Love Buried in the Past

Isabella Waterlow, the queen of New Ark City's elite and a wife famed for her boundless devotion, has always lived in the headlines. To mark my birthday, she spared no expense—every firework that burst across the night sky and every rose blooming in the city was hers.

Beneath the riot of colors that lit up the heavens, Isabella leaned in, her delicate frame rising on tiptoes, her lips brushing against mine in a kiss as soft as a whisper.

“Darling,” she said with a gleam in her eye, “I won’t let you envy any man.”

Her promise stood tall—a castle made entirely of bloodred roses reaching skyward. From its 33rdfloor pinnacle, her fiery proclamation blazed out, “I love you, Claude Smith.”

When I fell ill with a fever, Isabella's reaction was as dramatic as her affections. She wanted to summon every private doctor in the city to ensure my swift recovery. Even our love story found its way onto the largest screens downtown, with our wedding photos heralded as a modernday romance for the ages.

But now, reality had its moment of intrusion.

The scene was unremarkable at first: I reached out to hand Isabella her coat, only for a small object to tumble from its pocket—a shiny pink package. The moment stretched unbearably. It was a condom. Strawberryflavored. A flavor I despised.

The air around me seemed to chill as I stooped down to retrieve the package. The faint, saccharine scent wafted toward me—cloying, greasy, unmistakable. As I studied the packaging, an unsettling familiarity crept in.

Last month, during an unannounced visit to Isabella’s company, a curious incident replayed in my mind. Her new secretary, Samuel Castillo, had rounded a corner carrying a parcel, only to collide with me. Startled, his grip slipped, sending the contents spilling. Tiny pink packages lay scattered across the floor.

I knelt to help. “Are you okay?” I asked.

Samuel flushed crimson, his hands scrambling to gather the items. “Mr. Smith! I’m so sorry—I didn’t see you.” His embarrassment was palpable.

He explained with a shy, proud grin, “My girlfriend uses these. We run out so quickly—I’ve been buying a few boxes every few days. Please don’t mention this to anyone.”

At the time, I chuckled, brushing it off as a trivial office mishap. But now, clutching an identical package, the cold realization crawled up my spine. My hands were trembling as my mind stitched the pieces together.

“Darling, what are you thinking about?” Isabella’s voice melted into the moment, trailing steam as she emerged from the bathroom, her damp hair framing her radiant face. She slipped her arms around me, her warmth jolting against my chilled composure.

Her brow furrowed as she took in my pallor. “What’s wrong, darling? Who upset you? Tell me and I’ll have them fired immediately!”

I lifted my gaze to meet hers. Six years of marriage, her every gesture crafted with love, flashed before me. From the flowers to the private cinema to her undying devotion to my whims—she had always been the embodiment of care.

People would often comment on how indulgent she was and with a wry smile, I’d tease her, “If you keep this up, you’ll be another Mark Antony and they’ll call me Cleopatra—a calamity in disguise.”

But Isabella would just laugh, unbothered by the jest and cradle me close. “If you’re Cleopatra, then I’ll gladly be Mark Antony. He waged wars for his queen and I’d spend my fortune tenfold for my Claude.”

Her vows lingered, ghostlike, but now they felt hollow.

With a bitter smile, I raised the offending pink package between us. “What’s this?”

A flicker of panic danced across Isabella’s features, but she quickly regained composure.

“Where did you find that?” she asked, feigning innocence.

I pointed to her coat. “It fell out of your pocket.”

Her eyes widened before she slapped a hand to her forehead with a laugh, an almost theatrical gesture. “Oh, silly me! I must’ve taken it by mistake. Last month during team building, one of my colleagues ordered fried chicken. I was grabbing disposable gloves and must have grabbed this by accident.”

Her explanation hung in the air, fragile and thin as glass.

I locked my gaze with Isabella, letting the silence stretch between us. She held my eyes, her expression shifting and then her cheeks flushed crimson. Her voice broke through, tremulous yet urgent, as she pulled me into a desperate embrace.

"Claude," she whispered, her tone cracking, "you don’t think this is mine, do you?"

Her voice trembled as she continued, her arms tightening around me.

