Chapter 35

Alastair pulled into the parking space of the upscale boutique, its sleek glass facade reflecting the late afternoon sun. Her heart felt heavy as she switched off the engine. This was another day of pretense—a facade they had to maintain, no matter how much it tore her apart. She exhaled deeply, stealing a glance at Zaviya, who was stoic and unbothered, her gaze fixed outside the window. She knew the commotion earlier  at Reika's house brought her to the edge.

Without a word, she stepped out of the car and hurried to Zaviya’s side, opening the door for her. The cold stare Zaviya shot her stung, but she kept her composure, offering a small smile that went unnoticed. They entered the boutique together, activating their "perfect wives" personas the moment their feet touched the polished marble floors.

The staff and designer welcomed them warmly, guiding them to an opulent fitting room. Rows of luxurious gowns and tailored suits lined the walls, each piece a testament to exquisite craftsmanship. Gold and black dominated the room, a nod to the grand 50th birthday celebration they were preparing for. Every item screamed extravagance, worth thousands of pesos, but neither woman seemed particularly impressed.

Alastair volunteered to start fitting first. Zaviya, preoccupied with selecting the design of her gown, didn’t even glance her way.

Claire, the assistant designer, a striking young woman with piercing blue eyes and an effortless grace, approached Alastair. She smiled warmly and began helping her choose a suit. Each piece Claire handed over seemed to complement Alastair perfectly, accentuating her sharp features and commanding stature. Claire couldn’t help but shower her with compliments.

“Wow, Ma'am Alastair,” Claire said, her voice soft and admiring. “You have such a strong build. Every suit looks like it was made just for you.”

Alastair chuckled lightly, offering a modest, “Thank you.” She appreciated the compliment but kept her tone polite, her attention divided as Claire initiated a conversation about technology. Discovering Claire was tech-savvy brought a rare smile to Alastair’s lips, and their conversation flowed with surprising ease.

But the warmth of their exchange didn’t go unnoticed. From across the room, Zaviya’s gaze burned into them, her fury barely concealed. Kanina pa niya napapansin ang assistant designer—too close, too touchy. When Claire adjusted Alastair’s suit earlier, her hand had lingered on Alastair’s toned abdomen. Worse, her eyes shamelessly roamed over Alastair’s form, lingering where they shouldn’t.

Zaviya’s jaw clenched. Anger bubbled within her, threatening to boil over. She told herself it wasn’t jealousy—it couldn’t be. But the sight of Claire biting her lip as she ogled Alastair was enough to make her blood boil.

The moment Claire stepped into the next room to retrieve another design, Zaviya couldn’t hold back anymore. She abruptly stood and stormed toward Alastair, her voice low and venomous.

“Are you done choosing a suit for the party, or are you planning to take that leech to bed instead?” she hissed, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

Alastair froze, the words cutting through her like shards of glass. She blinked, momentarily stunned. Of all the things she thought Zaviya might say, this wasn’t one of them. Could she really be jealous? A flicker of hope stirred in her chest, but it was quickly overshadowed by the sting of Zaviya’s cold tone.

“Zavi, it’s not what you think,” Alastair said softly, taking a tentative step closer. Her hand reached out, gently brushing Zaviya’s arm. “Please don’t accuse me of something I haven’t done. I was just being polite.”

Zaviya let out a sharp, bitter laugh and swatted Alastair’s hand away. “Don’t touch me!” she spat. “You dare to touch me after flirting with that bitch? Kating-kati ka na ba, Alastair? Ano, pagkatapos mo akong gawing tanga, harap-harapan ka nang lumalandi sa iba?”

Her words were like daggers, each one sinking deeper into Alastair’s chest. Before she could respond, the head designer walked in, breaking the tension. Instantly, Zaviya’s demeanor shifted. She plastered on a loving smile, stepping close to Alastair and fixing her collar. Then, to Alastair’s shock, Zaviya leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her lips.

“Oh, you two are such a perfect couple!” the designer gushed, clapping her hands in delight.

Alastair forced a smile, playing along with the charade, but the taste of bitterness lingered on her tongue.

As Zaviya tried on her gown—an elegant black piece with intricate gold details—Alastair sat on the couch, her mind racing. She watched as Zaviya moved gracefully, her beauty undeniable. But the weight of their earlier exchange pressed heavily on her chest.

