Christian moved fast—too fast.
His hand yanked the duvet up, clumsily covering the woman sprawled on the hotel bed. As if hiding her body could erase what Saraphina had already seen. But it was too late.
The image was seared into her mind.
A woman's bare shoulder. Red lipstick smudged across the pillow. A long leg slipping out from under the sheet.
Saraphina didn't speak. She couldn't.
She stood at the doorway like a statue, her breath stuck in her chest, her heart slamming wildly inside her ribs. The air felt thick and wrong. Her ears buzzed. Her hands… they wouldn't stop shaking.
Christian turned.
His chest rose and fell fast. His shirt was half-buttoned. His hair mussed.
And then he looked at her—looked at her like she was the intruder.
Saraphina opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Her lips moved, but her voice had drowned somewhere deep in the horror choking her.
She took a step forward, just one—toward the bed. Toward the truth. Maybe if she saw the woman's face, this would make sense. Maybe it wasn't what it looked like.
Maybe—
CRACK.
A sharp pain exploded across her cheek.
Christian had crossed the room in two strides and slapped her. Hard.
The sound echoed in the hotel suite like gunfire. Her body reeled from the force, stumbling back into the doorframe. The floor shifted beneath her. Her hand flew to her face. Warmth bloomed where his palm had struck her.
Saraphina gasped. Her eyes wide. Her mouth open in disbelief.
He hit me.
The thought didn't land fully. It circled in her head like a foreign language. He hit me.
Not yelled. Not pushed. But slapped.
Her Christian.
The man who had kissed her forehead just yesterday. The man who promised forever.
He had just—
"What the hell is wrong with you?" he snapped, stepping closer. His eyes flared, not with guilt—but rage. "You want to go in there and drag her out? Start screaming? Tear her hair out like some jealous psycho?"
Saraphina flinched at his voice. It felt like shards of glass.
"I… I just…" Her lips trembled, the words barely forming. "Christian…?"
He laughed coldly. The sound had no joy. No warmth. It was ice.
"This again. You always play the victim," he sneered, waving his hand. "It's pathetic."
Victim?
Her mind scrambled.
Her chest tightened as if someone had wrapped their hand around her lungs and squeezed. Her heart pounded louder.
Everything around her—walls, furniture, even Christian—blurred.
She felt like she was falling, even though she hadn't moved.
"You did this," he said. "You pushed me to this."
"What… what are you talking about?" she whispered. Her voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.
"You think I wanted to cheat?" He pointed a finger at the closed bedroom door. "Do you know how frustrating it is to be with someone who looks like you?"
Saraphina blinked.
"What?"
"You heard me." His voice was cold. Sharp. Meant to wound. "Look at yourself. Ugly and fat. That stupid oversized shirt. Those wrinkled pants. You don't even try anymore. You look like a tired housemaid, not my fiancée."
She followed his gaze down.
Blue shirt. Loose and soft. Trousers she hadn't ironed. She wore them because they were comfortable. Because she'd been excited. She thought she'd surprise him.
Her fingers curled around the fabric now like it was betraying her.
"I didn't think I needed to dress up," she whispered, her voice barely there. "You said I was beautiful the way I am…"
"Yeah?" he said, his tone sharp. "I said that because you needed to hear it. You wanted comfort. And I gave it. And now here we are—engaged."
He pointed at her hand. At the ring.
"You got what you wanted. You locked me in. But we've been dating for years, and guess what? We're still not having sex. I'm supposed to just wait around like a monk?"
Her breath caught in her throat.
She took a step back.
"Christian… I told you I just wanted to wait for the wedding night."
He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, I ran out of patience. I'm a man, Saraphina. I have needs. And since you won't give me anything, why shouldn't I look elsewhere?"
The tears burned her eyes now. Thick and hot.
"I thought… I thought you loved me."
"Of course I do. Else, why would i propose to you?" he said, his voice lowering like poison. "But honestly? Even if you begged me now—got on your knees—I don't think I could get hard."
He looked down at himself and smirked.
"Not for you."
Saraphina's heart broke with a quiet, horrible sound. It wasn't dramatic. It was quiet—like something delicate snapping inside her chest.
She touched the ring on her finger.
It shimmered under the ceiling light like it was laughing at her.
She didn't speak.
She couldn't.
Christian's face blurred in her vision. Her hands were numb. Her legs wouldn't move, then all at once they did—turning her away.
She walked.
No—escaped.
