The truth about Lies

“Princess, it’s cold. Why don’t you come inside?” Mary’s gentle voice called from behind me.

I turned slowly to face her, brushing damp strands of hair from my face. “Don’t worry about me, Mary. Just go in and rest. My husband isn’t back yet.”

“But—”

“Please,” I interrupted, firmer this time. “Go inside.”

She hesitated, then dipped into a soft curtsy. Walking up to me, she draped a blanket over my shoulders, her touch lingering with unspoken concern. Then she quietly turned and disappeared into the house.

Left alone with the wind and rain, I looked down at the ring on my finger, my thoughts drifting to our wedding day—his vows, the laughter, the fragile promise of forever. A wistful smile touched my lips. I sank onto the steps, the blanket clinging to my skin as the rain grew heavier, weaving into my solitude.

Two hours. That’s how long I’d been waiting. Two hours of silence, of cold, of unanswered calls—his number had been switched off. No word. No message. Just absence.

Then, at last, headlights pierced the darkness. His car pulled up and stopped just before the steps. Relief surged through me. I rose and ran through the rain toward him, shielding him with my body as though the rain dared not touch him.

He stepped out, and when his eyes met mine, he smiled—soft, tender. His hand reached up, fingers grazing my cheek.

“Have you been waiting for me?” he asked, voice low and warm.

“Yes, my love,” I whispered.

He leaned in and kissed my forehead, letting the moment linger, as if we were the perfect couple in a painting. Behind us, the driver chuckled.

“You two make a beautiful couple,” he said.

My husband smiled again, turning briefly to the driver. “You can go.”

As the car rolled away, his expression shifted. The warmth vanished, replaced by a hard, bitter coldness.

“Where have you been, my love?” I asked, gently.

He didn’t blink. “Since when do I tell you my whereabouts?”

I tilted my head. “Since when did you stop telling me?”

His voice dropped to a warning murmur. “You’re looking for trouble.”

“Well,” I said quietly, “you started it.”

His jaw clenched. “Move aside.”

I didn’t.

“One.”

I remained still.

“Two.”

I met his gaze.

“Three.”

The slap came sharp and sudden. Pain burst across my face, and I dropped to my knees, blood mixing with the rain as it spilled from my nose.

“Boss! You forgot something!” the driver’s voice rang out behind us.

I blinked through the rain, barely registering the sight of him hurrying back toward us.

In an instant, my husband dropped beside me, slipping back into the mask of concern. “My love, are you alright?” he asked, his hands steadying me.

“Ah! Is Her Highness alright?” the driver gasped, rushing to help. Together, they lifted me gently.

“She’ll be fine,” my husband said smoothly, voice calm and composed.

“I trust you, Boss. Your love for each other—it’s the kind I pray for,” the driver said, smiling, as he handed over a second phone—one I instantly knew wasn’t my husband’s usual device.

“Thank you. I’ll take care of her from here,” he said with a nod.

The driver watched us—watched the illusion we played so well—until we disappeared from view.

And that’s how I live my life.

Not in love.

But in deception, dressed up to look like devotion.