Thirty-Four
THIRTY-FOUR
LEORA
I ’m a liar.
I’m a disgusting liar who told my "husband" that I was going to work when, in fact, I was going to meet someone I shouldn't be meeting.
I arrived at the café we agreed on about an hour earlier than planned in order to calm myself down a little. This meeting won't take long. I'll say what I need to say and then I'll go back home to Lucas and get ready for the evening.
He surprised me by asking if I wanted to come with him. I've been hesitant around him in the past few days, especially after my awful attempt at seduction. But it feels like he’s trying to make it less awkward. I’m still incredibly embarrassed, and every time I’m around him, I hear his echoing words, "I don't want to do anything that you’ll regret in the morning. You said it yourself, we’re friends."
I don't know how I misinterpreted everything to be more than it was. But he’s been kind to me.
Time passes, and I find myself exchanging a cappuccino for an espresso martini—or two.
A part of me is nervous, and another part is angry, because he’s late, as expected.
I reach for my phone, picking it up to double-check the messages once more. Perhaps I misread them and I’m simply too early.
Unknown number
Stop blocking my numbers, please.
We need to talk, Leora.
I made a mistake.
You’ve been ignoring me, so I did what I had to do
I’m in Nice. We need to talk
Meet me at Café Paulette at 7 p.m.
I was with Lucas when I read the first message, and I tried my hardest to mask the look of shock on my face. If he knew where I was, he wouldn't be happy. Even though he doesn't seem to want me in the way that I want him, there's a possessiveness in him that leaves me to believe he wouldn’t take lightly to me going for a coffee with another man, in public. As long as I wear his ring, there’s an unspoken understanding between us that we’re bound by vows and promises.
After Lucas left, I glanced at my phone to read the messages and I almost had a heart attack on the spot.
John’s here—in Nice.
This is the fourth number he’s texted me from, and I’ve blocked every single one thus far, but I’ve had enough. I need to hear what pathetic speech he has practiced. My cheating ex-boyfriend is here to beg and I’m all for it.
Another half hour passes before I get a message from Lucas this time, asking where I am. I don’t answer. Then another message arrives, followed by a call.
Fuck. Should I answer? He might be worried. I think about it for a second and decide not to. I let it ring because I can’t bear to lie to him this second.
"Leora?" A voice I know all too well snaps me out of my thoughts and I turn around to face him .
His hair is longer and he has a beard now. The blue t-shirt he's wearing is a size too big for him, making him appear slightly disheveled. The sight of him brings back memories of how he used to present himself. He used to care so much about his appearance, but now he certainly doesn’t look like the John I left behind.
"Can I sit down?"
Say no.
"Sure."
You fool.
"I’ve tried to reach you so many times."
He takes a seat, keeping his pleading blue gaze on mine.
"John," I say, my voice slightly strained. "Why are you here?"
His presence is stirring up a mix of emotions I thought I’d buried. I try to maintain a composed demeanor, but inwardly, I’m bleeding. All the wounds I thought were starting to heal are now ripped open once again. The memories of our past relationship resurface, reminding me of the mistakes and heartbreak I endured.
"After I saw that photo you posted, I knew I needed to see you, Leora," he says, his voice trembling with sincerity. "You haven't returned my calls, messages, or emails. This was the only thing I could do to reach you. I miss you."
He fucking misses me.
"You miss me?" My voice is sharp, almost sounding sardonic.
"Yes, more than you know."
"You didn't seem to miss me when you were shoving your tongue inside that redhead." The words slip out of my mouth before I even know what I'm saying. The bitterness and anger that has been simmering within me finally find their release as I stare at John, his mouth dropping slightly at my crude words.
The image of him with someone else still haunts me, a constant reminder of our broken trust.
I’m not sad anymore. I’m just angry.
He opens his mouth, but no words come out. Guilt and regret flash across his face, and I can see the weight of his actions finally sinking in. The truth of my words hangs heavy in the air between us.
"I'm sorry, Leora," he finally manages to say, his voice heavy with remorse. "I messed up. I made a terrible mistake, and I regret it every day."
