I Pretended to Cheat So My Boyfriend Wouldn't Watch Me Die

The hotel room was beige. Beige walls, beige carpet, beige curtains that didn't quite block the streetlight outside. I set my suitcase on the luggage rack and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress was too firm. The pillows smelled like industrial detergent.

I pulled out my phone.

Lucien's contact photo stared back at me — a picture I'd taken last summer on the terrace, golden hour, his shirt sleeves rolled up, laughing at something I'd said. I pressed call.

It rang four times. Voicemail.

I hung up. Waited five minutes. Called again.

Four rings. Voicemail.

I didn't leave a message. What would I say? *I'm not dying. I lied because I loved you. Please let me explain.*

The words felt obscene.

I called a third time that night. He didn't answer.

The next morning, I wrote a letter. I sat at the hotel desk with the complimentary stationery and a pen that skipped every third word. I wrote four drafts. The first was too long. The second too defensive. The third dissolved into apologies that didn't explain anything.

The fourth, I sealed in an envelope.

I took a cab to Chapman Holdings. The lobby was all glass and steel and ambient lighting designed to make you feel small. The receptionist recognized me. Her smile faltered.

"I need to see Lucien," I said.

She picked up the phone. Spoke quietly. Hung up.

"Mr. Chapman isn't available."

"I'll wait."

She hesitated. "He's requested that—" She stopped. Started again. "He's asked that any communication go through his assistant."

I set the letter on the desk. "Please give this to him."

She looked at it like it might bite her. "Of course, Miss Bell."

I left. I didn't believe her.

Three days later, the letter arrived back at the hotel. Unopened. No note. Just the envelope with my handwriting on the front, returned to sender.

I held it for a long time. Then I put it in the drawer of the nightstand and closed it.

Mrs. Bell called on Thursday. "Lunch," she said. Not a question.

We met at a French place in Midtown she liked. White tablecloths. Waiters who moved like ghosts. She was already seated when I arrived, a glass of Sancerre in front of her.

"Raina." She didn't stand. She gestured to the chair across from her.

I sat.

She ordered for both of us. Sea bass. Asparagus. A salad I wouldn't eat.

"I assume you're aware," she began, "that your… situation has created complications."

I pressed my thumbnail into my index finger under the table.

"The Chapman connection was valuable," she continued. "Your father had plans. Partnerships. You understand."

I nodded.

"And now—" She sighed. Sipped her wine. "Now we're managing the aftermath of your choices."

My choices.

I wanted to tell her. I wanted to say: *I thought I was dying. I was trying to protect him. I didn't choose any of this.*

But I'd spent twenty-six years learning that Mrs. Bell didn't ask questions she wanted answered. She made statements. You nodded. You thanked her. You moved on.

"I understand," I said quietly.

She smiled. Thin. Satisfied. "Good. Then we're clear."

The sea bass arrived. I cut it into small pieces and moved them around my plate. She didn't notice.

Yasmin Webb was everywhere.

I saw her first in a business magazine someone left in the hotel lobby. A profile on Chapman Holdings' latest acquisition. There was a photo: Lucien in a dark suit, Yasmin beside him in a red gown, her hand on his arm. The ring caught the camera flash.

The caption read: *Lucien Chapman and fiancée Yasmin Webb at the annual investors' gala.*

Fiancée.

I stared at the word until it stopped meaning anything.

Two days later, a mutual acquaintance — someone from Exeter I barely remembered — sent me a screenshot. Yasmin at a charity dinner. Same ring. Different dress. This one was navy. From the designer I used to go to for every event that mattered.

The acquaintance's message: *Is this real? I thought you two were—*

I didn't reply.

I saw them once, by accident. I was walking past the restaurant where Lucien and I used to go for anniversaries. Through the window: his table. Our table. Yasmin sat across from him, laughing, her hand reaching across the white cloth to touch his.

He didn't pull away.

I stood on the sidewalk. People moved around me. A woman bumped my shoulder and apologized. I didn't respond.

Lucien looked up. For one second, our eyes met through the glass.

His face didn't change.

I turned and walked away. I made it two blocks before I had to stop. I leaned against a building and focused on breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

My thumb found my finger. I pressed until I felt the nail break skin.

The blood came slow. I watched it well up, dark and certain.

Then I kept walking.