Hours later, they left the boutique. The ride home was cloaked in silence, the air between them thick with tension. Alastair parked the Bugatti in the garage and hesitated, her hands gripping the steering wheel. Finally, she turned to Zaviya, her voice careful and measured.

“Zavi? About what you said earlier…” she began, her heart pounding. “I just want to clarify—I wasn’t flirting with Claire. She was helping me choose a suit, and I was just being polite. Please, don’t be jealous over other women. You know it would always be you.”

Zaviya’s head snapped toward her, her eyes narrowing in disdain. “Jealous?” she scoffed. “Oh, boy, you’re mistaken. I am NOT jealous. Do you think I care if you flirt with every woman you see? You’re nothing to me now, Alastair. What I’m protecting is my image. I don’t want to be labeled as the perfect wife who gets cheated on. You should know better than that.”

Her voice was sharp, each word a whip lashing at Alastair’s already fragile heart.

“Stop assuming things, we're done.” Zaviya continued, her tone icy. “Fuck all the women you want. I don’t care.”

With that, she swung the car door open and stormed into the mansion, leaving Alastair alone in the suffocating silence.

Alastair slumped forward, resting her head against the steering wheel. Her chest ached, not from physical pain but from the emotional wounds Zaviya had inflicted. How much more could her heart endure? How could she love someone so deeply who seemed determined to push her away? Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them back, refusing to let them fall. Instead, she sat there in the dark, consumed by the agony of loving someone who could never love her again.

Three days after, the grand ballroom of the Porsild’s luxury hotel radiated opulence, bathed in golden light from crystal chandeliers and adorned with lavish floral arrangements. Tonight, it hosted Morten Porsild’s 50th birthday, a celebration befitting his status as a business titan. The room buzzed with the chatter of affluent guests, their laughter mingling with the soft strains of a live orchestra. It was a spectacle of wealth and power, a playground for the elite.

Outside, in the dim confines of Alastair’s sleek and expensive car, silence hung heavily. Alastair  and Zaviya sat side by side, their faces impassive but their hearts weighed down with unspoken tension. They had long perfected the art of appearing as a perfect couple in public, but tonight, the facade felt heavier than ever.

Zaviya broke the silence, her voice sharp and cold as glass. “May I remind you, Alastair, don't put malice on anything I do with you tonight. Even if I’m still furious at my parents for favoring you—helping you to betray and fool me—I won’t embarrass them. That’s the only reason I’m attending this circus. Just go with the flow, and we’ll get through this. You’re accustomed to making people believe in your lies, right? Napaniwala mo nga ako ng tatlong taon, e. This night should be easy for you.”

Her words, laced with mockery and bitterness, cut deep, but Alastair remained silent. Shame flared in her chest, and all she could do was nod. She stepped out of the car, inhaling deeply as if the crisp night air could fortify her for the hours ahead. Moving to the other side, she opened the door for Zaviya, her hand briefly brushing against her wife’s as she helped her out. Zaviya barely acknowledged the gesture.

As they approached the entrance, the hum of conversation within the ballroom dimmed, replaced by whispers and stares. Heads turned toward them, and an electric current of curiosity swept through the crowd.

“Alastair looks so dashing tonight.”“And Zaviya—so breathtakingly elegant.”

They were a sight to behold: Alastair in her sharply tailored black suit, exuding a magnetic confidence, and Zaviya in her flowing gold gown, her beauty radiant and untouchable. Together, they were the embodiment of power and allure—a picture-perfect couple that hid the fractures beneath the surface.

Greeting guests with practiced smiles, they moved seamlessly through the crowd. Alastair’s hand rested lightly on the small of Zaviya’s back, a gesture meant to convey intimacy. Zaviya didn’t pull away, but her body stiffened under the touch. To the world, they appeared as devoted wives. Only they knew the truth: they were two strangers bound by a fragile thread of appearances.

At the family table, Morten stood, his face lighting up as they approached. “You came,” he said warmly, pulling both into a firm embrace. Nee, Zaviya’s mother, followed suit, her eyes glistening with gratitude. “Thank you for being here, anak” she whispered, her tone tinged with unspoken concern.