I shake my head, a mix of frustration and disbelief coursing through me. "Regret doesn't undo the pain, John. It doesn't erase the fact that you betrayed my trust—that you shattered our relationship."
He reaches out a hand, as if to offer some form of comfort, but I quickly pull it back, creating some space between us instead. I can't allow myself to be pulled back into his web of manipulation and broken promises.
My phone dings again with two new messages from Lucas. He’s worried and I feel like shit, but before I can respond, my phone dies. Just my damn luck. Why is this happening?
"I'm sorry for what I did to you," John says, his voice tinged with desperation. "But I still love you, Leora. I never stopped loving you."
At those words, my eyes snap back to his. The sincerity in his voice momentarily catches me off guard, but I quickly remind myself of the countless nights I spent crying and the sleepless nights I spent wondering why I wasn't enough for him. Love shouldn't come at the cost of my own happiness and well-being. It shouldn’t break me down to a minuscule version that does everything to fit his mold.
"I've changed, I promise. I know how much I hurt you, and I was wrong. I don't know why I even did it," John pleads, his voice filled with remorse.
I pause for a moment, contemplating his words. Part of me wants to believe that people can change, that he could be sincere in his remorse, and that there’s a future for him. But deep down, I know that the issues in our relationship run deeper than just the act of cheating.
"Do you think your only mistake was cheating?" I ask.
His brows are furrowed as he nods. "I was lost. We weren’t in the best place and I was looking for something I thought I couldn’t find with you. But I was a coward. I didn't look hard enough."
I let out a bitter chuckle, shaking my head in disbelief. "John, blaming our relationship problems solely on me is a cop-out. Yes, we were going through a rough patch, but instead of communicating and working through it together, you chose to seek fulfillment elsewhere. That was your decision, not mine."
I take a deep breath, my voice steady but filled with determination. "I refuse to be held responsible for your choices and actions. I refuse to accept the blame for your lack of commitment and loyalty. It wasn't just about the cheating, it was about how you made me feel, as well as the lack of respect and attention in our relationship. It was about the emotional neglect and the constant feeling of being second best." I meet his gaze squarely, my eyes reflecting a mix of disappointment and what I hope is strength. "Relationships require effort, honesty, and trust from both sides, and you failed to uphold your end of the bargain."
"I never disrespected or neglected you." He’s defensive, but I can see a tiny hint of realization in his eyes.
And desperation.
I maintain my composure, determined to express my truth. "John, maybe you didn't realize it at the time, but the way you prioritized other aspects of your life over our relationship made me feel neglected. The constant feeling of being an afterthought took a toll on me emotionally."
He leans back in his chair, his expression a mix of contemplation and denial. "I’m sorry you felt that way, Leora. I had my own struggles and my own ambitions, and I thought I could balance it all."
"Being sorry I felt a certain way is not an apology, John. Take responsibility." I pause, allowing my words to sink in and hoping he truly comprehends the gravity of my statement. For a moment, I sense a glimmer of understanding. But as quickly as it appears, it fades into defensiveness.
"I did the best I could, Leora. I never meant to hurt you."
I shake my head, unable to accept his excuses any longer. "Your best wasn't enough, John. It's time for you to acknowledge that and move on."
His shoulders slump with resignation. "I guess I can't change the past."
"No, you can't," I respond, firmly. "I deserve someone who values me enough to be faithful and who is willing to put in the effort to make our relationship work. I deserve more than just empty apologies and promises. And I'm not willing to settle for anything less."
"You mean with your new ‘husband .’" He uses his fingers to emphasize husband .
I stiffen a little at his words, my mind going to Lucas. "Yes, with my husband. I’ve moved on."
"I don’t believe you."
I meet his skeptical gaze with unwavering determination. "Believe what you want, John. But the truth remains that I've found happiness with Lucas."
A flicker of doubt crosses his face, as if he's grappling with the idea that I've truly moved on.
"We’re not going to get anywhere with this John, and I have a dinner to get to." I try to rise up but before I’m able to stand, his hand flies out, grabbing my wrist, hard .
