The Lies He Told | PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ROMANCE |

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Dawn had barely fractured the night when my husband materialised at the threshold of the master bedroom. His arrival was as unwelcome as the first tendrils of winter.

Daniel Lewis, the prodigal figure, had finally returned to the cliff house after days of radio silence, but not with the triumphant flourish one would expect. His homecoming was a skulking affair orchestrated beneath the cover of my feigned slumber.

A coward's gambit, this waiting until I drifted to face the music he had so expertly composed. His shadow flitted across the doorway. I knew his delay was not mere happenstance but a calculated act of fear, a desperate bid to postpone the inevitable confrontation, the storm brewing in the wake of his absence.

But I was wide-eyed and vigilant, stretched across the expanse of the mattress, staring at the rain-splattered window. I listened to him traverse the room with spectral furtiveness, marshalling his travel accoutrements into the compartments of his suitcase, ready to visit the big city.

I almost told him that staying away all weekend to avoid me was futile because I did not want a confrontation, either. I chose silence instead. I did not want to talk about us, not yet. I had to wait for the right opportunity, for when I was good and ready to address the unravelling of our marriage.

Whilst I pretended not to watch him, I could see the sadness and longing in his eyes, reflecting my feelings back at me. It was as if we were two ships drifting further and further apart, unable to steer our course back together.

Just last night, I was grasping at fleeting moments of connection, trying to hold onto fragments of what we once had. I sought solace in old photographs and memories of happier times when laughter came easily, and love flowed freely between us—the good old days.

How had we strayed so far from that place?

It felt like a lifetime ago, a distant dream slipping through my fingers like grains of sand. It was over between us, that much I knew for certain, and I had already started to mourn the man I once loved with all my heart. Still, I knew, deep down, that separation was for the best, that living worlds apart was the right decision, as I could not bring myself to accept the bare minimum, not when I have devoted so much to our marriage. I deserved better than a man who thought it was okay to sleep with other women behind my back.

As my husband approached the edge of the bed, a dark, looming shadow fell over my closed eyes. My heart skipped a beat, but I remained still, pretending to sleep in to protect myself from the vulnerability that threatened to consume me.

Daniel's tired sigh was a rumble against the mattress as he settled beside me, his warmth an unwelcome intrusion. A butterfly kiss landed on my cheek, a fleeting promissory note scrawled on my skin. His fingers traced patterns on my scalp, sending ripples skittering down my spine like rogue fireflies.

Maybe his touch was just that—a touch. There were no hidden agendas, no puppet strings attached. Or perhaps it was a slow, deliberate untangling like he was trying to figure out the knots in my hair the same way he was trying to decipher the ones in my heart.

"Olivia," he whispered, his breath hot against my temple. "Why must you be so difficult for me? When did the dynamics in our marriage change so drastically? When did it become apparent that I was no longer enough for you?" His hand grazed mine, searching for a connection that seemed to have lost its signal. "When did I become the enemy?"

My husband's cold caress lingered like a bad taste on my skin. I gritted my teeth, every muscle a coiled spring under the mask of slumber.

His eyes, two cold stars in the dark, held a silent plea that I refused to acknowledge. My stillness was a weapon, a wall built brick by brick from unspoken pain and suffering.