Arthur was the only person who treated me differently.
When classmates threatened me to alter lab results, he stood beside me:
“If you don’t want to do it, then don’t.”
He became my light in a world ruled by Loren’s shadow.
I followed him, admired him—for six years. I fell in love.
The night before I planned to confess, someone drugged my drink. We ended up sleeping together. Two months later, I was pregnant.
He agreed to marry me.
At home, we were respectful partners. At work, a flawless team.
But after that night, he never touched me again. I thought he was simply reserved—until the cocktail party.
That night, someone drugged him again. But he didn’t touch me.
Instead, I saw him lock himself in the study—and pleasure himself to a video of Loren.
Afterward, he picked up a call.
“Mr. Slater, why do you stay cooped up in that lab for Loren? You're rich, talented, you could be with anyone.”
“I’m the only one who can develop the drug she needs. Others will take 10 years. She doesn’t have that time.”
“You’re the most devoted man in Las Vegas. I thought you’d moved on after marrying Lora and having a child.”
“Move on? If it wasn’t for that drugged night, Loren and I wouldn’t have lost all these years. Don’t compare them—Lora can’t even match a strand of Loren’s hair.”
“Why not just divorce and marry her now?”
“She won’t accept me while she’s sick. But as her brother-in-law, I can stay close. Once she’s cured…I’ll propose.”
Each word stabbed deeper than the last.
That night, I died inside.
Today, walking past the study, I heard muffled sounds. The door was ajar.
Arthur sat there, hand wrapped around himself, staring at Loren on a screen. She wore a stunning dress, her voice soft and sweet.
“Loren...” he moaned.
He didn't even finish this time. Just stayed there, lost in her.
My stomach turned.
Then his voice cut through the silence:
“Who's there?”
Arthur quickly shut off the tablet, yanked his coat over his lap to hide the bulge, and put on his usual cold, ascetic mask.
His long legs, encased in tailored slacks, were visibly tense as he stood. In that moment of panic, I found myself staring at his chiseled features—his high nose bridge, sharp jawline, and lips that always seemed poised to mock. He really was born with a face that could ruin lives.
Without a word, he picked up a glass of water, walked toward the door, and—splash—poured it straight on me.
He did it on purpose.