One shaky step. Then another. Her legs felt too heavy. Her stomach twisted. Her throat clenched.
By the time she reached the hallway, she was barely breathing.
She didn't see the staff lingering by the hallway wall. The cleaners. The concierge. She didn't hear their whispers. Didn't feel their pitying glances as they watched her pass with her head down, her cheeks wet, her shoulders hunched.
She just kept walking.
Her hand slammed against the elevator button again and again. She needed to get out. Away. Anywhere but here.
When the doors slid open, she stumbled inside.
Her reflection in the mirror panel looked like a ghost. Pale and broken.
The doors closed.
Then she collapsed.
Her knees gave out.
She sank—slowly, helplessly—to the cold floor of the elevator. Curled into the corner like a child left behind. Her back hit the mirror. Her palms came up to her face. She didn't want to see her reflection. She didn't want to see herself.
Everything ached.
Her chest rose and fell like she couldn't catch her breath. Her hands pressed tighter to her face, as if holding herself together would stop the pieces from falling apart.
But they were already gone.
Yes, she had heard the rumors. Seen the way Christian flirted—at parties, at cafés, in random comments under pictures that weren't hers. Her friends had hinted. Even strangers. Girls looked at her like she was a fool.
But she told herself he was just playing around.
Flirting wasn't the same thing as cheating, right?
She never thought… never believed… that he would actually sleep with someone else.
And not just anyone.
A stranger. In his office.
Right after asking her to be his wife.
Saraphina gasped again, the pain sharp as a blade. Her tears poured freely, hot against her skin, streaking down her cheeks and dripping onto her shirt.
Her head tilted back against the mirror.
And then the memories came.
Soft at first. Like a whisper in her heart.
The first time he asked her out—standing right in front of her hostel, while her roommates peeked through the windows and giggled. He had smiled nervously, holding a melted chocolate bar and a crumpled note that read, Be mine?
She remembered the girls screaming from the balconies. How he laughed and shouted up, "Yes, I'm stealing her! Sorry, ladies!"
She'd covered her face in embarrassment that day.
And smiled all night.
Their first real date—just suya and a bottle of Coke shared in plastic cups. They couldn't afford much, but it was perfect.
He wiped pepper from her chin. She laughed until her stomach hurt.
When he first held her hand… it was on a rainy afternoon. He'd slipped his fingers between hers like it was the most natural thing in the world. She still remembered how her heart had stuttered in her chest.
Their first kiss. Soft. Hesitant. Sweet.
He had tasted like mint and nervous energy.
She had felt like she could fly.
And then… the proposal.
Just yesterday.
But now…
Now, every one of those memories felt like a cruel joke.
Saraphina rocked slightly in the corner of the elevator, her arms hugging herself tightly, her sobs silent and deep. The kind of crying that didn't even make sound anymore—just trembling breaths and broken gasps.
She couldn't understand.
How did love turn into this?
How did that boy—the one who kissed her hands in the moonlight, who swore he'd fight the world just to see her smile—become this man?
This stranger who slapped her across the face.
Who looked at her like she was trash.
Who said she was fat and ugly.
Who laughed at her pain and went back to another woman like it was nothing.
Her fingers touched the ring again.
The same one he placed on her finger so proudly.
It glinted under the harsh elevator light—mocking her. Mocking everything.
She wanted to rip it off. Throw it. Smash it into the floor.
But her fingers clung to it.
As if letting go would make all of it more real.
And the dam broke.
The sobs came—wild, raw, loud. Her whole body shook. She couldn't hold it in anymore.
She didn't care who heard. Didn't care if the people saw her like this.
She cried like her soul had been torn open.
Because it had.
The man she loved didn't just cheat.
He destroyed her.
Piece by piece.
And now… there was nothing left.
Meanwhile…
Back in the office, the woman under the duvet rose lazily, stretching her bare arms above her head. The silky lingerie clung to her curves. She walked barefoot to the table and poured herself a glass of water.
Christian blinked at her.
His heartbeat slowed. His face relaxed. As if the storm had passed and none of it mattered.
"I thought she was going to scratch your eyes out," the woman teased, sipping slowly.
He ran a hand through his hair, chuckling.
"Yeah… Sorry for the interruption, love."
The woman smirked and slid onto the desk, parting her legs just enough to invite him closer.
"Now," she said, voice purring. "Where were we?"
Christian stepped forward, his hands already reaching.
Like nothing had happened at all.