Alastair and Zaviya took their seats side by side, flanked by Zaviya’s parents and Alastair’s own, who had just flown in from overseas. The table was an island of polished civility amidst the sea of guests. The conversation drifted toward business, carefully steering clear of the turmoil in the couple’s relationship.

Despite the tension between them, Alastair and Zaviya played their roles flawlessly. At one point, Alastair reached across the table to brush a stray strand of hair from Zaviya’s face, her touch lingering just enough to seem affectionate. “You look stunning tonight,” Alastair murmured, her voice soft but loud enough for the table to hear.

Zaviya smiled—a perfect, practiced smile. “And you look... adequate.” Her words carried a subtle edge, but her expression betrayed nothing but fondness.

When the music began, guests turned their attention to the dance floor. Morten, ever the doting father, clapped a hand on Alastair’s shoulder. “You should take Zaviya for a dance. Remind everyone what love looks like.”

Zaviya hesitated, her fingers tightening around her wine glass, but Alastair stood and offered her hand. “Shall we?” she asked, her tone as smooth as silk.

Reluctantly, Zaviya placed her hand in Alastair’s, allowing herself to be led to the dance floor. Under the warm glow of the chandeliers, they moved together, their steps perfectly in sync. Alastair’s hand rested firmly on Zaviya’s waist, while Zaviya’s fingers lightly gripped her shoulder. From afar, they looked utterly in love. Up close, the space between them was a chasm filled with unspoken pain.

“You’re good at this,” Zaviya said under her breath, her lips barely moving. “Convincing everyone that we’re perfect.”

“It’s not about convincing them,” Alastair replied softly, her gaze fixed on Zaviya’s. “It’s about protecting what matters to you.”

Zaviya didn’t respond, her eyes flickering with something unreadable. For a brief moment, they moved as if the world had faded away, leaving only the two of them. But the moment passed as quickly as it came, and when the song ended, they returned to their seats, the illusion intact.

The night dragged on, filled with toasts, laughter, and polite conversations. Alastair and Zaviya remained the perfect hosts, their smiles never wavering. But when the party finally ended, and the last guest had departed, the mask slipped.

In the car ride home, silence settled between them once more. The warmth they had feigned for the crowd was gone, replaced by a cold detachment. When they arrived at their shared home, Zaviya stepped out without waiting for Alastair to open her door.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” she said curtly, disappearing into her room without a backward glance.

Alastair stood in the driveway, the weight of the evening pressing down on her. She looked up at the sky, her breath visible in the cool night air. “One night survived Alastair,” she whispered to herself.

Inside, their home was silent, echoing the emptiness between them. They had played their parts, fooled the world, but when the curtains closed, they were nothing more than strangers once again.

After the grand party the previous night, the sun barely peeked over the horizon when Alastair and Zaviya found themselves aboard a luxurious yacht. The gentle hum of the engine accompanied the rhythmic crashing of waves, carrying them toward the Porsild family’s private island. The destination was a haven—a sprawling mansion nestled in serene isolation, a retreat that would host the intimate celebration of Zaviya’s father’s 50th birthday.

The journey was cloaked in an uneasy silence. The tension between Alastair and Zaviya hung thick in the air, almost tangible, yet both wore carefully composed facades. For the sake of the occasion, they silently agreed to maintain civility, each determined not to mar Morten Porsild’s milestone celebration.

By the time they arrived at the island around noon, the mansion was already alive with activity. Her parents and Alastair’s parents greeted them warmly, their smiles belying any undercurrents of discord. Zaviya’s friends were present as well, their animated chatter filling the air as the preparations for the party unfolded. Alastair kept her distance, allowing herself only the briefest of smiles before retreating to the background, ever aware of the judgmental stares some of Zaviya’s friends cast her way.

The day unfolded without incident, though the undercurrent of tension between the estranged couple never entirely dissipated. As night fell, the atmosphere shifted. The backyard of the mansion transformed into an elegant yet lively venue. String lights cast a warm glow over the scene, and laughter bubbled in the cool night air. Zaviya and her friends sat at a long table, their glasses clinking as the effects of the wine began to show in their flushed cheeks and unabashed laughter. The elders mingled nearby, their conversations punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter.

