Page 31 of Twisted Love

“You wanted to see me,” she says softly, stepping into the room. Her lips are slightly parted, and I can see the faint tremor in her shoulders, whether from the coldness of the rain or nerves, I don’t know.

I lean back in the chair, forcing my expression into something impassive, detached. “You took your time.”

Her eyes flicker with defiance. She shifts her weight, her wet hair sliding over her shoulder. “The rain slowed me down,” she replies, her voice even, though I catch the hint of an edge. “And my parents wanted me to stay for dinner.”

I swirl the amber liquid in my glass, watching her closely. “Convenient.”

Her brows knit together, and she crosses her arms, though it only makes the wet fabric of her blouse pull tighter. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The tension between us becomes electric, the storm outside nothing compared to the one brewing here. I lift my gaze to meet hers, hating how easily she stirs every part of me—anger, doubt, desire.

“You know exactly what it means,” I say sharply.

Her eyes lock onto mine, daring me to push her further. The rain beats against the windows, the sound filling the heavy silence between us. Then, with a sigh, she brushes a damp strand of hair from her face and takes a cautious step closer.

“I’m not doing this with you tonight,” she says. “I went to see my parents. That’s it. If you don’t believe me, that’s your problem.”

My mind is torn between wanting to believe her and knowing better. Trusting doesn’t come easily for me anymore. Maybe it never will again. But as she stands there, rain-soaked and defiant, there’s something in her eyes that almost makes me falter. Almost.

I down the rest of the whiskey in one long swallow. “You’re right,” I agree, setting the empty glass down with a decisive clink. “It is my problem.”

Her shoulders tense at my words, but she doesn’t look away. Neither do I. And in the charged silence that follows, I wonder if we’ll ever find our way back to something real—or if our relationship will always be like this storm.

"Didn’t your parents pay for you to learn to play the piano?" I ask, nodding toward the grand instrument, its dark lacquer glinting faintly in the dim light.

“Yes,” she says simply.

"Play something to make me feel good," I hear myself say.

I expect her to protest. She’s always been fiery, full of opinions and ready to argue every point to exhaustion. My blood hums with anticipation, already bracing for her defiance, for her biting retort that’ll make me feel alive, even in irritation. But once again, she surprises me. She smiles softly—a kind, gentle curve of her lips that cuts deeper than anger ever could. It’s the same smile that made me fall for her, and I hate how it disarms me even now. Without a word, she moves toward the piano.

I watch intently as she lifts the lid and looks down at the gleaming keys. Then she takes her seat on the piano stool.

Her fingers hover over the keys before she starts to play. At first, it’s just a few hesitant notes, soft and uncertain, like she’s testing whether she still remembers how to. But then, without warning, her fingers explode into movement. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, the piece from our school play—a piece that rushes back into my memory as if it never left.

I used to sit in on her practices. I’d been there for every single one, watching her. She was the sun. Every note she played, every smile she gave—it lit me up in ways I hadn’t thought possible.

And now, hearing the music again, it’s like a chokehold on my chest. The warmth spreads through me. Old emotions hit me hard, so fast. The arousal, the heat, the raw desire—they all rush back, as strong as they ever were.

The final note lingers in the air like a whisper of the past. She turns to look at me and our gazes lock. There is such sadness in her eyes that it disarms me.

"Tell me more about your dad’s condition," I say, my voice cutting through the haze of nostalgia and longing.

She sighs softly. "He has thyroid cancer.” Her eyes glisten with unshed tears under the soft light and to hide her vulnerability she turns back to face the piano. "We found out a few months ago. At first, he thought it was just some swelling, maybe a nodule or something harmless, but the tests confirmed it. Stage two."

I lean forward slightly, my elbows on my knees as I listen.

"They went through all the treatment options—surgery, radiation, even targeted therapies. The doctors think his prognosis is good as long as we move quickly, but it’s been... hard, you know? Adjusting to it all."

Her fingers brush lightly over the piano keys as she speaks, almost absentmindedly, like she’s grounding herself in the feel of the instrument. "I’ve scheduled his first treatment on Monday morning," she says, her voice softer now. "It’s... a relief, honestly. Knowing we’re finally doing something about it.” She glances at me warily. “Thanks to you."

I study her, the way her shoulders are slumped as she talks, the way her voice carries that faint tremor of hope mixed with weariness. And for the first time in what feels like forever, I wonder if she’s the only person who I have ever loved and has ever made me feel loved.

That’s probably why the betrayal stung so much. She was my sun, moon, and stars, and after her treachery, it was as though my entire being was plunged into darkness. I hate that I gave her that much power. I hate even more that once again I’ve given her just as much power—maybe even more—by marrying her. At the time, I told myself it was to torture her. To make her pay for what she did. But why does it feel as if I’m the one who is being tortured? Why is it that I’m not having any fun at all?

“Do you like your portrait?” I ask, my voice smooth.

Her eyes flick to the massive canvas hanging above the fireplace. The shift in her expression is immediate. Her shoulders stiffen, her earlier ease evaporates into tension. Perfect. Just what I wanted, I tell myself.

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