"I know you better than anyone. I know how much you hate strawberryflavored things. After all these years, you think I’d let something like this into our home?"

Tears glistened in her wide eyes, the sincerity in her expression nearly palpable. She leaned closer, her lips brushing against mine, murmuring, "Darling, you’re my life."

Her hands cupped my face, her gaze unwavering. "If you don’t trust me, I’ll march back to the office right now. I’ll find out who it belongs to and fire them this instant!"

Her resolve seemed unshakable. Her voice, her gestures—all of it carried the weight of truth. She turned away, already moving toward the door to prove her point.

I reached out, tugging gently on the corner of her sleeve.

"There’s no need," I said softly.

She turned back instantly, searching my face for reassurance. I held her gaze as I spoke slowly, deliberately.

"I believe you won’t lie to me."

Her face broke into a smile as she exhaled a relieved breath. She leaned in to ruffle my hair affectionately before heading to the kitchen.

“I’ll go prepare your lunch for tomorrow,” she said, her voice light once more.

From my vantage on the secondfloor railing, I watched her move about the kitchen with the practiced ease of routine. My thoughts began to spiral.

Six years of marriage and not once had Isabella shirked this ritual. No matter how demanding her schedule, she always made time to prepare meals for me—handpicking fresh ingredients, crafting dishes with her own hands.

Her devotion baffled others. My colleagues often teased, “Why does Madam Waterlow bother cooking herself? With her fortune, she could hire the best chefs in the world!”

To this, Isabella always gave the same answer, with a hint of a smile, "Claude likes what I cook."

Her love, so constant and absolute, had always seemed indestructible. But could she have forgotten my vow? The one I whispered to her on our wedding day, amidst promises of forever.

If you ever betray me, I’ll vanish from your world entirely.

A sudden crack of thunder shattered my thoughts. My head turned toward the sound, and in its wake, I heard Isabella’s light footsteps approaching. Convinced I was asleep, she tucked the blankets carefully around me. Her fingers lingered on my shoulder as if seeking reassurance, before she began to retreat.

The stillness broke with the sharp trill of her phone. Under the dim light, I saw her brow crease as she glanced at the screen. Her eyes flicked to me before she answered in a hushed voice, moving toward the staircase.

"Didn’t I tell you not to call after hours?" she hissed. "If it’s urgent, handle it tomorrow at the office. Don’t disturb my husband and me—"

Her voice faltered. Then, sharper, more panicked.

"What? You’re here? At my house?"

My heartbeat quickened as I watched her rush downstairs. Moments later, I slid out of bed and approached the tall French windows. From here, I had a clear view of the villa’s entrance.

There, standing soaked under the pouring rain, was Samuel, his figure outlined by the storm.

Isabella opened the door, an umbrella shielding her from the rain. Her voice was firm but low, though I could still catch her words.

"Why are you here? Didn’t I tell you never to come near my house, especially not in front of my husband?"

Samuel tilted his head upward, his face an open book of anguish. "I’m scared of the thunder, Isabella," he admitted, stepping closer. "I... I miss you."

Without warning, he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers.

I froze.

Isabella stiffened for a moment, the umbrella trembling in her hand. Then, as if succumbing to gravity, she steadied Samuel with her other arm, her palm resting on his waist.

"Stop it," she whispered, her tone soft, almost playful. But her actions betrayed her words. She didn’t resist; she didn’t pull away.

When he finally drew back, her fingers gently brushed the rain from his face. She frowned slightly, an expression I once thought reserved only for me.

"How did you handle storms before you met me?" she murmured.

Her gaze fell to his drenched clothes and I saw her swallow hard.

"You’re soaked. You’ll catch a cold. Come inside—I’ll make sure you dry off."

Samuel’s shirt clung to his sculpted frame, each curve accentuated by the waterlogged fabric. Isabella’s eyes darted away, but the tension in her expression was unmistakable.

"Isabella," Samuel asked softly, his voice tinged with hope, "can I take a shower inside?"

Isabella’s expression hardened at Samuel’s plea, her usual composure replaced by an icy resolve.

"No!" she snapped, her voice firm and unyielding. "If my husband finds you in the house, it will cause unnecessary trouble. I’ll take you to a hotel."