Alastair stayed at the periphery, helping a few of the men manning the barbecue. She kept herself busy, avoiding the backyard where the celebration was in full swing. The tension she felt in Zaviya’s presence was suffocating, and she had no desire to provoke the sharp tongues of her wife’s friends. Despite her stoic demeanor, Alastair couldn’t help but glance at the lively group every now and then, her gaze lingering on Zaviya longer than she intended.

As the night wore on, the merriment grew louder, the laughter more uninhibited. The girls had taken over the mini stage, singing their hearts out as they reveled in the moment. Alastair, carrying a tray of food to the elders’ table a few yards away, kept her head down, her focus on her task. It wasn’t until Violet called her name that she froze mid-step.

“Alastair!” Violet’s voice was clear, cutting through the noise. Unlike the others, Violet’s gaze held no malice, only an understanding that Alastair rarely encountered these days. A lawyer by profession, Violet had an innate ability to see beyond surface-level grievances. She had always believed there was more to Alastair’s actions than Zaviya allowed herself to see.

The call turned heads at the table, and Alastair felt the weight of several pairs of eyes on her. Some of Zaviya’s friends looked displeased, their expressions stiffening, while others offered hesitant smiles. Alastair’s feet felt rooted to the ground, her heart pounding in her chest as she weighed whether to approach. Just as she decided to retreat, a firm yet gentle tap on her shoulder startled her.

Turning, she found herself face-to-face with Morten. The birthday celebrant's warm smile and reassuring presence immediately put her at ease. “Go on, Alastair,” he urged, his voice kind but insistent. “Join the girls. And…” He paused, his eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. “Sing something for me. How about Wonderful Tonight? It’s one of my favorites.”

Alastair hesitated, the idea of singing in front of the group—especially with Zaviya there—causing her stomach to churn. But she couldn’t refuse Morten, not on his special day. Summoning her courage, she nodded.

With measured steps, she approached the mini stage, the guitar feeling heavier in her hands than it should have. The chatter and laughter quieted as the girls turned their attention to her, their curiosity palpable. Alastair avoided looking in Zaviya’s direction, focusing instead on the elders’ table where Morten sat beaming at her.

“This song is for you, Dad,” she said, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside her. “Happy Birthday.”

The first strum of the guitar silenced the crowd entirely. Alastair’s voice, rich and soulful, carried the familiar melody of Eric Clapton’s Wonderful Tonight. Her fingers moved deftly across the strings, pouring emotion into every note.

But as the song progressed, her resolve began to falter. Her gaze, initially fixed on Morten, drifted unintentionally toward Zaviya. She saw her wife’s face, partially hidden in shadow, but the expression she caught—a mixture of pain and something else she couldn’t quite place—caused her voice to catch for the briefest moment.

The room was alive with applause as the elders clapped, their warm smiles lighting up the atmosphere. The girls, enchanted by Alastair's earlier performance, eagerly called out for another song. Though her shyness lingered, she granted their request, picking up the guitar once more.

A familiar melody filled the air, soft and haunting. Alastair's fingers glided over the strings, her gaze resting lovingly on Zaviya. But behind that look was a heart breaking into pieces. The first few words of Walang Kapalit escaped her lips:

Huwag mangamba,hindi kita paghahanapan paNg anumang kapalit nginalay kong pag-ibigSadyang ganito ang nagmamahal'Di ka dapat mabahala,hinanakit sa 'ki'y walang-wala

At kung hindi mandumating sa 'kin ang panahonNa ako ay mahalin mo rinAsahan mong 'di ako magdaramdam kahit ako ay nasasaktanHuwag mo lang ipagkaitna ikaw ay aking mahalin.

Her voice trembled with emotion, a raw, vulnerable plea that she could no longer suppress. She never broke her gaze from Zaviya, hoping—praying—that Zaviya would feel the weight of her heart through every word. Alastair wanted her to understand the depth of her regret, the magnitude of her love, and the desperate hope to turn back time and piece them together once more.

But Zaviya's expression remained stoic, a mask of unreadable emotions. Was she moved? Was she angry? Alastair couldn’t tell. What she could see, however, was the glass of wine in Zaviya’s hand, which she drained quickly before pouring another. One glass after the other, her grip on the stem remained steady, but her aura grew colder with each sip.

