I stared at the three words: "Thank you, darling."
They felt like sharp little cuts. The velvet box, the expensive look of it, the purple ink—it all felt wrong. I stood there, silent, my stomach sick with dread. I didn't have to wait long.
The door to the shared kitchen opened, and Anders walked in. He stopped dead when he saw me, his usual easy confidence gone. His handsome face, usually so warm, was instantly tight with alarm.
"Nina? What are you doing here?" He sounded harsh, not happy.
I didn't answer. I just pointed, my hand shaking, toward the coffee table. "What is this?"
He followed my gaze. His eyes landed on the open velvet box and the note. For a moment, he said nothing. It was the silence of a guilty man caught completely.
Then, he moved fast. He scooped up the box and the note and shoved them both into his jeans pocket. He walked toward me, trying to look calm.
"It's nothing. Just some stupid thing I bought for a friend's birthday," he lied, too quickly.
"A friend you call 'darling'?" I whispered. My voice was tight. "And what friend can afford to give you expensive jewelry? We are broke, Anders! Who is this?"
He grabbed my hands, his touch suddenly strong and demanding. "Stop. You are overreacting, Nina. It was Susan. She's in my study group. She was thanking me for helping her pass the big Economics exam. It was just a small gift, it means nothing."
"It means you lied!" I pulled my hands away. Tears were starting to burn my eyes. "It means you have secrets. We promised to be honest. Is this another one of your 'just friends' that means nothing?"
His face went hard with anger, the kind that always scared me. "Don't you dare bring up the past! You know those girls were nothing! This is you, Nina. Always looking for a reason to doubt me. Why can't you just trust me?"
He was flipping the script, making my fear the problem, not his secret.
"I saw you lie, Anders," I said, the words heavy with sadness. "I know that wasn't true. I can see it in your eyes."
"Fine! If you want to believe a stupid thank you note over me, over everything we've done, then maybe you should just leave!" he shouted.
His anger crushed me. This was always his last move: push me away, make me feel like I was the crazy one. I turned to walk out, my whole body shaking.
But then he changed. He ran to the door, blocking my way. His anger melted into panic, and he looked truly afraid.
"No, Nina, wait. Please." He put his hands on my shoulders. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled. Please don't go."
He started to beg. He dropped to his knees right there on the worn carpet. "Please, Nina. I need you. I can't think straight without you. You are my light. I know I mess up, I know I talk to too many people, but they are meaningless. You are the one I love. I will stop talking to Susan. I will stop seeing everyone if you ask me to."
His despair was intense. He looked up at me, his eyes full of tears, and he was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. He played on my deepest weakness: my own need for him. I knew he was manipulative, but my heart was so tired of fighting.
He slowly stood up, pulling me close until our bodies were touching, pressed tight. He didn't speak the truth, but he spoke the language of my body. His hands found the skin under my shirt, his touch fierce and possessing.
"Please don't leave me," he whispered, his voice thick with a mix of need and control. "I need you to punish me. Don't leave me."
The fight was over. The anger gave way to a blinding rush of pure, demanding lust. The desperation in his eyes, the begging on his knees—it was a drug. We fell onto his small bed, the room spinning with the force of his need and my surrender. The expensive velvet box was a forgotten lump in his pocket as he took me, claiming me again, not with love, but with possession, a way of silencing my questions.
Later, as he slept next to me, his arm draped across my waist like a heavy chain, I stared at the dark ceiling. I had forgiven him. Again. I had accepted the lie, and in doing so, I had given him permission to lie again.
I knew deep down that this cycle—his mistakes, his begging, my forgiveness, and the resulting intense, fiery reconciliation—was not love. It was a debt I was collecting on my own soul, one that would make the final break so much harder, and the coming revenge so much colder.