All this time, through every step that I assumed was growth in our relationship, she’s hidden this truth from me.
What was she planning to do once she got revenge on Miron, when she no longer needed to be here in Vegas?
I clench my fists tightly in my lap, my nails digging into the palm of my hand. “Were you ever going to tell me the truth?”I ask, holding back the surge of anger, hurt and betrayal that is growing inside me.
She looks at me, and while I can keep my words even, and my anger in check, I can’t hide the emotion in my eyes.
She sees straight into me.
The pain she’s caused.
I know, because her face floods with guilt as her lips part and she trips over her words.
“I-I was—I didn’t—"
I shake my head. “You had no plans to tell me anything about this.”
I sigh, standing up. I can’t look at her right now. Why did she lead me on? Wouldn’t it all have been easier to just tell me the truth from the beginning? To make it clear so that no one got the wrong idea?
I want to fight with her. To demand to know these things. I can’t be near her because I want to grab her and shake her and tell her she’s selfish. I want to shout, releasing my hurt and pain and making her feel it, too.
Instead, I walk away.
Leaving her sitting on the sofa, I turn towards the door and walk towards it without looking back.
“Benedikt, don’t go,” she calls after me, her voice pleading. But I don’t turn around. It’s too late to talk now, she had that chance, over and over again, and she chose to hide the truth from me, even lying to me, denying that there was anything more to the story after that situation at the gala.
My head is a mess, my heart is shattering.
I’m a fool.
I need space to process, but I don’t know what to do with myself.
Finally, I decide to head upstairs to the gym and do some training. Maybe pushing my body will clear my mind. I can’t quite get a grasp on what all of this means—and if there ever was anything between her and I.
After changing into sweatpants and a black T-shirt, I walk into the gym and step onto the treadmill. I turn the volume on my headphones up, as loud as it will go, blocking out the world.
I don’t bother starting slow. My mind isn’t in the right space to go slow.
I push the speed way up, so that I’m running, my lungs starting to burn within the first few minutes.
Frustrated, angry and confused, I push harder. I run until my legs are screaming, and sweat is dripping over my body, soaking my shirt. I run until I can’t catch my breath and I have no choice but to stop. My watch beeps at me to warn me that I’m pushing too hard.
Bent forward with my hands on my knees, sweat drips off my face and onto the floor at my feet. I count, waiting for my heart to stop racing. Glancing at the screen on my watch, I’m satisfied that I’m fine, no harm done.
Then I head to the weights, my legs shaking, but I need to keep pushing.
My body aches as I lift, standing in front of the silver mirror, watching the muscles ripple over my shoulders and my biceps.
I correct my posture when I falter, standing straighter, careful, controlled, focused.
Every movement is precise.
It takes all of my attention and over time my anger slowly fades.
By the end of the workout I’m spent. I shower under cold water, my muscles aching.
There isn’t room to hold onto the frustration, and all that remains as I step into the sauna is confusion.