When the final note of the song faded into the stillness of the room, Zaviya rose unsteadily to her feet, wine glass still in hand. Her wobbling steps drew the immediate concern of her friends seated below, some of whom were already standing to assist her. But before anyone could act, Alastair instinctively moved to catch her.

Zaviya stopped mere inches from her, her drunken smirk dissolving the tense air. Her hands reached up, cupping Alastair’s face, leaving the latter frozen in place. For a fleeting moment, emotions flickered in Zaviya's eyes—pain, anger, love—all battling for dominance. But then, like a harsh wind extinguishing a fragile flame, her expression turned cold and detached.

She spun around, facing the crowd, her voice slurred yet cutting. “Isn’t my wife such a performer? Come on, give her a round of applause! She’s so good at everything.” The bitterness in her tone was unmistakable.

“Zavi, enough,” Alastair said softly, stepping closer with caution. “Come on, I’ll take you to your room. You need to rest.”

But Zaviya swatted Alastair’s hands away, her drunken rage boiling over. “Everything, huh?” she spat. “Even fooling me. Even betraying me. That’s your real talent, isn’t it?”

Alastair flinched as if struck, her face a mirror of the anguish coursing through her veins.

“How could you?” Zaviya’s voice cracked, the anger giving way to pain. Her fists pounded weakly against Alastair’s chest. “I gave you everything I had, everything I was! Minahal kita, Alastair! Nagpakatotoo ako sayo, pero anong ginawa mo? Winasak mo ako! Ginago mo ako.”

The room froze, every person paralyzed by the raw display of emotion. Both sets of parents rose to intervene, but Alastair held up a hand, silently asking them to stay back. Tears glistened in the eyes of their friends, their hearts breaking at the sight of two people once so in love now crumbling before them.

Zaviya’s sobs turned to bitter laughter, her voice tinged with despair. “Gustong-gusto kong unawain ka, na ginawa mo yung lahat dahil mahal mo ako, pero tangina naman, Alastair! Yung pagmamahal mo, sinira ako! Hahahaha, Tangina. This pain always linger whenever I look on you. I wanted to hurt you doubled but it pains me to see you hurt too. Nababaliw na ako ayoko na Alastair. Hindi ko na kaya! Ang sakit-sakit!” She hit her chest, as though trying to expel the pain, her cries echoing in the room. “And you know what's worst, I hate you. I loathe you. But damn it, Alastair, this damn heart of mine is still loving you, you piece of shit!”

And with those words, she grabbed Alastair by the collar, pulling her into a hard, desperate kiss. It wasn’t gentle or forgiving—it was a storm of emotions too tangled to unravel. Before Alastair could process the moment, Zaviya’s body went limp, the alcohol finally overtaking her.

Alastair caught her just before she hit the ground, her arms tightening around the woman she had hurt yet loved with every fiber of her being. Looking at their friends and parents, Alastair bowed her head in shame. “I’m sorry for all of this. I’ll take her to her room.”

Her voice cracked as she spoke, but she carried Zaviya with steady resolve, her steps measured and deliberate. Khali, sensing Alastair’s need for support, stood and followed them quietly to the bedroom.

Inside, Alastair laid Zaviya gently on the bed. She hesitated for a moment, her hand trembling as she brushed a tear-streaked strand of hair from Zaviya’s face. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her voice breaking. Leaning down, she pressed a tender kiss to Zaviya’s forehead, a silent promise of the love she still held.

Khali, standing at the door with a basin and towel, offered a soft smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of her.”

Alastair nodded, her gaze falling to the floor. “Thank you, Khali. I… I can’t be the one she sees when she wakes up. She wouldn’t want that.”

Khali placed a reassuring hand on Alastair’s shoulder. “I know there's a reason why you did those Alastair. Be patient with her. She loves you she’s just blinded by her pain. Don’t give up on her.”

A tear slipped down Alastair’s cheek, but she quickly wiped it away. With a faint nod, she murmured her thanks and left the room, the weight of Zaviya’s words pressing heavily on her chest.

Outside, the silence was deafening. Alastair leaned against the wall, her hands trembling as she clenched them into fists. Her heart screamed for the woman inside that room, but she knew she had to endure—for Zaviya, for their love, and for the chance to mend what was broken.