Without hesitation, she stepped back into the villa, grabbed her coat and draped it over Samuel’s shoulders. She tossed him the car keys, her tone leaving no room for argument.

"Wait for me in the car."

Handing him the umbrella, she turned to head inside. The quick efficiency of her movements betrayed her nerves as she went upstairs to change her clothes. Before leaving, she entered the bedroom to turn off the lights, her hand hovering over the switch.

“Don’t turn off the lights," my voice broke the silence, cutting through the dim room.

Isabella froze, her hand suspended midair. Slowly, she turned to face me, her smile shaky and forced.

"Darling," she said, her tone light but strained, "when did you wake up?"

Feigning grogginess, I propped myself up slightly.

"What are you standing there for, my dear? Come to bed."

My gaze dropped to her attire, catching the subtle change. My brow furrowed.

"Didn’t you have your pajamas on just now? Are you going somewhere?"

Her reply came quickly, almost too quickly. "No, I just tried on what I planned to wear tomorrow. I’ll go to bed now."

She urged me to sleep first, but I shook my head, insistent that I watch her join me. Isabella hesitated but relented, returning to her pajamas and slipping into bed beside me.

"Darling," she murmured, pulling me close, "I’ll hold you while you sleep."

I closed my eyes, her familiar warmth enveloping me. But my mind was elsewhere, replaying the scene from earlier—Samuel’s lips on hers, her body frozen but unresisting.

Samuel, the male secretary, had worked for Isabella for two years. Until now, I had never doubted her. After our marriage, Isabella had insisted on hiring only female assistants, ensuring that no man could intrude on her professional or personal space.

But Samuel’s entry into her life had been... unconventional. I remembered that day vividly. I had come to her office to surprise her with fruit, only to find Samuel being rejected during his interview. He had collapsed to the floor in despair, his desperation palpable.

"Please, Madam Waterlow," he had begged, his voice raw, "if I don’t get this job, I’ll die!"

Isabella had remained cold and indifferent, unmoved by his pleas. But Samuel had escalated his desperation, running to the rooftop and shouting his ultimatum.

"Madam Waterlow!" he had cried, his voice echoing through the city. "I met all the requirements! Why am I being rejected just because I’m a man? I won’t accept this! If you don’t hire me, I’ll jump right now!"

Fearing the damage this spectacle could cause to the company’s reputation, I had urged Isabella to hire him. "Just give him a position," I had said. "Have him assist someone else. Keep him out of your way."

For a time, Isabella treated him with the same coldness, keeping their interactions strictly professional. So when had this connection begun?

Now, as she lay beside me, I felt the tension between us like a chasm. She shifted restlessly, her hand attempting to slip away from mine, but I tightened my grip.

After a long silence, I heard her sigh softly. The faint glow of her phone lit up her face as she began typing a message. I squinted, catching the words she sent to her assistant.

[Samuel is in my car. Take him to the hotel. I can’t leave right now.]

The assistant’s reply came swiftly and Isabella visibly relaxed, setting her phone aside. She leaned back into me, her hand gently resting on my chest as though trying to dispel the unease in the air.

By morning, I rose and prepared for work, my thoughts heavy with questions. When I arrived at the office, the atmosphere was noticeably off. Something had shifted, an unspoken tension lingering in the air.

Samuel had made a scene. His disheveled appearance caught everyone’s attention. His eyes were red and swollen, his posture slouched with exhaustion.

Colleagues surrounded him, their tones a mix of teasing and concern.

"Hey, Sam," one quipped, "did you fight with your girlfriend? Those bags under your eyes are giving you away."

Another chimed in, "Yeah, did she have her way with you? Toss you around all night, huh?"

Someone scoffed, trying to defend him. "Cut it out. Can’t you see Sam’s in a bad mood? His girlfriend probably mistreated him. Women, I tell you—they’re all trouble."

At that moment, I entered, Isabella following closely behind me. The room fell into a hush as Samuel’s puffy eyes locked onto hers. His lips twisted into a bitter smile.

"You’re right," he said loudly, his voice dripping with venom. "Women are trouble. They’re all liars."