I try to pull my hand away from his grasp, but he’s holding on to me too tightly and the way our skin is rubbing together is starting to hurt.
"John, let go of me." I hiss through gritted teeth. Feeling his grip tighten on my wrist, a mix of fear and frustration washes over me. I struggle to free myself from his hold, the pain becoming more pronounced with each passing moment.
"I apologized, Leora. I made a mistake. What more do you want from me?"
"Let me go , John," I grit out.
But he doesn't release his grip on me. His face contorts with desperation as he speaks. "We're not done talking, Leora. You can't just walk away from me like this."
I attempt to break away from him again, but it only makes things worse. A sensation, close to a thousand needles, spreads across my wrist, and I'm fervently hoping it doesn’t leave a mark.
"John, let go of me, now. You're hurting me."
For a brief moment of shock, his grip loosens, and I seize the opportunity to pull my hand away. I step away, my heart pounding in my chest. The café patrons glance at us curiously, sensing the tension in the air.
"What is wrong with you?" My voice grows louder.
"I’m s-sorry, I didn’t mean to."
No, I’m not allowing him to feel sorry about himself or his actions.
I take a step toward him, pointing at him. "Don’t you ever touch me again."
"Leora."
"Fuck you, John. For everything," I declare firmly, my voice unwavering. "This conversation is over. Seek help, work on yourself, and find a healthier way to address your emotions."
He looks away, his expression a mix of resignation and bitterness. "I guess I really lost you then, huh?"
I nod, my voice filled with finality. "Yes, you did—a long time ago."
Without waiting for his response, I turn and walk away, leaving behind a chapter of my life that was now tainted by pain and disappointment.
I don’t remember the way home. Lucas usually drives us and my phone is dead which means calling an Uber isn’t an option. I scan my surroundings, searching for any sign of transportation and unfortunately, there doesn't seem to be a single, available taxi in sight. Frustration wells up within me, but I push it aside, focusing on the one thing that matters—getting back to Lucas as fast as possible. I’ll just put on a dress and we’ll be on our way to the charity dinner.
I continue walking, relying on my memory to guide me. I occasionally stop to ask for directions from passersby.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I recognize a familiar landmark. I’m exhausted, my body is screaming for rest, however, that doesn’t matter. Relief washes over me, pushing away the fatigue when I spot the building.
Home . I quicken my pace, and I even choose to take the elevator. It’s faster than the stairs.
Lucas has been quietly supportive of my fear of elevators, even though he hasn't openly acknowledged it. Whenever we find ourselves in an elevator, he distracts me by engaging in light conversation, shifting my focus away from my fear.
It’s one of his many sweet sides.
I keep my mind on him as the elevator ascends. I’m not completely fearless; my heartbeat still quickens and nausea hits me, but I’m still doing it. If this were a month ago, I would have never stepped in all by myself.
The elevator dings, signaling my arrival at the desired penthouse. Taking a deep breath, I step out and walk toward our apartment, eager to see Lucas.
The sound of his voice fills the hallway as I approach. I can sense the urgency in his tone as he speaks to someone, but as soon as he catches sight of me, his expression transforms from worry to relief. The conversation is seemingly forgotten as he rushes towards me and envelops me in a tight embrace.
"You're back," he says, his voice carrying both concern and relief. His hold on me is strong, as if he's afraid I might disappear. "Are you okay?"
I'm taken aback by his reaction, unsure of what has transpired in my absence. I take a moment to gather my thoughts before responding. "I'm here, Lucas. I'm okay," I assure him, feeling a sense of comfort in his arms.
He releases his embrace slightly, his hands finding their way to my shoulders as he scans my face and body, searching for any signs of harm or distress. His concern is palpable, and I'm grateful for his care.
"Are you sure? Why didn’t you take the car I sent? Where have you been? What happened?"
He looks at me with so much care and worry etched on his face, his eyes searching mine for answers. He shoots his questions at me with urgency. I take a moment to gather my thoughts, torn between telling him the truth and not wanting to upset him at seeing John.