The night was silent, save for the rhythmic crashing of waves against the shore. Alastair staggered out of the villa, clutching a bottle of whiskey in her hand, her breath uneven. The moonlight reflected off her disheveled figure, casting shadows that seemed to echo her torment. She made her way to the shoreline, the sand soft beneath her bare feet, and sank down onto it without grace. The air was thick with the weight of her grief.

Her hands trembled as she unscrewed the bottle and took a swig. Fresh tears finally spilled over, carving wet trails down her cheeks. She didn’t bother to wipe them away. The memory of Zaviya’s anguished face burned in her mind like an unrelenting fire. She had wrecked her—hurt her more deeply than she had thought possible. The image clawed at her heart, and she took another drink, hoping the alcohol could numb even a fraction of the pain she carried.

Hours passed, and the world seemed suspended in an endless midnight. Suddenly, a figure appeared beside her, sitting quietly on the sand. Alastair glanced sideways, startled. It was Yevhen—Zaviya’s closest friend and a woman who had made no secret of her loathing for Alastair. A few days ago, Yevhen had slapped her twice in a fit of rage, her fury mirroring the heartbreak Zaviya had shared with their friends.

Alastair braced herself, expecting more of Yevhen’s wrath, but what happened next unraveled her defenses. Without warning, Yevhen leaned in and wrapped her arms around her. The embrace was fierce, desperate, and raw. Alastair stiffened, stunned, as Yevhen buried her face in her chest and wept, soaking the front of Alastair’s beige polo with her tears.

“I’m sorry, Alastair,” Yevhen choked out between sobs. “I shouldn’t have done that to you. I let my anger win. I didn’t know... I didn’t understand. Cadence told me everything—the truth, your reasons, your pain. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Alastair blinked, her own tears blurring her vision as she instinctively held Yevhen close. She rubbed slow, soothing circles on her back, her voice a soft whisper. “Ven, it’s okay. I understand. I would have done the same if I were in your shoes. I deserve it.”

For a while, neither spoke, letting the sound of the waves fill the heavy silence. Eventually, they sat side by side, their eyes fixed on the horizon where the moon kissed the sea.

Yevhen broke the stillness. Her voice was laced with guilt. “I’m sorry you had to carry this alone, Alastair. We’re supposed to be your friends, but we took Zaviya’s side without even trying to understand yours. I can see now that you’re breaking inside, no matter how strong you try to appear.”

Alastair didn’t respond, her eyes fixed on the undulating waves as they crashed and receded.

“When are you going to tell her the truth, Al? When are you going to stop taking all the blame? It’s unfair to you,” Yevhen said softly, reaching out to hold Alastair’s hand.

Alastair sighed, her shoulders sagging. “Ven, I’ve tried. Every time I try to explain, we argue. She’s too hurt to listen, and I can’t force her. I can’t blame her for being angry.”

Her voice wavered as she looked out to the vast expanse of water. “How long will I carry this? For as long as it takes. As long as she’s willing to stay in my life, even if it’s filled with her anger and pain. I can take it—her words, her outbursts, everything. I’d endure anything just to keep her close.”

Alastair’s voice broke, and she tilted her head back, trying to stop her tears from falling. “I’ve loved her since we were five, Ven. My life has always been hers. I had no choice back then—I was desperate. It was the only way I knew to protect her, even if it meant losing her trust. I knew it would backfire, but I couldn’t bear to lose her.”

Finally, the dam broke, and Alastair’s tears fell freely. “And then Olga ruined everything,” she said through sobs. “Everything I fought for—everything I tried to protect—she destroyed it all.”

Yevhen’s jaw tightened, anger flashing in her eyes. “Cadence told me about Olga. I didn’t realize she was the same person Zaviya asked us about—the one who would stop at nothing to destroy you both. She’s in a mental institution now, right?”

Alastair nodded weakly, her voice hoarse. “But the damage is done. Zaviya can’t even look at me without seeing betrayal.”

Yevhen placed a hand on Alastair’s shoulder, her grip firm. “Don’t give up, Al. Zaviya loves you; I know she does. She’s too hurt to see it now, but that love is still there. We’ll help her see your side. She’ll forgive you someday. I’m sure of it.”

