The Lie He Fed Me

I opened my email history with Marcus.

For five years, he’d sent at least one a month. Sometimes it was a photo of a beautiful sunset, sometimes a book recommendation, sometimes just a simple "thinking of you."

An email from a year ago: Elena, I walked past a small gallery today and saw a painting that looked just like your style. Are you still painting?

Two years ago: Heard it’s snowing in New York. Stay warm. The winters there can be damp, but they have their own kind of romance.

Three years ago: Happy birthday, Elena. I hope all is well.

I’d read every single one, but never replied. Not because I didn't want to, but because I didn't dare.

Reading them now, I could feel the careful, deep affection in every word. Marcus never crossed the line, never asked about my marriage. But he never stopped caring.

I had held up my end of the deal. What about Vincent?

My phone buzzed. A bank transfer notification: Vincent Romano has sent you $5,000,000.

The note attached: For your trouble.

Five million dollars.

I laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. He thought money could buy anything. My forgiveness. My silence.

But that money only strengthened my resolve. It was proof that in his eyes, I really was just a "problem" that could be paid off.

I sat back down at my computer and started typing.

Marcus,

Thank you for your emails. And thank you for not forgetting me these last five years.

Give me one month. Then I’m coming with you.

Elena

I hit send.

Taking a deep breath, I walked to my closet. I had to start packing, but without Vincent noticing.

Over the next few days, I secretly began boxing up my life. I shipped my most important documents, my jewelry, and a few sentimental items to an address in New York. Marcus would be there to get them.

On the surface, Vincent and I were in a cold war. He tried to apologize a few times, but I shut him down with icy silence.

Then, on Thursday night, he knocked on the bedroom door.

"Elena, we need to talk."

I opened it. He stood there, looking exhausted.

"The Don's birthday party is this Saturday," he said, looking me straight in the eye. "The entire Romano family will be there. All our partners, too."

"So?"

"So I need you there with me." He paused. "As my wife."

I let out a cold laugh. "Now you remember I'm your wife?"

"Elena, I know you're angry. I know I screwed up," Vincent said, his voice low. "But can we just… stop this for one night? At least in front of my father, can we just…"

"We what?"

"Call a truce?" He looked genuinely tired. "You know how much they value our marriage, how much they love seeing us together. I don't want him to worry. After the party, we can go back to figuring this out."

I looked at him, my decision already made. This would be my final performance as Elena Romano. My last goodbye to this family and this sham of a marriage.

"Fine," I agreed. "But this is the last time."

A wave of relief washed over Vincent’s face. "Thank you, Elena."

Saturday night, I put on the deep red silk gown—Vincent's favorite. Not for him, but for the perfect end to this play.

"You look beautiful," Vincent said, waiting for me by the door. He was in a sharp, black tuxedo, looking every bit the man I once thought I loved.

If only I didn't know the truth.

I took his arm, the familiar scent of his cologne wrapping around me, but I kept my body as far from his as I could. This would be the last time we ever touched.

The party was at the Romano family's private club, its grand hall filled with the who's who of New York's underworld and high society.

At the entrance to the ballroom, Vincent suddenly stopped and pulled me close, his arm around my waist.

"I love you," he whispered in my ear. Then, in front of everyone, he leaned in to kiss me. I turned my head just enough that his lips landed on my cheek instead of my mouth.

Vincent stiffened.

The crowd didn't see our silent struggle. They just smiled and clapped, murmuring about what a perfect couple we were.

I kept a flawless smile plastered on my face, but inside, I felt nothing.

But as we walked into the grand ballroom, I saw something that made my blood run cold.

Sophia was sitting at the head table. She wore a pale blue maternity dress, her baby bump now obvious. And she was sitting in the seat that should have been mine. The seat for Vincent's wife.

She smiled at us, looking for all the world like the lady of the house.