His pointed words were ambiguous, yet unmistakably aimed at Isabella. With exaggerated gall, he leaned closer to the female assistant, whispering something that made her giggle nervously, all while stealing glances at Isabella.

I watched as Isabella stiffened beside me, her composure cracking ever so slightly.

Isabella’s demeanor remained calm throughout the office’s murmurs, betraying no outward reaction. But I knew her too well—her body language told a different story. She was tense, a taut string ready to snap.

She brought me my morning coffee, her routine flawless as always.

"Darling," she said softly, her voice a practiced melody, "I added more sugar today. You’ll love it."

From behind, her arms wrapped around my waist, a gesture that felt more performative than affectionate.

"You work hard now and I’ll ask my assistant to heat up your lunch later," she added before leaving my office briskly, heading into her day with mechanical precision.

Moments later, as we crossed paths, I overheard her call Samuel in an icy, measured tone, "Come to the office."

The office murmured in response.

"Looks like Samuel’s about to get another scolding," one whispered.

"Yeah, remember last time? They were locked in there for two hours and poor Samuel came out with red, swollen eyes. That woman’s a tyrant with him!"

"Well, what do you expect? Madam Waterlow only has eyes for her husband. She doesn’t even look at anyone else!"

Hearing this, a bitter chuckle escaped my lips.

Only me, huh?

Doubt gnawed at me and on impulse, I opened my laptop, accessing the hidden camera I had installed in Isabella’s office just days ago. It was meant to test the device’s clarity—an innocent curiosity—but now, it served a darker purpose.

The feed clicked on and the scene unfolded before me.

The office door was firmly shut. Samuel stood there, sulking, his expression dark and brooding. Isabella sighed heavily and stepped toward him, wrapping her arms around his waist with unsettling familiarity.

"You’re trying to upset me, aren’t you?" she murmured, her voice dripping with a mix of exasperation and indulgence. "I told you—last night was a special situation. My husband woke up; I couldn’t leave."

Her voice softened into a coaxing plea. "Don’t be angry. I’ll use a business trip as an excuse tonight and stay home with you all night. Does that make you happy?"

Samuel’s face twisted with hurt and accusation. "How do I know you’re not lying to me again?"

His tone sharpened, a mix of jealousy and bitterness. "Every day, you cook for him, pamper him. What about me? Why can’t I ever taste the food you make?"

He punctuated his words with mock defiance. "Maybe I’ll just eat the food you brought for Claude today. What do you think of that?"

Isabella’s expression darkened in an instant, her tone turning cold and sharp.

"You wouldn’t dare." Her voice was laced with quiet venom.

"I’ve told you—don’t drag our affair into my husband’s life. If he hears so much as a whisper of this, I’ll fire you on the spot and cut you off completely. No more meetings, no more chances. You’ll be done."

Samuel’s bravado crumbled under her glare. He grabbed her hand hesitantly, his tone softening to a pitiful murmur.

"I’m sorry. I was just joking. I was still mad from last night. You left me, didn’t comfort me... I felt abandoned."

His vulnerability softened her and Isabella’s gaze shifted, her eyes filling with a possessiveness that sent a chill down my spine. She reached up, hooking her arms around his neck and kissed him with a feral intensity.

As their passion escalated, Samuel’s hands fumbled impatiently, pulling at her collar and loosening her belt.

"Is the door locked?" Isabella rasped, her voice heavy with urgency.

"Yes," he stammered, nodding fervently. "Locked tight. Your husband won’t find out."

I sat frozen, staring at the screen as the scene unfolded in all its sordid detail. My chest tightened, my breath catching in my throat. Tears burned at the corners of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.

They were reckless, consumed by their lust, unwilling to wait until night. They tangled themselves in disheveled passion, oblivious to the consequences.

Several times, I fought the urge to storm in and confront them, but I held back, my shaking hand hitting the record button. If nothing else, I would have my evidence.

The minutes dragged on like hours. When it was finally over, they clung to each other, both breathless and flushed.

"You’re impossible," Isabella murmured, her voice caught somewhere between chastisement and indulgence. "All you ever do is push my limits. My waist hurts so much now; I can’t even walk..."

