Corridors of Deceit

POV: First-person.

The malicious message burns into my mind, illuminating the dark bedroom with a toxic glow. Each digital letter feels like a permanent scar I cannot erase. My husband is lying right next to me, his chest rising and falling in a steady, peaceful rhythm, while his mistress sends me taunts in the middle of the night. A wave of nausea washes over me. My fingers tremble over the keyboard, tempted to hurl the phone against the wall, but I refuse to lose control of my rationality. I need evidence.

Taking a quick screenshot, I capture the disgusting proof. The harsh truth is staring me in the face, but I will handle this on my own terms. I hate being cornered. I forcefully type a reply: *[Is it because he's in bed with me right now that you're so restless? The mistress.]*

Without a second of hesitation, I reject the friend request and shove my phone onto the nightstand, burying my face in my hands. I turn away from the glowing screen, closing my eyes against the darkness, forcing myself to endure the long night.

The next morning, the atmosphere in the house is sickeningly domestic, a perfect picture painted over a rotting canvas. Golden sunlight streams through the kitchen windows, illuminating Donovan as he flawlessly plays the perfect husband. He stands by the stove wearing his casual weekend clothes, cheerfully flipping pancakes and humming a soft tune. The smell of butter and maple syrup fills the air, mocking the cold knot in my stomach. Our young son, Rowan, runs around his legs, laughing uproariously as Donovan playfully nudges him with his hip.

"Look out, monster!" Donovan cheers, scooping Rowan up into a massive hug.

Watching them, my chest aches with a dull, heavy pain. It feels as if a stone sits right on my ribs, pressing down on my lungs. Rowan is my soft spot. His bright, innocent smile is my lifeline. Seeing him so happy, I know I cannot rip our delicate relationship apart in a fiery blaze of accusations just yet. I can be intense. I can burn bridges and walk away. But for Rowan's sake, I hold the venom in my throat. I sit at the island counter, sipping black coffee, pretending nothing is wrong.

Donovan plates the breakfast and sets it on the table. He walks over, his expression tender, and gently kisses my cheek. The brush of his lips makes my skin crawl, but I force myself to sit still.

"Morning, honey. Don't worry about later. I'll go see Mom at the hospital this afternoon. Stella will be there too," he warmly promises, his eyes shining with fake devotion.

"Okay," I murmur, keeping my gaze fixed on my mug so he cannot see the storm brewing in my eyes.

At work, the corporate environment offers no sanctuary. The moment I step out of the elevator, Fiona intercepts me. She stands blocking the corridor, her arms crossed, radiating her usual blunt, aggressive ambition. Her sharp heels click against the marble floor as she steps into my path.

"What happened yesterday?" she demands, her eyes narrowing as she scrutinizes my tired face.

"It's nothing," I reply, trying to sidestep her.

Fiona steps into my path again, refusing to let it go. "Come on, don't give me that. Yesterday you said the same thing. Something must've happened at home to make you this distracted. So tell me—when are you stepping down so I can take your place?"

I stare at her, my jaw clenching. I hate her relentless prying, but oddly, I respect her transparency. She is upfront about our competition. No hidden tactics, no sneaking around behind my back—just a raw, aggressive desire to usurp my position. I shoot her a look of pure, unadulterated contempt.

"Keep dreaming," I snap back, pushing past her shoulder and heading straight to my office, leaving her glaring at my back.

The morning passes in a blur of spreadsheets and endless phone calls. Right before my lunch break, the regular office cleaning lady walks in carrying her supplies. She wipes down the conference table while I organize my files.

"Hi," I call out, stopping her. "Did you clean my office yesterday? I seem to have lost something. Did you notice anything out of place?"

The cleaning lady pauses, leaning on her mop with a confused frown. "Yesterday? No, I didn't clean yesterday. It was our day off. Don't you remember, Ms. Carlisle?"

My blood runs cold. A sudden, chilling realization hits me. The internal staff had yesterday off. Only external cleaners were scheduled for the building's common areas. My heart thuds painfully against my ribs.

The cleaner shifts her weight nervously, misreading my silence. "Ms. Carlisle, what exactly did you lose? Is it something important? Oh, by the way, I lost a set of clothes as well."

My head snaps up. "You lost a set of clothes?"

