Five Years of His Lies

I ran. Blindly. Stumbling through the chaos, past the flashing lights and shocked faces.

Franklyn caught up to me backstage, grabbing my arm. He saw my tears, and his brow furrowed, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

"Clara," he began, his voice surprisingly gentle. "I-"

Then Heaven appeared, her arms wrapping around his waist from behind. She buried her face in his back, sobbing theatrically. "Franklyn, I'm so scared. What are we going to do?"

He stiffened, his gaze immediately shifting to her. He pulled away from me, turning to console her, his hand stroking her hair. I was forgotten, again.

In the back of the car, speeding away from the wreckage of my life, I scrolled through social media. Heaven had already posted.

A selfie, her eyes red-rimmed, clinging to Franklyn. "So grateful for his strength in my darkest hour," the caption read.

The photo showed Franklyn's hand, so gentle, so protective, covering hers. My stomach twisted.

I let out a bitter laugh. They were celebrating. Their victory. Over me.

A chill snaked up my spine, deeper than the air conditioning. I was cold. So cold.

Slowly, deliberately, I pulled off my wedding ring. The band felt foreign, a mockery of a promise.

It was light. So incredibly light. A joke. Five years, and it weighed nothing.

I rolled down the window. The cold night air rushed in, carrying the scent of the river. Without a second thought, I tossed the ring into the dark water.

It plunged beneath the surface with barely a ripple, swallowed by the depths. No sound. No echo. Just gone.

I knew then what I had to do. The divorce papers I' d drafted months ago, tucked away for a day I hoped would never come. It was time.

That night, I dreamt of the sea. Always the sea. It swelled, dark and menacing, then swallowed something precious. My baby. My stillborn son. He was snatched away, again and again, by the relentless tide.

I woke with a scream caught in my throat, my heart pounding. Sweat plastered my hair to my forehead.

Franklyn was beside me, awake. He reached out, his hand cool as he wiped the sweat from my face. "Nightmare again, Clara?" His voice was soft, laced with a practiced concern.

I nodded, unable to speak. For a split second, I leaned into his touch, seeking comfort, a familiar warmth.

He sighed, a heavy sound. He pulled back, his hand dropping. "Clara, about the arts center…"

My body tensed. I knew that tone.

"I had to move the project to Heaven," he said, his voice flat. "It was... too much for you. After everything." He meant after our son. He always meant our son.

My blood ran cold. He had used my grief, our grief, to justify his betrayal.

Then, he dropped the bomb. "And Heaven's pregnant, Clara."

His eyes darted away, avoiding mine. A flicker of something – guilt? Shame? – crossed his face, quickly masked.

"She needs stability," he continued, rushing the words. "A calm environment to carry the baby to term."