Steven’s name lit up the screen. She answered immediately, her voice soft and syrupy. “Baby, what’s wrong?”
“Babe, I think I’ve got a fever,” Steven whined on the other end. “Can you come see me?”
Margot glanced at me for half a second before pulling her hand away.
“Of course, honey,” she cooed into the phone. “Be good and wait for me. I’ll be right there.”
She didn’t even hesitate. She just turned on her heel and left, her heels clicking against the floor as she walked away.
This time, I didn’t call out to stop her. I just watched her figure grow smaller and smaller, disappearing down the hall.
Strangely, all I felt was an eerie calm.
...
Later, the doctor told me what I already suspected: my left hand’s fracture was severe. It would take months of therapy and rest before I’d even be able to play again. If ever.
By the time I returned to the villa, the house was pitch black. Margot hadn’t come home yet. I stood there in silence, staring at the emptiness of the place we once shared.
Our two-year relationship had never felt like we were together. At best, it was a hollow arrangement between two strangers who happened to share the same space.
I thought back to the first day we moved in together. I had been so full of excitement, eager to share my life with her, to be close to her. But that night, she brushed me off with a tired smile.
“I’m exhausted,” she’d said. “Let’s save this for another time, okay?”
I believed her. She worked hard, constantly on set, constantly under pressure. I told myself I’d wait, that I’d respect her boundaries.
But that 'other time' never came.
Until that day, I thought I missed her. I thought a part of me still wanted her. But when I checked the villa’s surveillance footage, any lingering feelings I had evaporated.
There he was—Steven Jackson. He had her in his arms, holding her tightly and kissing her like he owned her. She leaned into him without hesitation, her hands tangled in his hair.
At that moment, I finally understood: I had never truly been in her heart.
The next day, Margot came home like nothing had happened. She walked into the living room, a light gray scarf in her hands. Gently, she wrapped it around my neck and smiled, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.
“I knitted this myself,” she said softly. “Do you like it?”
I froze for a moment, then took a step back, shrugging off the scarf like it was suffocating me.