"Who was that?"
Ethan's voice came out sharper than he intended. Isabella had just ended a call, her phone still warm in her hand. She didn't meet his eyes — instead, she placed it carefully on the table beside her, almost too carefully, like she was aware he was watching.
"Just a friend," she said lightly, but her smile didn't reach her eyes.
Ethan tried to believe her, but the word friend echoed oddly in his head. It was past midnight, the hotel room bathed in the dim glow of a single lamp, and Isabella had stepped away to answer the call in the bathroom. Her voice had been low, hurried. He'd caught only fragments, but enough to make his chest tighten: "No, not tonight… you can't call me here…"
A friend? He wasn't convinced.
"Isabella," he pressed, keeping his tone softer now, "you've been… different lately."
Her laugh was brittle, like glass about to crack. "Different how?"
"You avoid questions. You look away when I ask simple things. Half the time when we're together, you're… somewhere else." He hesitated, the words tasting bitter. "Are you seeing someone else?"
Her head snapped up, eyes flashing. "Ethan, really? You're asking me that?"
The silence that followed was thick. He felt the heat rise to his face. Of course. She was still married — technically, she already was seeing someone else. Him. But still, the seed of doubt had been planted, and it wouldn't stop growing.
---
The next few days only deepened the unease.
She canceled one of their meetings, something she rarely did, claiming she had errands. When he called her later, she didn't answer. Hours later, a short message: Sorry. Busy day. I'll explain soon.
But she never explained.
When they finally met again, she was radiant — almost too radiant, in a way that made Ethan feel like she was overcompensating. She kissed him harder than usual, laughed louder, touched him more insistently. And yet, when he caught her reflection in the window across the room, her eyes weren't laughing at all. They were distant, calculating.
"Tell me something," Ethan said suddenly, breaking the spell of her kisses.
"What?"
"That scar on your wrist. Where's it from?"
She froze — just for a moment, but enough for Ethan to feel it. Her lips parted like she might speak, then closed again. She turned away, pulling her sleeve down.
"Old story," she said finally, forcing a smile. "Nothing worth telling."
But the way she said it made Ethan's stomach knot.
---
One night, he woke up beside her to the faint buzz of her phone. He reached for it before thinking, his heart pounding. The screen lit up with a name he didn't recognize: M.
Before he could read the message, Isabella stirred. Her hand shot out, quick as a spark, and she snatched the phone from his grip.
"What the hell, Ethan?" she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut through the dark.
"You were hiding it," he said, sitting up. "Who's M?"
Her jaw tightened. "No one. Stop snooping."
"No one doesn't text you at three in the morning."
She stood, pulling on her coat with jerky movements. "You don't get to interrogate me," she said coldly. "Not when we're already living a lie every time we're together."
The words stung, but before he could respond, she was gone — the door slamming behind her, leaving him in silence that felt louder than anything.
---
The following week was a blur of restless nights and unanswered questions. Ethan tried to lose himself in his writing, in preparing for the competition, but Isabella lingered in every corner of his mind. Her evasive glances, the late-night calls, the scar she wouldn't explain.
For the first time since their affair began, Ethan felt less like her escape and more like her distraction.
And the thought terrified him.
Because if Isabella was hiding something… then who exactly had he fallen in love with?