Alastair managed a faint smile and murmured a quiet thank you. The two sat in silence for a while longer, the sound of the waves their only company. Eventually, Alastair walked Yevhen back to her room before retreating to her own.

That night, as she lay on her bed, Alastair’s tears returned. The villa walls seemed to close in on her, the weight of her love, her guilt, and her desperation pressing down on her chest. She cried herself to sleep, clutching onto the hope that someday, Zaviya might finally understand.

*********************It had been a month since the stormy night on the island—a night that left scars too deep to fade but too secret to show. Zaviya stirred awake, her temples pounding with the weight of a headache that felt like shards of glass embedded in her skull. The dawn's light filtered through the curtains, soft but unforgiving, and yet her mind was a merciful blank slate. There were no memories of the chaos she had unleashed, no echoes of the words that had cut deep or the actions that had torn through fragile walls.

Alastair had made sure of that.

She had gathered everyone—every single witness to Zaviya's unraveling—and sworn them to silence. "Don’t let her carry it," Alastair had commanded with a steel resolve that masked the ache in her chest. "Let me carry it instead." It wasn’t for her to bear, Alastair decided. Zaviya didn’t need more weight, more guilt, more of the pain that seemed to follow them like shadows they couldn’t escape.

And so, the truth had been buried beneath layers of silence and secrecy, hidden within the walls of their shared mansion. For an entire month, they had lived under the same roof, navigating an existence that was neither whole nor broken—just suspended, like a fragile thread waiting to snap. They were civil now, at least by technical definition. The occasional nod in passing, the soft echo of footsteps brushing against hardwood floors. They existed in the same space but barely shared it, their interactions limited to fleeting moments in hallways or the distant corners of shared silence.

But outside, they were a different story.

The world saw them as the perfect wives, flawless in their facade. Together, they donned their masks with the precision of performers on a stage, smiling through charity events, business dinners, and gatherings that required their presence. They laughed at jokes they didn’t find funny, exchanged touches that burned with the weight of pretense, and held hands as if their connection wasn’t slowly unraveling beneath the surface.

To everyone else, they were enviable. A picture of love, power, and grace.

Inside, they were strangers caught in the wake of something neither could name nor escape.

Zaviya was now heading out for a friendly lunch with Irfan, her ex. It was nothing romantic, just business—an opportunity to catch up and discuss a potential deal. Irfan’s new hotel needed state-of-the-art security technologies, and Zaviya’s company, ZAviTech, was the perfect choice.

Meanwhile, across town, Alastair was wrapping up a meeting near Zaviya’s office building. The proximity gave her an idea, one that filled her with equal parts hope and dread. She decided to visit Zaviya unannounced, armed with a bouquet of sunflowers—Zaviya's favorite. The flowers were meant as a peace offering, a gesture to express the regret that had been eating away at her since their fallout.

As Alastair stood outside Zaviya’s office door, the weight of uncertainty pressed down on her chest. Her hands trembled slightly, and she glanced down at the bouquet, questioning whether it would even matter. She’ll probably turn me down again, Alastair thought, her heart sinking with the memory of every cold dismissal she had received. But something inside her refused to give up. Just try, she told herself. One more time.

The door opened, and there stood Zaviya, as poised and beautiful as ever. For a fleeting moment, Alastair allowed herself to hope. But the moment was shattered when Zaviya’s expression hardened.

“I’m sorry, Alastair,” Zaviya said, her tone clipped and devoid of warmth. “I have a lunch meeting.”

The words stung, but before Alastair could respond, another voice interrupted.

“Am I too early?”

Alastair turned to see Irfan, standing confidently in the hallway, his presence sharp and imposing. He was dressed impeccably, his smile polite as his gaze shifted between the two women.

“Irfan,” Zaviya greeted him with a faint smile, a stark contrast to the cold

look she had just given Alastair. “No, you’re right on time. Let’s head out for our meeting.”

Irfan’s eyes lingered on the bouquet in Alastair’s hands. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important,” he said casually, though his curiosity was evident.

Zaviya didn’t miss a beat. “Not at all,” she replied quickly, brushing past Alastair’s presence as though it didn’t matter. “We should get going. Alastair, I’ll see you at home later.”

The dismissal was swift, cutting, and final. Zaviya barely spared Alastair a second glance as she looped her arm through Irfan’s, urging him toward the elevator.

