Chapter 3

Ray's next statement struck me like a sudden blow.

"Susan, I think you should use the guest room tonight. The main bedroom is quite large, so Christine can have it," he said, his tone unnaturally relaxed, as if his suggestion was perfectly normal.

I gazed at him, shock constricting my throat. "And where will you be?" I inquired, my voice quavering despite my attempts to stay calm. "Are you planning to join her in the main bedroom?"

His eyes briefly widened, alarm flashing across his face before he quickly regained composure. Christine, reclining on the couch behind him, grinned smugly, her expression victorious.

"What do you mean?" Ray retorted, pretending to be insulted. "I'll be on the couch, of course. Christine sometimes walks in her sleep, and this is her first visit here. You can understand that, right?"

The excuse was so flimsy it barely masked the reality. My insides twisted, but I simply nodded and turned away. The sound of the main bedroom door shutting behind them was like a final verdict, the last piece of evidence in the demise of a relationship I had cherished for a decade and a half.

That night, the house was silent and chilly, except for the muted noises seeping through the walls. I first heard them at 3 a.m. Hushed giggles, gentle murmurs, then restrained groans. My body tensed, each sound piercing me like a dagger. Gripping the sheets tightly, I stared upwards, my heart heavy with rage, shame, and sorrow.

I couldn't bear it any longer. I reached for my phone and dialed a number I hadn't used in years. My fingers shook as I pressed the buttons, each digit evoking memories of a different time, one I had long since left behind.

"Bonjour, Madame Susan!" a familiar voice answered, warm and enthusiastic. "It's wonderful to hear from you. Have you finally decided to pursue oil painting studies here in France?"

I inhaled deeply, my voice steady despite the turmoil in my heart. "Yes," I replied. "I'm currently preparing my student visa application."

"Magnifique!" he exclaimed. "I've been anticipating this moment for five years. Paris welcomes you, mon chéri."

The morning arrived with an unsettling calm. I pushed open the main bedroom door, steeling myself. The sight that greeted me was as repulsive as the memories of the previous night.

The room stank of dried sweat and perfume, a sickening blend that hung in the air. The bed was completely disheveled, the sheets twisted and marked. The wastebasket was full of used tissues and empty condom packages. The scene was vulgar, a stark reminder of their unfaithfulness.

I scanned the room, my eyes landing on a painting on the wall—a portrait of Ray, one I had created with affection and admiration. Every brushstroke had been filled with devotion, and I had once considered it my finest work. I had hung it facing the bed so I could wake up each morning to the face of the man I loved.

Now, the sight of it filled me with revulsion.

Standing in the garden, I lit a match and set the painting on fire. The flames eagerly devoured the canvas, consuming it within moments. The warmth touched my skin, but the fire in my heart burned more intensely. Along with the painting, I destroyed two boxes of love letters Ray had written to me over the years. Each word had once brought me happiness; now, they were reduced to cinders.

I returned to my room, my hands steady as I erased every social media post that contained traces of him. Images of trips, anniversaries, and celebrations vanished, one after another. By the time I finished, it was as if our relationship had never existed.

Just as I was about to close the app, a notification appeared. A message from Christine.

Intrigued, I opened it. The photos showed an extravagant party, the kind of celebration I had always dreamed of but never experienced. The decorations were sophisticated, the atmosphere festive. My heart sank as I scrolled through the images, my suspicions growing.

Then, I reached the final set of photos. Christine stood next to Ray, radiant in a white veil and an ivory mermaid-style wedding gown. Her smile was dazzling, her hand resting possessively on his chest. Ray wore a tailored suit, his expression one of smug satisfaction. They looked every bit the happy couple.

The caption read: [Finally, the one I've always belonged to. #WeddedBliss]

Later that evening, as I leaned against the balcony with a cigarette between my fingers, I allowed the memories to wash over me. Ray had once promised me a grand wedding. The date had been set, but he had shown no interest in the planning. I had spoken to his assistant about arrangements more often than I had seen him.

Now, the truth was evident. I had been nothing more than a convenience to him, someone he kept around out of obligation. Christine, his mistress, was now his queen.

As I exhaled a cloud of smoke, my phone rang. The caller ID displayed Christine's name.

"Susan," her voice was laced with mockery. "Stop pretending. I know you discovered yesterday that I've been with Ray for a long time. So, how does it feel? The wedding was magnificent, wasn't it? Ray told me himself that I'm the love of his life."

I remained silent, allowing her words to deepen the wound in my heart.

"Why are you still shamelessly clinging to him?" she continued, her tone cruel and taunting. "He's completely repulsed by you now—"

"Christine, stop teasing Susan like that," Ray's voice interrupted in the background. He sounded annoyed, as if her behavior was a minor inconvenience.