The Lies He Told | PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ROMANCE |

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

I'm not a perfect person. I never meant to do those things to you. And so I have to say before I go. That I just want you to know. I've found a reason for me. To change who I used to be. A reason to start over new. And the reason is you.

Hoobastank's lyrics blasted across the bar, and I was oddly transfixed by them as I feigned composure, pretending that Royce's presence had not rattled me to the bone or that Daniel's wandering gaze was not an insult to our marriage. I was fine, perfectly normal. I could navigate this emotional minefield in my sleep, both eyes shut, unperturbed by the challenges that lay ahead.

"Are you okay?" Daniel's lips rained kisses down on my shoulder from behind. "You look pale." He fumbled with the bottle of wine and failed miserably at refilling our glasses, for most of the ruby red liquid landed on the bar top instead. "Some more wine, perhaps?"

I am surprised that his peripheral vision was capable of detecting my despondency, given his preoccupation with other women.

Additionally, I am amazed that he is allowing me to drink an excessive amount of wine under his close supervision.

He usually intervened to prevent the overindulgence of alcohol, often citing my tendency towards recklessness under its influence.

In hindsight, I believe that the initial signs of controlling behaviour emerged early in our marriage, even if the car accident served as a convenient scapegoat for his actions.

I vividly recall attending Darlene's wedding, where waiters in impeccable suits presented us with flutes of exquisite champagne.

Daniel imposed a limit of three glasses on me, claiming he did not want me to get too tipsy, as he had planned a romantic, late-night stroll through the venue's manicured gardens.

At the time, when everything in our marriage was hunky-dory, I found his concern endearing, interpreting it as a sincere testament to his care for my well-being.

My misplaced optimism was shattered when the promised romantic encounter failed to materialise.

Instead, I found him in the men's restroom, hours later, in a state of profound intoxication, relying on his brother-in-law to carry him to bed.

His reckless self-indulgence had effectively cancelled our intimate plans, his selfish desires taking precedence over mine.

My silence, my inaction, amounted to an acceptance of this disrespect, a tacit acquiescence to his disregard for my feelings. I had failed to assert my worth, allowing him to get away with his hurtful behaviour.

I accepted it; I rolled over and took it; I made excuses for him; I let him get away with it; I repeatedly enabled his actions even when they disappointed me; I always gave him another chance.

In the ceaseless dance of second chances, when does one more become too many? How many times must the scale of forgiveness tip before the weight of sorrow becomes unbearable? For every ounce of grace extended, what measure of pain must I bear?

"Are you feeling alright?" Daniel's tone was surprisingly gentle. "You have not smiled once since we got here. I fear I have done something to trouble you, my love."

Again, I am left in awe of his perceptiveness. I had truly believed he was an utter lost cause, too captivated by the admiration of other females to perceive my profound sense of alienation.

Yet, he had discerned my predicament, and his concern for my well-being resonated with genuine sincerity.

Yes, I am sad. I am hurt and betrayed. The weight of my emotions had been crushing me, leaving me feeling stupid, foolish and exposed.