His Secret Son, My Broken Heart

Ashton' s phone buzzed, a harsh interruption to the fragile peace we' d just established. He pulled away from our embrace, his jaw tightening as he glanced at the screen. He mumbled an apology and stepped away, his voice hushed. I watched him, a knot forming in my stomach, but I swallowed the doubt. He was with me now.

Angela, ever poised, glided towards me. "Kaylynn, darling! What a misunderstanding! But look, it's all cleared up now. Why don't we all go grab some dinner? Celebrate this... wonderful engagement, shall we?" Her smile was wide, but her eyes held a glint I couldn't quite decipher.

I nodded, feeling a blush creep up my neck. The entire scene still felt surreal, my public outburst, Ashton' s "rehearsal" explanation. I was mortified. I didn' t notice Ashton and Angela exchange a quick, loaded glance before he rejoined us.

The restaurant was chic, but the atmosphere around our table was anything but. Angela immediately launched into a theatrical complaint about "some people" being late for dinner, glancing pointedly at Ashton. He just chuckled, a nervous edge to his laugh.

Ashton was solicitous, fussing over Angela. He' d meticulously cut her steak, making sure each piece was perfectly bite-sized, while I had to saw through my own. He even pushed the extra, crispy fries from his plate onto hers, knowing they were her favorite. I, on the other hand, had a mild potato allergy. He' d forgotten that years ago.

"Remember that time in Paris, Ashton?" Angela purred, leaning closer to him, her fingers brushing his arm. "You got me that tiny macaron tower, even though you said you were 'on a diet.' You're such a softie for me."

Ashton laughed, a genuine, warm sound that rarely surfaced with me anymore. "Angela always knows how to twist my arm," he said, winking at her.

My stomach churned. Paris. He'd never mentioned Paris with Angela. He' d told me he only went to Paris for a brief business trip years ago, before we met.

"Oh, come on, Ashton," I said, trying to inject some levity, "you never get me macarons! You say they're 'too sweet.'"

He gave a dismissive wave. "Oh, you know, Kaylynn, your tastes are so particular. I wouldn't want to get you something you wouldn't like." He didn' t meet my eyes.

The conversation drifted to their shared past, inside jokes, and mutual acquaintances. I sat there, a silent observer, feeling like an interloper in my own engagement dinner. Ashton remembered every detail of Angela' s preferences, her quirky habits, her pet peeves. Yet, when I' d ordered my meal, he' d almost ordered me shrimp, knowing full well I was severely allergic. He always remembered Angela's favorite dessert, but forgot my life-threatening allergy. The thought hit me like a physical blow.

Angela then turned her attention to me, her voice dripping with false concern. "So Kaylynn, Ashton tells me your new book is doing wonderfully! Such a talent. Ashton always said you were a 'hard worker.' He's always so proud of you, you know." Her words were saccharine, but her eyes, when they met mine, held a flicker of something triumphant.

Hard worker. Not "talented." Not "brilliant." Just "hard worker." Ashton's subtle dismissal of my creative passion, a constant undercurrent in our relationship. Only now did I truly notice its insidious nature.

I forced a smile, barely acknowledging her. Ashton must have sensed my withdrawal because he turned to me, his hand briefly covering mine. "You alright, babe? You're a little quiet tonight."

Just then, his friends arrived. Mark, the colleague who had spilled the beans about Ashton's "business trip," was among them, along with a few others I vaguely recognized. They walked in, laughing loudly, then stopped dead when they saw me.

"Ashton!" Mark boomed, then his eyes landed on me, and his smile faltered. The room went silent.

"Mark, guys! What a surprise!" Ashton said, his voice strained, clearly annoyed.

One of the friends, a burly man named Dave, clapped Ashton on the back. "Surprise? You told us to meet you here for a celebration, man! Said you were finally making things official with Angela!" His eyes darted to Angela, then to the ring on her finger, then to me, then back to Angela.

The air in the room solidified. I looked down at my hand, the ring Ashton had given me, the one he said was for me. Then I looked at Angela's hand, where the exact same ring, still clearly too big, sat. My heart sank, a cold weight in my chest. The "rehearsal" was a lie. The "too big for her" was a lie. It was all a lie.

Dave, oblivious, kept talking. "Man, I remember when you and Angela first dated. You guys were inseparable! Everyone thought you'd get married. A real power couple."

Angela cast a wistful look at Ashton, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "Those were good times, weren't they, Ash?"

Ashton squeezed her hand under the table, a gesture I didn't miss. "They were, Ang. They were." He then looked at me, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, and quickly changed the subject, turning on his most charming smile. "But tonight, we're celebrating our future! Kaylynn and I are getting married!"

His friends, clearly uncomfortable, offered strained congratulations. I just smiled, a brittle, fake smile that felt like it would shatter any moment. I felt Ashton' s hand on my thigh, a possessive squeeze. It was meant to be comforting, but it only made me feel trapped.

The rest of the dinner was a blur of forced pleasantries and awkward silences. On the drive home, Ashton acted as if nothing had happened, humming along to the radio. I couldn't hold it in anymore.

"Ashton," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Do you still love her?"

He didn't answer. I glanced over. His eyes were closed. His breathing was even. He was pretending to be asleep.

A single tear traced a path down my cheek. He was still lying. Even now, after everything, he was still lying. The man I was engaged to, the man who was supposed to be my partner, was a coward and a cheat. And I, Kaylynn Russell, the perceptive romance novelist, had been the biggest fool of all.