DeJa Vu: 1

You ever look back at your life and want to slap the absolute shit out of your past self?

Because same.

Like, I wanna grab that naïve, sweet little Mrs. Valeria Whitmore by her stupid, trusting face, shake the fucking delusion out of her, and scream:

"WAKE UP, BITCH. YOU'RE ABOUT TO GET PLAYED."

But she won't listen. Oh no.

She's too busy being a perfect, loving wife to the man who's about to ruin her.

"Don't wait up for me tonight, babe. Late meetings."

"You're overthinking it, sweetheart. Isla's just being friendly."

"Of course I love you, Val. Why would you even ask that?"

Lies. Lies. More fucking lies. And I swallowed every single one like a good little wife.

It's funny. The night before my world fell apart, I really thought I had it all.

I was in my walk-in closet, slipping into this stupidly expensive red dress silk hugging every inch of my body, diamonds dripping from my neck. Hair perfect. Makeup flawless. Looking like I belonged on the goddamn cover of Vogue.

And who was I doing it for?

Liam fucking Whitmore. My charming, handsome, lying-ass husband.

"You're breathtaking," he had whispered in my ear that night, his hand resting on my waist like he hadn't just been with another woman hours before.

And I, the dumbest bitch alive, smiled.

Like an idiot. Like a woman who actually believed her man when he said she was his everything.

But now?

Oh, now I see it. The way he looked at me that night like I was already losing my shine to him. Like I was a possession, not a wife.

And the worst part?

I let him.

I let him dim me. I let him make me smaller. Softer. More agreeable. The perfect little trophy to sit on his shelf while he fucked around behind my back.

God. The secondhand embarrassment I feel for past me? Cringe.

And the Oscar for "Biggest Dumbass in Love" goes to…

Me.

Round of applause, ladies and gentlemen.

Like, I don't even blame Liam at this point. I blame me. For being so blind. So stupidly, painfully, pathetically blind.

Let's talk about the red fucking flags.

Oh, honey. They weren't just waving. They were slapping me in the goddamn face.

Exhibit A: The phone calls he'd never take around me.

"Work, baby."

Yeah, work my ass.

Exhibit B: The random perfume that wasn't mine, but somehow lingered on his suits.

"Oh, some intern probably bumped into me at the office."

Right. Sure. And I'm a fucking nun.

Exhibit C: Isla fucking Montgomery. My "best friend."

I should have known the moment that bitch started playing too nice.

"Liam is so lucky to have you."

"I wish I had a love like yours."

"You're such an inspiration to me, Val."

Girl, shut the fuck up.

She wasn't admiring me. She was studying me. Learning every little thing about my marriage so she could slide in the second my back was turned.

And God, I let her.

I let her stand next to me in my home. Eat at my table. Drink my wine. Laugh with me like she wasn't secretly dreaming of fucking my husband.

Like she wasn't already doing it.

Bitch.

But the worst part? The most disgusting, gut-wrenching part?

I never even suspected it.

Because I trusted them.

Because I was so fucking in love with Liam Whitmore that I couldn't even see straight.

Idiot. Absolute idiot.

I'm s my head right now Val how could I be this dumb.

I remember the exact moment the wool got ripped from my eyes.

It wasn't some dramatic discovery. No secret text messages. No lipstick-stained collars. No perfume-covered shirts.

It was a look.

One small, fleeting, devastating look.

It happened at a party. A fundraiser for some charity bullshit Liam was throwing for PR. The entire room was dripping in wealth crystal chandeliers, gold-trimmed everything, tuxedos and silk gowns and champagne towers high enough to drown a small child.

And then there was Isla.

Standing too close. Smiling too much. Laughing at things that weren't even funny. And Liam?

He looked at her.

Not just any look. Not just a hey, good to see you kind of look.

No.

He looked at her like she was his.

Like she was the most beautiful woman in the room. Like I didn't even fucking exist.

And the stupid part..

I said nothing.

I didn't throw my drink in his face.

I didn't scream. Didn't claw at Isla's cheap-ass extensions or shatter my champagne flute against the nearest marble wall.

No.

I just stood there.

Staring at the man I called my husband. Staring at the woman I called my best friend. Watching them exchange that look. That soft, secret, intimate look.

And I felt it.

My entire world shifting.

Like something had just cracked open inside me, and suddenly, nothing made sense anymore.

Because how the fuck did I not see this?

Was I just that naïve? That pathetically devoted to the idea of my perfect little life?

I guess I was.

Because instead of confronting him right then and there, instead of demanding answers, instead of storming out and taking my dignity with me.

I smiled.

I fucking smiled.

Walked right up to them in my stupid red dress, wrapped my arms around Liam's waist, pressed my lips to his cheek like nothing was wrong. Like I wasn't dying inside.

"Oh my God, Val!" Isla gasped, flashing her perfect, fake-ass smile. "You look stunning tonight."

And I, ever the idiot, giggled. "You too, babe."

Babe.

I called her babe.

Jesus fucking Christ, someone punch me in the face.

Liam's arm tightened around me, his grip just a little too firm.

"Everything okay, sweetheart?" His voice, all smooth and honeyed, wrapped around me like a snake.

Oh, I wanted to scream.

Wanted to dig my nails into his lying fucking face. Wanted to rip Isla's diamond necklace right off her perfect little throat.

Instead, I played my part.

"Of course," I purred, nuzzling against him like a perfect, oblivious little wife. "Just enjoying the party."

And wasn't that the truth?

Enjoying the fucking performance of my life.

Because that's what our marriage was, wasn't it?

A show. A carefully curated, flawlessly rehearsed production.

And I?

I was the lead actress.

Only now, I was starting to realize I wasn't the one writing the script.

Someone else had already done that for me.

And the final scene?

Had already been set.

So Yea, Oscar goes to me..Fuck.

Or was I charmed to fall in love with a fucking fat head idiot?!