek black car pulled away, leaving me standing alone in the grand, empty driveway. The first drops of rain splattered against my bare shoulders.

I kicked off my heels. The cold asphalt felt like ice beneath my feet. I walked, not caring where. The rain began to pour.

Through the downpour, I heard it. Their laughter. Free, joyful, utterly oblivious laughter. It cut through the night like a knife.

I remembered Franklyn' s vows, five years ago. "Forever," he' d promised, his eyes shining. "Always."

He wasn't always. He was never. The man who stood next to me on our wedding day was a stranger. The one who truly hurt me was him.

I somehow made it back to the penthouse. The city lights blurred through the rain-streaked windows. I felt a sudden, dizzying lurch.

My legs gave out. I crumpled to the cold marble floor, my head hitting the ground with a dull thud. Everything swam.

Hours later, the bedroom door creaked open. Franklyn. He found me there, a heap on the floor. His eyes widened.

He rushed to me, lifting me into his arms. "Clara? What happened?" His voice was laced with a concern that felt foreign.

He carried me to the bed, stroking my hair. His touch was almost tender. It was the way he used to hold me.

A sickeningly sweet scent of Heaven' s perfume clung to him. It was everywhere. On his shirt, in his hair, on his skin.

"You smell nice," I said, my voice barely a whisper. My own words tasted like ash.

He pulled back, a flicker of guilt in his eyes. "It's nothing. Just… business."

"Of course," I said, staring blankly at the ceiling. "Business. And when business is done, you'll come back to me, won't you? Like a good little boy."

He sighed, a long, weary sound. "Clara, you know I always come home to you."

But his words held no comfort. They were just empty promises. I couldn't even cry. My tears had dried up long ago.

I stared at him, numb. He was my husband. And he was a stranger.