"Yes, the brand-new uniform the company issued last week. I haven't even had a chance to wear it, and this morning I couldn't find it anywhere in my locker. Isn't that strange? You have to believe me, I didn't take anything of yours."

"It's not related to you," I say, forcing a reassuring smile to calm her down.

As she sighs in relief, I sprint out of my office and head straight for the security control room. I demand to check the exterior security footage from yesterday. I scrub through the time stamps, my eyes scanning the fuzzy monitors. There. I clearly spot an unidentified outsider, a woman with long chestnut hair, confidently leaving the building disguised in the stolen uniform. She walks briskly, blending into the crowd, and disappears down the street.

A wave of grim relief washes over me. The intruder is an outsider, not one of my own trusted employees. I immediately mandate the administration department to physically change all the office door locks. I stand there and watch as the maintenance crew swaps the hardware on my door and filing cabinets, then I personally reset every safe code. Only I possess the new combinations.

Later that afternoon, I desperately rush to the hospital to check on Mom. The harsh fluorescent lights of the corridor buzz overhead, casting long shadows on the polished floor. As I approach Mom's room, my footsteps abruptly freeze right outside her partially open door.

Familiar voices drift through the crack. Inside the room, Donovan and my sister, Stella, are engaged in a hushed, intense conversation.

"Donovan, I can't thank you enough. If it weren't for you, I really wouldn't know what to do," Stella says, her voice full of gratitude.

"We're family, no need for thanks," Donovan replies casually, playing the role of the dependable savior.

There is a brief silence before Stella's voice trembles slightly. "But Donovan, have you really ended things with that woman? I don't want to see you and my sister split up. You two are perfect together, and Rowan is still so young..."

"It's over," Donovan insists firmly, his tone dripping with fake sincerity. "I made a mistake in a moment of weakness, but the person I love is still your sister."

Stella releases a heavy, audible sigh of relief. "That's good to hear. Don't tell Serena, though. I won't say anything either, as long as you two are okay."

"I won't," Donovan promises.

My heart plummets into my stomach. The air leaves my lungs in a sharp gasp. Stella knows. My own flesh and blood, my sister, knows about the affair and is conspiring to help him cover it up. I trusted her with my life, and she is choosing his fake charm over my dignity. The double betrayal hits me like a physical blow, cracking my world down the middle. Dizzy and nauseous from the sickening truth, the sterile hallway spins around me. I stumble backward, my vision blurring, my heels catching on the linoleum tiles.

I blindly crash into a pair of strong, rigid hands.

"If you aren't feeling well, you should rest instead of causing trouble in the hallway, which will affect the patient," a sharp, reprimanding voice warns me.

I spin around, gasping for air, and face Mom's attending physician, Tristan Beaumont. His stern face is partially obscured by a blue surgical hat and mask, leaving only his piercing eyes visible. He looks exactly as he did yesterday in my office, hiding behind the clinical garb.

Not daring to cross the doctor saving my mother's life, I swallow the bile in my throat and force a desperate smile. "I'm sorry. I just... I didn't sleep well last night."

Tristan nods briskly, gesturing for me to step aside. He pushes the door open and enters the room. I wait in the hallway, pressing my palms against my hot cheeks, trying to gather my scattered composure. The deepening isolation suffocates me. My husband is a liar. My sister is an accomplice.

A few minutes later, Tristan finishes his medical checks on Mom. I step into the room and respectfully escort him toward the door. Just before walking away, he pauses. He turns to give me a long, incredibly meaningful, and piercing look.

"As a family member of the patient, your health is also important. Make sure you rest when you can," Tristan says, his voice low. "You should probably—get your eyes checked too."

His pointed, cryptic words leave me frozen with mounting suspicion. What does he know? The way he looks at me suggests he sees the blindfold tied around my head, yet I have no tangible proof of what he might be implying.

I turn back into the hospital room, only to find Donovan gone. Mom sleeps quietly on the bed. Stella is scrolling on her phone, pretending everything is normal. He must have gone to fetch hot water, I tell myself, desperate for a mundane explanation. I need to see him. I need to look him in the eye and search for the lies. I make a quick excuse to Stella and hurriedly head straight toward the designated water station at the end of the hall.

My heels click sharply against the floor. I turn the corner. The station is empty. The stainless steel machines hum quietly under the lights.

Donovan isn't there. He hasn't gone to get water at all.