I hesitate, my mind racing with conflicting emotions. I fear my recent encounter with John will push him further away from me, and I don't think I can handle losing him as a friend. I decide to shield him from the truth, at least for now.
"I'm sorry, Lucas," I say, my voice tinged with remorse. "My phone died, and I was working with Camille. It took longer than expected, and I couldn't reach you. I didn't mean to worry you."
Lucas's expression changes from concern to confusion. Skepticism lines his furrowed brow as he tries to make sense of my explanation. He takes a step closer, his voice laced with skepticism.
"With Camille? Until this late in the evening?" he questions.
I can feel the weight of his doubts pressing upon me, and my mind races to come up with a convincing response. Panic starts to well up within me, but I push it down, determined to maintain the charade.
"Yes, with Camille," I reply, my voice steady but my words betraying a hint of defensiveness. "We had a last-minute project that required us to work late."
Lucas's gaze intensifies, and I can see the flicker of suspicion in his eyes. He crosses his arms. "It’s nine thirty in the evening, Leora."
When did it get so late, and how long was I walking?
"You’re telling me you worked so hard you missed the dinner you were so excited to go to?"
I take a deep breath, realizing that my lies are crumbling under Lucas's questioning. I can sense the disappointment in his voice as his words pierce through my defenses.
"No, it's not like that," I stammer, my voice filled with frustration. "The project . . . it just got really intense, and I lost track of time. I didn't mean to miss the dinner, I promise."
Lucas's expression doesn’t soften in the slightest, and his skepticism remains. He uncrosses his arms and steps closer, concern evident in his eyes.
"Why didn't you call me? We could have figured something out. I could have helped you."
"I told you my phone died."
"Did Camille’s phone die too? Or was she busy charging it at home?"
He knows I wasn’t with her. My mind races, palms growing sweaty. I’ve already dug myself a hole deep enough for the both of us, and I have to stick to my lie. At least until he’s calmed down. Then I can tell him why I had to meet John alone and why I didn’t tell him. Until then, I’m entangled in the web of my own making.
"I should head back home. You guys talk this out," another voice says, and both Lucas and I turn toward it—toward Liam.
"No, stay," I almost beg.
"Thank you, brother," Lucas says.
"Glad you’re safe, Leora," Liam says before he’s gone, ignoring my plea for him to stay.
"Now, Leora, tell me where you were," Lucas demands, his eyes searching mine for the truth. A truth I’m not ready to share while he’s upset.
"I already told you. I was working with Camille, and my phone died. That's all there is to it. Can we please drop it?"
"Leora, I know you're lying to me, but I don't understand why."
"I'm not lying!" I raise my voice, my frustration boiling over. I hate the way the lie tastes on my tongue.
"I know you, Leora," he says firmly. "I know when something is bothering you, and right now it’s written all over your face. Besides, I called Camille earlier, and when she answered, she was at home. So, let’s try this again. Where were you?" Lucas's expression hardens and his eyes narrow. The look on his face is like a stab to the heart. Making more guilt settle in the pit of my stomach.
"I was working with Camille then she left and I stayed behind."
His eyes harden even further as he takes another step toward me, his proximity heightening the tension in the air. I can sense that he's reaching his breaking point, his patience wearing thin.
"Leora," he says, his jaw clenched so hard it’s almost breaking. "You’re telling me that you chose to stay at the office until now, an office with multiple clocks and ways of reading time? Meaning you missed the dinner on purpose—the dinner you knew was important."
"I didn’t know?—"
He moves his hand up in a stop gesture. "I’m not finished! You didn’t send me a message or call me to tell me you couldn't come. You left me worrying at home, going mad, thinking something had happened to you. You could have told me that you didn’t want to spend the evening with me. I could have been at the charity dinner without you." Lucas's words sting, and I feel deep regret for the choices I've made.
"I’ve been worried sick waiting for you, do you understand that? I called the damn police, Leora. That’s how worried I’ve been. I thought you were hurt." Lucas's voice quivers as he pours out his frustrations. His brows are furrowed, and his lips press into a thin line, betraying the emotional toll the situation has taken on him. His hair is all tousled, he’s probably run his hands through it a hundred times this evening, because of me.