For a moment, Alastair stood frozen in the hallway, clutching the bouquet as if it were the only thing grounding her. The vibrant yellow of the sunflowers seemed to mock the heaviness in her heart. She tried to blink away the sting of tears, but they burned hotter with every step Zaviya took away from her.

The scene played on an agonizing loop in Alastair’s mind as she turned to leave. The laughter between Zaviya and Irfan as the elevator doors closed echoed faintly in the corridor.

Outside the building, the bouquet in her hand felt heavier than ever. Alastair hesitated, then gently placed the flowers on a nearby bench. Their cheerful color didn’t belong in her grasp anymore, not when everything about this moment felt so impossibly gray.

As she walked away, her heart ached with the familiar pain of rejection, but this time it was worse. This time, Zaviya hadn’t just turned her down—she had chosen someone else right in front of her. And as much as Alastair tried to tell herself that it was just a business meeting, the sight of them together left her drowning in a storm of what-ifs and regrets.

But even as the thought crossed her mind, a tiny, stubborn flicker of hope refused to die. And that flicker was the cruelest part of all.

Alastair had noticed a pattern in the days following their last confrontation. Irfan was always around—picking Zaviya up, dropping her off, sharing quiet conversations that Alastair could only watch from a distance. She didn’t know the nature of their relationship, but the sight of them together stirred something raw and unwelcome in her chest. Jealousy burned fiercely within her, but she was powerless to act on it. Zaviya had been explicit in her stance: whatever they had was over. She no longer belonged to Alastair.

The words echoed in her mind like a relentless torment, yet Alastair couldn’t let go of the hope that Zaviya might still feel something for her.

One evening, as the clock neared nine, Alastair sat in the living room, absently flipping through channels. The air in the mansion was heavy with silence, save for the faint hum of the television. She was trying to distract herself when the sound of heels clicking against the grand staircase caught her attention.

Her heart skipped a beat when she turned to see Zaviya descending the stairs. She was dressed in a black silk dress that clung to her curves in all the right places. The deep neckline was daring yet elegant, and the way the fabric shimmered under the soft lighting made her look almost ethereal. Alastair’s breath hitched as her gaze roved from Zaviya’s meticulously styled hair to her striking face and further down to the graceful lines of her body.

For a moment, Alastair could do nothing but stare, the lump in her throat growing harder to swallow. The woman standing before her wasn’t just beautiful; she was devastatingly so. And for the briefest moment, Alastair allowed herself to remember what it felt like to be loved by her.

Breaking the silence, Alastair glanced at her wristwatch, her voice steady but tinged with concern. “Going out at this hour, Zaviya? It’s late, and it’s dangerous outside.”

Zaviya stopped midway down the stairs and fixed her with a cold, unyielding stare. Her expression was devoid of warmth, her tone sharper than Alastair had prepared for. “And why do you care? I can handle myself, Alastair. Stop acting like we’re wives who love each other. I’m so done with it.”

The words struck like a physical blow, leaving Alastair momentarily speechless. She could feel her heart fracturing anew, but she forced a small, almost indifferent smile onto her lips. Slowly, she rose from her seat and walked toward Zaviya, her steps measured and deliberate.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, her voice betraying none of the turmoil swirling inside her. “I can’t help but worry when it comes to you.” She paused, her gaze lingering on Zaviya for a moment longer than necessary. “Tell Irfan to take good care of you and bring you back in one piece, or else I’ll give him hell, Zaviya. Mark my words.”

With that, Alastair brushed past her, her composure carefully intact, and disappeared into her own room.

Zaviya didn’t respond. She didn’t look back or hesitate as she reached the front door and stepped out into the night. But for a fleeting moment, as she walked toward Irfan’s waiting car, she hesitated. The faintest shadow of doubt flickered in her chest, but she shoved it aside, determined to leave everything—and everyone—behind.

Inside her room, Alastair sat on the edge of her bed, the mask of indifference slipping away. She clenched her fists and stared at the floor, fighting back the wave of emotions threatening to consume her. She had let Zaviya walk away again, knowing she might never come back, and it was a wound she wasn’t sure would ever heal.

******************Another update y'all ❤️

Tissue 🤧😅Drop comments. 💭💭💭

#ABF 35