Chapter 5 THE EDGE OF THE LIE.

"Some things fall apart slowly, so that no one hears the sound."

I had stopped checking the time when Lillian called.

It was 9:43 p.m., and the office was empty except for me, a security guard two floors down, and a spreadsheet I no longer had the energy to interpret. Her name lit up my phone like an accusation.

I let it ring once. Then twice. Then I answered.

"Elijah."

She sounded breathless.

"I need to get out of the house. Can you come with me?"

There was no hesitation in her voice. No soft prelude of excuse or explanation. Just a quiet urgency.

"Where are you?" I asked.

"Outside. Waiting."

We didn't say much as I drove.

The city glowed around us, a hollow kind of beautiful. Traffic lights blinked on auto-pilot. Restaurants buzzed with Friday laughter. But we were in a different orbit now-silent, braced, breathless.

Lillian wore a denim jacket over a black dress. Her hair was loose, messy, like she hadn't planned this. Or maybe she had. Maybe spontaneity had simply become her escape hatch.

I took us west, past the river, through the quieter roads that wrapped around the old industrial park and down to the marina.

It was where I used to come as a teenager when my house was too loud with arguments and too quiet with loneliness. The water didn't fix anything, but it reminded me that I was small, and sometimes that helped.

We walked along the dock until we reached the end of the pier, where the boats stopped and the city felt far away.

She sat on the edge and pulled her knees up to her chest. I stood a few feet back, unsure if I should join her.

"Do you ever feel like you're living someone else's life?" she asked softly.

I nodded, though I wasn't sure she could see me.

"Like you woke up in a film you don't remember auditioning for, and now the script is locked and everyone expects you to know your lines."

I sat beside her.

"Yeah," I said. "More often than I admit."

She looked at me then-really looked. "When I met Daniel, he was warm. Kind. Poor, but full of dreams. We had nothing, but it didn't feel like nothing."

Her voice wavered.

"Now we have everything. And I feel... erased."

The words hit me like a confession.

"I don't think he sees me anymore," she whispered. "Not really. Not the me I've grown into. Just the version of me he's attached to his success."

I wanted to tell her that she was seen. That I saw her. That I noticed the way she touched her ring absentmindedly when she was anxious, or how she softened when she talked about her father's record collection.

But I didn't.

Because some truths sound like betrayal-even when they're not.

---

The silence between us wasn't uncomfortable. It pulsed with unspoken things.

The air was thick with salt and tension.

She turned to me, voice barely audible over the wind. "Do you want this to stop?"

My throat went dry.

"What is this?" I asked.

She didn't blink. "You know."

I nodded. "I know."

"Then answer."

I didn't. I couldn't.

Because how do you tell someone's wife that she's the first thing you think about in the morning and the last thing before sleep? That your loyalty is beginning to split like ice under pressure? That the line between emotional and physical infidelity is starting to feel arbitrary?

"I don't want to hurt anyone," I said instead.

Her laugh was sad. "You think we're not already hurting?"

She reached out and touched my hand.

A light touch. Not quite intimate. Not quite innocent.

"I should go," she whispered.

But she didn't move.

And neither did I.

That night, after dropping her off two blocks from their apartment-her request-I sat in my car for over an hour.

Staring at the dashboard. Trying to convince myself I still had control.

But control is a myth we tell ourselves to justify temptation.

And I was already losing the narrative.

The next morning, Daniel called.

"Elijah. Can you come by the house this evening?"

My chest tightened. "Sure. Everything okay?"

"Yeah," he said quickly. "Just wanted to run some ideas by you. Over dinner. Casual."

That word-casual-felt like a blade wrapped in velvet.

Lillian answered the door.

She looked surprised. Or maybe she didn't. Maybe I was projecting.

"Elijah," she said, like my name was a question.

"Daniel invited me. Said something about ideas."

Her smile was tight. "Right. Of course. Come in."

I followed her through the hall, careful not to look too long at the framed wedding photo on the side table. Him in a navy tux. Her in ivory lace. Frozen in a happiness they no longer knew how to wear.

Daniel was in the kitchen, stirring something in a cast iron pot. "You're early," he said cheerfully. "Good. I want you to taste this sauce."

I forced a smile and joined him.

Dinner was weirdly domestic.

Lillian set the table with candles. Daniel poured wine. I made polite conversation while my insides screamed. It felt like being cast in a play I didn't audition for, stuck in a scene where every line was a test.

Halfway through dinner, Daniel leaned back and said, "You two seem close these days."

The fork paused halfway to my mouth.

Lillian sipped her wine. "We're friends."

"Of course," he said easily. "I'm glad. I trust you both."

The implication was obvious.

But the emphasis made it worse.

Lillian changed the subject. "Daniel, did you tell Elijah about your Sydney proposal?"

He launched into a detailed pitch about global expansion. I listened, nodded, added insight where necessary. But my mind wasn't on markets or projections.

It was on the way Lillian kept glancing at me. The way her leg brushed mine under the table. The way trust, once mentioned, became the sharpest object in the room.

Later, as I left, Daniel clapped a hand on my shoulder. "You're like family," he said warmly. "Don't ever forget that."

I nodded.

But something in me cracked.

Because I was already forgetting.

The next few days passed like a fever.

Lillian and I didn't speak. Not directly. But there were emails. Office moments. Shared glances that lasted too long.

I thought it would fade.

But some things don't.

Some things bloom in the dark, fed by denial and proximity.

Then came the night it happened.

Not what you think.

Not the moment we finally broke.

But the moment we nearly did-and knew we would.

It was after another late meeting. Everyone else had gone home. She came by the office "on her way from a gallery." Her lips were stained with red wine. Her eyes were tired but electric.

"Elijah," she said, standing in the doorway.

I stood.

She stepped inside. Closed the door behind her.

And the space shrank to a single breath between us.

"I lied," she said. "About just needing company. That night at the dock. I didn't want escape. I wanted you."

The words knocked the wind from me.

She stepped closer.

"I know what this is. I know it's wrong. I know what we stand to lose."

I swallowed hard. "Then why are you here?"

She looked up at me. And for the first time, she didn't blink away.

"Because I don't want to keep pretending."

And then-

She kissed me.

A kiss that wasn't gentle. It was desperate. Fierce. Hungry with all the silences we had swallowed.

And I kissed her back.

For one second. Two.

Then I pulled away. Heart pounding.

"We can't," I said.

Her eyes were glassy. "We already did."

She turned and walked out.

And I stood there, alone, the taste of guilt and longing still burning on my lips.

That night, I didn't sleep.

I stared at the ceiling and counted every reason to run.

But reason is a poor defense against desire.

And desire, when denied too long, becomes wildfire.