The tension radiates through his body, his muscles visibly taut as he takes a step closer, closing the gap between us. The intensity of his presence sends a jolt through me.
Each one of his words is a painful reminder of the impact my actions have had on him. The weight of my choices crashes down on me with full force. I search for words, desperate to say something.
"I . . . I'm sorry," I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper.
Tears well up in my eyes as a result of my own hurtful choices. I turn away from him, not wanting him to see me cry as I run a hand through my hair.
His hand grabs my arm. "Leora, is that a bruise?" I frown at him, but Lucas's gaze is fixated on my wrist, where a faint mark from John's grip lingers.
Caught off guard, I quickly try to pull my hand away but Lucas's grip tightens on my arm. His touch is unyielding as he forcefully pulls down my blazer to reveal the full bruise on my wrist. His eyes widen in shock, transforming into a storm of fury and his brows furrow with an intensity that seems to radiate palpable anger, a storm brewing beneath the surface.
His voice carries a note of urgency as he lets go of my arm. "Leora, who did this to you?" There's a fire in his eyes—a fierceness that I've never witnessed before. It's evident that he won't let this slide, that he's prepared to fight for me and confront the source of my pain.
"It's nothing," I mumble, but he doesn't back down.
"Who did this?"
"No one did. Please just let it go." I hadn't expected him to see the bruise, and now there’s no way I can tell him the truth. From the look of it, he’ll ruin John if he ever finds out.
His voice, though strained, remains firm as he replies, "Leora, I can't just let it go. Tell me!"
"Stop pretending like you care."
"Are you serious? Of course I care! I can't stand the idea of anyone hurting you. I care about you." His voice is raspy with a hint of desperation behind it, as if he's pleading for me to understand his perspective.
I'm experiencing a mix of conflicting emotions—fear, shame, and confusion. Why is he pushing me, why does he care this much?
Because we’re friends .
Yeah, friends. Only friends, and we will stay that way until we divorce and I go back home.
Alone.
"I hit my hand, okay. I was clumsy."
"No, you didn’t."
"Yes, I did."
"Leora, I know you're lying. I can see the finger marks clearly, so quit lying and tell me the truth, so I can find the person who did this to you." Lucas's voice rises, matching the power of our argument.
I keep quiet, not giving him an answer.
His jaw tightens, his voice edged with anger. "You think shutting me out and pushing me away will make it better? Like you’ve done for the past few days."
"I’m not pushing you away."
"Yes, you are. You’ve been doing it since that stunt you pulled in Paris." He almost spits out the words.
That stunt you pulled in Paris.
Is that what he thinks of it as? Is that what he thinks of me being vulnerable and putting myself out there? Of me wanting him? That it was all a stunt?
I was already humiliated, and now he's throwing it back at me. The hurt and frustration fuels me, pushing me to retaliate.
"Fuck you, Lucas."
"Last time I checked, that's exactly what you were begging me for," he says through gritted teeth, his words like a slap to the face.
The heated exchange hangs in the air, filling it with tension and raw emotions. A flicker of regret dances on his face, like a passing storm cloud momentarily casting a shadow on his features. His brows are slightly furrowed and there’s a glimmer of sadness in his eyes, as if he's just realized the depth of his hurtful words. It's a fleeting moment, one that doesn’t seal the open wound he left behind.
His lips part as if he wants to speak, to take back the hurt he inflicted. But he hesitates, I watch as his jaw tenses and then relaxes, a visible struggle playing out on his face. His shoulders slump slightly, as if the weight of his regret is physically beating down on him.
Say something.
Take it back.
Say that you didn’t mean it.
Please.
As quickly as the regret appears, he masks it behind a stoic facade. His features harden, and the regret retreats, leaving only a trace of longing in his eyes. I wonder if it's too late to mend the damage this fight caused, but not a single word leaves his lips. Tears threaten to spill from my eyes, but I hold them back, refusing to let him see how deeply he has wounded me.
I push myself past him and walk to my room. This time, he doesn't stop me.