When I think about love, I remember the soft glow of streetlights on Bethy's face the first night I kissed her. It was late, far later than I should have been out, and the world around us was hushed like it wanted to keep our secret. She looked up at me with that half-smile that made her eyes shine, and I thought I had touched something eternal.
Back then, I believed love was a forever thing. I thought that once you gave your heart to someone, it would never be broken, not by them, not by anything. I carried that belief the way a child clutches a balloon, afraid to let it slip away.
Bethy was everything I thought I wanted. She had a laugh that filled empty rooms, and when she leaned on me, I felt like the strongest man alive. I worked hard to be worthy of her. Every long day at the office, every promotion I chased, every little sacrifice I made; I told myself it was for us. For her.
I used to write her notes when I left early for work, silly little things like "coffee is on the counter, don't forget to smile today". She saved them all in a box by her bedside. Or at least, I thought she did. That was before I learned that even the most careful box can hold lies.
The funny thing is, when you are happy, you don't see the cracks. You paint over them with hope. You tell yourself that her late-night excuses mean nothing, that her distracted looks are just stress. Love makes you blind, and I was blind in the purest, most foolish way.
But I am not blind anymore.
Now, when I look back, the sweetness of those memories tastes bitter. Every kiss, every promise, every whispered dream has a shadow lying under it. What I once called love was a play, a beautiful stage crafted to keep me dancing in the dark while the real story unfolded behind the curtains.
Bethy Carter was not mine. She was never truly mine.
And when I found out, when the curtain fell and I saw what had been hidden all along, something inside me broke. The man who believed in forever, who thought love was enough, died that night.
What rose in his place was someone colder, sharper, someone who learned that betrayal can forge steel out of softness.
Bethy taught me how to love. Michael taught me how it feels to be robbed. Together, they turned me into the man I am now. And the man I am now has only one thing left to live for.
Revenge.
But let me take you back. Back to the nights when I believed in forever. Back to when I thought Bethy and I were building a life, when her smile was still the sun that lit my world. Before betrayal. Before revenge. Back to where it all began.
It was our one-year anniversary. I had booked a table at this little Italian restaurant tucked away on the quiet side of town. It wasn't fancy, but I remembered how Bethy once told me she loved places where the waiters knew your name. I wanted to give her that warmth, that sense of belonging.
She wore a red dress that clung to her in a way that made my heart beat faster. When she walked into the restaurant, every head turned, but her eyes searched for me alone. I still remember how she smiled when she found me waiting, holding a single rose like an idiot straight out of a romance film.
"Only one?" she teased, her voice light, her eyes bright.
"One rose for the one girl who matters," I said.
She laughed, soft and musical, and slid into the seat across from me. The candle between us flickered, catching the glow in her hair, and in that moment, I thought I could spend the rest of my life chasing her smile.
We talked for hours. About nothing and everything. She told me about her classes, about her dreams of traveling to Paris, about how she hated mornings but loved coffee. I told her about work, about the clients who drove me mad, about my quiet dream of one day running my own company.
She leaned in and whispered, "You will, Joe. I believe in you. You're going to be someone big."
Those words carved themselves into me. I lived on them, the way a starving man lives on bread. I wanted to be big, not just for myself, but for her. I wanted to give her the world.
After dinner, we walked through the park, hand in hand. The air was cool, the night quiet, and everything felt right. She leaned her head on my shoulder, and I thought, this is it. This is what forever feels like.
We sat on a bench under the trees, and she looked at me with that soft, searching gaze that always undid me.
"Joe," she said, "do you ever think about where we'll be in five years?"
"Every day," I admitted. "I see us together. Maybe a home, maybe a family. Whatever you want, Bethy. I just want you."
She smiled, but there was something unreadable in her eyes, something I didn't notice back then.
"I like the way you love me," she said. "You make me feel safe."
Safe. That was the word she always used. I thought it meant I was her anchor. I thought it meant I was enough.
Now I know it meant I was her shelter until someone else came along.
But that night, I kissed her under the stars, and the world felt perfect. I whispered promises I fully intended to keep. She whispered them back, and I believed every word.
There were many nights like that. Nights where I cooked for her after a long day, nights where we curled on the couch watching movies, nights where I watched her fall asleep and thought I was the luckiest man alive.
I didn't notice how often her phone buzzed, how quickly she pulled it away. I didn't question why she smiled at messages she never shared. I didn't see the lies creeping in.
Love makes you blind. And I was blind until the day I wasn't.
But that day is still a few chapters away.
For now, I will let you see the life we had, the love I thought we shared, before the betrayal poisoned it. Because to understand why I became the man I am today, you have to understand the man I was then.
I was in love. Completely, foolishly, desperately in love.
And for a while, it really did taste like forever, but forever was an illusion, and when it shattered, I learned that love is not the strongest force in this world. Betrayal is.