Her words trailed off as Samuel smirked, leaning into her once more.

My world crumbled around me as the screen dimmed to black.

Isabella, I thought bitterly, you’ve been lying to me all along.

Isabella reclined lazily against the plush backrest of her office chair, her demeanor one of playful satisfaction. Her fingers lightly grasped Samuel's chin as she leaned in to kiss him, her lips curling into a teasing smile.

"Feeling better now?" she cooed, her voice dripping with indulgence.

Samuel nodded, a mischievous grin playing on his face.

"Tonight, then. Don’t forget," she added with a soft laugh, her tone firm with expectation. "Dress nicely and wait for me at the hotel."

"Got it," Samuel replied smoothly, leaving one last mark on her neck as if claiming territory.

Satisfied, he adjusted his clothes and exited the office, feigning irritation to maintain the charade.

As he stormed out, muttering curses under his breath, a handful of colleagues gathered around him sympathetically.

"Don’t take it personally, Samuel. Madam Waterlow can be... difficult," one offered consolingly.

From my position, watching the scene unfold, their naivety felt like a cruel joke. For two years, they had been carrying on this elaborate pretense of discord, concealing their intimacy while toying with me under my very nose.

Lunch arrived as usual, Isabella’s dutiful hands delivering the tray she’d prepared herself.

"Darling," she said warmly, placing the dish before me. "Try the shrimp today. I know you prefer lighter flavors, so I improved the recipe just for you."

Her voice was honeyed, her smile radiant. Yet beneath her collar, the faint mark left by Samuel was unmistakable. The sight of it made my stomach churn.

"I don’t feel like eating," I murmured, pushing the tray away. "I need some fresh air."

As I rose to leave, Samuel’s voice followed me, carrying that mocking edge I had come to loathe.

"Mr. Smith, if you’re not hungry, could I have a taste?"

Isabella’s expression turned frosty in an instant, but Samuel pressed on, his tone daring.

"I envy you, Mr. Smith. Madam Waterlow’s cooking must be something else. I’d love to see if it’s better than my girlfriend’s."

His words were a game, a calculated attempt to provoke and I saw through it all. Without a word, I slid the lunchbox toward him.

"Eat," I said flatly and left the room.

Downstairs, I wandered to the underground garage, my steps purposeful as I approached Isabella’s car. I’d never felt the urge to invade her privacy before. Trust, I had believed, was the cornerstone of a good marriage. But trust had already been shattered and I was left with nothing but questions demanding answers.

I switched on the car’s dashcam, navigating through the stored files with practiced precision.

There it was. Evidence, undeniable and damning. The screen played back scenes of her and Samuel, their stolen moments of intimacy unfolding within the car’s confined space.

Voices spilled from the audio.

"Did you leave that in my pocket?" Isabella’s voice was sharp, almost accusatory. "Claude saw it. If he finds out, you’re finished."

Samuel’s response was whiny, contrite. "I forgot... I didn’t finish last time. I’m sorry."

Isabella sighed but said nothing and Samuel pressed on, his tone coaxing.

"I promise I’ll be more careful in the future. Don’t be angry, please don’t ignore me..."

Moments later, the audio dissolved into an exchange of hurried, intimate breaths.

I couldn’t bear to watch further. Enough. My suspicions had been more than confirmed. Shutting off the device, I closed my eyes and exhaled shakily.

Wandering outside, I pulled out my phone and dialed my father, who was far away in another country.

"Dad," I said quietly, "can you help me change my identity?"

There was a pause, then his surprised voice crackled over the line.

"Are you serious? My son has finally come around? You’re ready to leave and join me abroad?"

"Yes," I said simply. "I need a new identity and I want the Claude who exists here to... disappear."

My father chuckled, though his tone remained curious. "Of course, I can arrange that. But what about Isabella? She adores you—always by your side. Won’t she stop you?"

"She doesn’t know," I replied, my voice calm but resolute.

For a moment, the weight of my promise hung between us. I had told Isabella once, on the day of our wedding, that if she ever betrayed me, I would vanish from her world without a trace. Now, I intended to keep my word.

And I had prepared a final gift for her.

My disappearance.