The Lies He Told | PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ROMANCE |

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

My Late Night Journey of Rediscovery: Rewriting the Past at Fishmonger's Quay (One Salty Chip at a Time).

The ascertainment that my rooftop encounter with Daniel was, in fact, a memory of Royce has cast doubt on the veracity of other recollections.

If this significant moment from my past was misremembered, it begs the question of what other components of my personal history may have been similarly distorted.

For an extended period, I harboured idyllic recollections of Daniel and I, wherein he embodied the ideal husband in every facet of life, but the present reality contradicted these reminiscences, revealing a man who was entirely dissimilar.

These two divergent personas, these two distinct lovers, have prompted me to question the authenticity of my memories.

Could it be that I have erroneously attributed these cherished moments to Daniel, when in actuality, they belong to others such as Royce, Drew, or Chase?

Words fail to adequately convey the complex emotions I experienced—numbness, perhaps, and bewilderment. I used to be so terrified of my husband that I contemplated suicide as a means of escape, a realisation that astonished my present self, but also resonated with a disturbing familiarity.

Daniel possessed the capacity for intimidation, as evidenced by his resort to physical violence in the foyer that morning, which led me to wonder whether such behaviour had always been a facet of his character, a pattern of abuse and infidelity conveniently obscured from my memory until this moment.

While there were still unknowns surrounding my husband's true character, I was now certain that he was not the charming prince he presented himself as.

I most certainly had a dilemma on my hands.

Royce parked the motorcycle adjacent to the twenty-four-hour chippy, where he procured a generous portion of chips, liberally seasoned with salt and vinegar. The single fork situation was less than ideal, but sharing is caring, right? And those chips? Fire.

He rrested against the solid frame of the metal mooring cleat, devouring his food with an urgency as if it were his last meal on earth.

Meanwhile, I lingered on the dilapidated pier, which creaked under even my lightest steps, glancing at the old, empty fishing boats that floated idly in the dark, murky water.

"I have never been on this side of the harbour before." A salty breeze swept over me as I strolled along the wooden planks of the pier. "And I can assure you that I have never been in close proximity to one of those perilously submerging fishing vessels."

Royce's look said it all. It was that knowing expression I have learned to decipher as disagreement. His silence was a subtle confirmation: I had been on this side of the harbour before, and more unsettlingly, I had climbed aboard one of those ramshackle fishing boats.

Good Lord, I cannot fathom why I would even consider boarding one of those wooden boats. The stench of fish is enough to turn my stomach from a distance, let alone being in close proximity to the slimy scales.

"This is bizarre," I complained, sluming against the mooring cleat next to him as I stared blankly at the miniature fishing boats docked in the small harbour. "I am partial to a bit of fish, but I do not have the stomach to catch it."

Royce wordlessly slid the wooden fork towards me, an unspoken invitation to grab another chip. He resumed his focused attack on the late-night grub. I joined him in the quiet, finding a strange comfort in the shared experience of eating, even if it was just fast food under the bunting of dim pier lights.

"So, enlighten me," I urged, scooting closer to him as he shared the food. "Did I plan to drown my sorrows here, too? What is it about this place that is supposed to be memorable?"