THE TWIST

OLIVIA BENNETT POV

The first lie Marcus Hale ever told me was that he hated surprises.

Three years later, I was still foolish enough to believe I knew everything about him.

“Olivia, are you listening to me?”

I blinked, pulling my attention away from the diamond ring displayed on my laptop screen. Across the table, my best friend, Ethan Cole, stared at me with an expression that suggested he had been talking to a wall for the last five minutes.

“Of course I am.”

“What did I just say?”

“That you talk too much.”

Ethan dropped his head back and groaned.

“God, you are impossible.”

I laughed, closing the laptop before he could inspect the page I had been looking at.

It wasn’t an engagement ring exactly. Not yet. I had simply been curious about what Marcus might choose if he ever decided to ask me the question I had secretly been waiting three years to hear.

I wasn’t desperate to get married. I had a career, my own money, and plans that existed long before Marcus came into my life.

But I loved him.

And lately, whenever he spoke about the future, I found myself imagining a version of it that included a white dress, a small ceremony, and his hand wrapped around mine.

“What are you hiding?” Ethan asked.

“Nothing.”

“You closed your laptop like I was about to discover government secrets.”

“Maybe I am a spy.”

“You? You cry when your favourite restaurant runs out of your usual meal.”

“That happened once.”

“Twice.”

I threw a cushion at him.

For a moment, everything felt normal. Ethan had been in my life long enough to know when I was happy, when I was pretending to be happy, and when I needed someone to distract me from my own thoughts.

He was the person I called when work became overwhelming. The person who remembered my birthday without needing a reminder. The person who had stood beside me through difficult seasons without asking for anything in return.

If someone had told me that the people closest to me would one day become the reason I questioned everything, I would have laughed.

Back then, I still believed betrayal was something that happened to other people.

My phone vibrated.

MARCUS: Dinner tonight. Seven o’clock. Don’t make other plans.

I smiled before I could stop myself.

ME: Is that an invitation or an order?

His reply came almost immediately.

MARCUS: For you? Both.

Ethan leaned forward, trying to read my screen.

“Is that your future husband?”

“Stop calling him that.”

“So he hasn’t proposed?”

“Ethan!”

He raised both hands, laughing.

I shook my head, but my smile remained.

Marcus had been different lately. He cancelled plans more often, took calls outside, and seemed distracted whenever I asked about work. But he was building his career, and I understood ambition. His company had recently been involved in a major business opportunity, and he claimed the pressure was temporary.

I wanted to believe him.

I had no idea that the first crack in our relationship would come from a document bearing my own surname.

By ten that morning, I was buried in paperwork at the office.

I worked in corporate administration for a company that handled business partnerships and investment projects. My job involved reviewing contracts, organising confidential records, and making sure the right documents reached the right people.

It wasn’t glamorous, but I was good at it.

I was halfway through a stack of partnership requests when an unfamiliar file appeared in my inbox.

The subject line read:

URGENT: BENNETT PARTNERSHIP RECORDS

I frowned.

My father’s company had maintained business relationships with several firms over the years, but I rarely handled anything connected to his private dealings. This request, however, had been forwarded through my department.

The message asked for archived partnership documents, including correspondence relating to an older business agreement.

At the bottom was a note from the requesting party.

Please ensure all historical records are included. The missing pages may be essential to resolving the matter.

Missing pages?

I opened the attachment.

The request referenced a company I recognised from conversations at home, although I couldn’t remember the details. It had been involved in a business dispute years ago, one my father refused to discuss whenever it came up.

I read the request again.

Something about it felt wrong.

The documents were restricted. Whoever had submitted the request should have provided formal authorisation, but the approval section was blank.

I picked up my phone and called the department responsible for external requests.

“Good morning,” I said when someone answered. “I’m reviewing a request for the Bennett partnership archive. Can you confirm who authorised it?”

A pause followed.

“Which request?”

I gave her the reference number.

More typing.

“That one wasn’t approved,” she said. “It was returned yesterday for additional verification.”

“Then why was it forwarded to my department?”

“I couldn’t tell you. It shouldn’t have been.”

I thanked her and ended the call.

For several seconds, I stared at the screen.

It might have been a simple administrative mistake. Files were misrouted all the time. Still, I forwarded the request to my supervisor with a note explaining the missing authorisation.

Then I noticed something else.

The original request had been submitted through a business account connected to Marcus’s company.

My stomach tightened.

I called Marcus.

He didn’t answer.

I sent him a message asking whether he knew anything about the request. Ten minutes passed without a response.

I returned to work, telling myself I was being ridiculous. Marcus dealt with business clients every day. There were dozens of innocent explanations for why his company’s account might appear on a document connected to my family’s history.

I wasn’t going to accuse the man I loved because of an email.

Not without a reason.

At six forty-five, I stood in front of my bedroom mirror, adjusting the strap of my black dress.

Marcus had chosen an expensive restaurant for dinner, which was unusual for a random weekday. When I asked whether we were celebrating something, he told me to stop asking questions and get ready.

I had spent the afternoon looking forward to seeing him.

Now, the unanswered call and strange document sat at the back of my mind.

My phone vibrated on the dressing table.

For a second, I thought it was Marcus.

It wasn’t.

The message came from an unknown number.

There was no greeting, no explanation, only a photograph.

I opened it.

My breath caught.

Marcus was standing beside a woman in a red dress. Her arms were wrapped around his neck, and his mouth was pressed against hers.

I stared at the image, waiting for my mind to find a reasonable explanation.

A similar-looking man.

An old photograph.

A misunderstanding.

Then another message arrived.

You should know what the man you trust is doing behind your back.

My fingers went cold.

I zoomed in on the photograph.

Marcus’s watch was unmistakable. I had given it to him for his birthday the previous year. I remembered choosing it, wrapping it, and watching him smile when he opened the box.

I remembered him kissing my forehead and telling me I knew him better than anyone.

My phone vibrated again.

This time, the message contained a hotel name and a time.

8:30 P.M.

I looked at the clock.

7:12 P.M.

For a long moment, I couldn’t move.

Then I called Marcus.

He answered on the fourth ring.

“Hey, baby.”

His voice was warm. Familiar. So normal that something inside me almost broke.

“Where are you?”

“Still at the office. Why?”

I closed my eyes.

“Are we still having dinner?”

“Of course. I’m running a little late, though. Something came up.”

Something came up.

I looked at the photograph again.

“Okay,” I whispered.

“You sound strange. Everything all right?”

I wanted to ask him about the woman. I wanted to scream that I had seen the photograph and demand to know why he was lying to me.

Instead, I swallowed the words.

“I’m fine. I’ll see you later.”

“Love you.”

The words came easily to him.

I waited for my heart to recognise them.

“Love you too,” I replied before ending the call.

The silence in my bedroom felt unbearable.

For three years, I had trusted Marcus with the parts of myself I didn’t show the rest of the world. I had defended him when Ethan questioned his behaviour. I had made excuses when he cancelled plans and reassured myself whenever something felt wrong.

Now I had a photograph that suggested I had been protecting a lie.

I wiped my eyes, picked up my handbag, and slipped my phone inside.

I wasn’t going to call him again.

I wasn’t going to give him another chance to prepare an excuse.

If the photograph was real, I wanted to see the truth with my own eyes.

And if it wasn’t, I would apologise for doubting him.

But as I locked my front door, one question followed me down the stairs.

How long had the man I loved been lying to me?