Laced with lies

Name: Laced with lies
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Tamuz14

Short stories | Ongoing

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Juliet leaned against the weathered rail of the boardwalk, the salty breeze tangling her hair as she closed her eyes. Allen's laughter echoed in her mind-quiet, low, the kind that wrapped around her ribs and stayed. They used to sit on this very spot, passing sketches between them, dreaming of galleries and quiet lives. He had called her "wild with restraint," a phrase she never understood until he was gone. She could still feel the warmth of his hand in hers, the way his eyes softened when he looked at her art. "Don't vanish," he had whispered. And yet, she had. The town of Bridgeport hadn't changed much in eight years. The same white cottages lined the coast, the same gulls circled overhead, and the same scent of seaweed and cinnamon buns from Margie's Diner floated on the wind. It was Juliet who had shifted, reformed, rebuilt herself in cities where no one knew her name. She turned back from the rail and walked toward the cluster of buildings that made up the town's center. Her father's campaign posters were pasted on nearly every pole-Lewis Johnson for State Senate. The sight made her stomach twist. Juliet had returned for three reasons: to sell her late mother's house, to visit Allen's grave, and to face the past long enough to escape it for good. But the house had not welcomed her. Dusty, echoing, full of old canvases she'd never finished, the rooms felt like frozen whispers of a girl she no longer was. She reached Margie's and stepped inside, the bell over the door chiming like an old friend. A few heads turned. A pause. Then came the hush. "Juliet Johnson?" Margie stepped from behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron, eyes wide. "Well, I'll be. You're a ghost." Juliet smiled faintly. "Just visiting." Margie's hug was warm and cinnamon-scented. "Your daddy'll be glad to know you're in town." Juliet doubted that. "I'll stop by." Margie gave her a booth and a slice of cherry pie without asking. As she ate, Juliet stared at the walls. Photos from decades past filled them: fishermen, town fairs, prom queens, and one image in particular-a black-and-white shot of Allen and Juliet on the boardwalk, his arm draped around her shoulder, both laughing mid-sentence. It hurt to look at. So she didn't. The next morning, Juliet walked to the cemetery on the edge of town, her sketchpad tucked under her arm. She passed rows of sun-faded headstones until she reached Allen's. The marker was modest-Allen Graves, Beloved Son, Dreamer, 1989–2017. At its base were seashells, dried flowers, and a small bundle of pencils bound by twine. She knelt. Ran her fingers over the name. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "I shouldn't have left the way I did." There was no reply, of course. Just the distant crash of waves and the rustling of dune grass. But Juliet opened her sketchbook anyway and began to draw. A boy at peace. A sea that never stopped moving. She didn't hear the footsteps until they were close. A small voice broke the silence. "Are you an artist?" Juliet turned. A boy stood a few feet away, freckled, maybe ten years old, holding a crumpled bag of marbles. He looked like Allen had once-same dark hair, same curious eyes. "I am," she said. "My name's Marco. My granddad's buried over there." He pointed. "What's your name?" "Juliet." He nodded solemnly, then peered at the sketch. "He looks nice." "He was." Marco looked at the grave. "You must've loved him." Juliet didn't answer right away. "I did. In ways I didn't understand until I couldn't tell him anymore." Marco sat cross-legged beside her, uninvited but not unwelcome. "I think when you draw someone, it means you still love them." Juliet smiled. "You might be right." They sat there for a while, two strangers in quiet company. When Juliet finally stood, Marco said, "You should come to the boardwalk fair. It's tomorrow night. My mom says it's the best thing about this town." Juliet hesitated, then nodded. "Maybe I will." Later that afternoon, she found herself in her father's office. Lewis Johnson stood behind his desk, speaking into a headset, gesturing toward charts on a whiteboard. Politics still clung to him like cologne. Juliet waited until he noticed her. He froze mid-sentence. "Juliet," he said, removing the headset. "Hello, Dad." He crossed the room in two strides and pulled her into a surprisingly firm hug. "It's been too long." She stiffened, then relaxed. "Eight years." "You could've called." "You could've asked why I left." A beat passed. He didn't answer. Instead, he motioned to a chair. "You look well." "So do you. Campaigning suits you." "It's exhausting." He smiled thinly. "But rewarding. We're close." Juliet nodded, unsure what to say. So many unspoken things between them. He cleared his throat. "Your brother's organizing the fair tomorrow. It's part of the campaign. You should come. Reconnect." "Reconnect with who?" "With the town. With you

Crime Family Betrayal Revenge Sexual slave Scheming Arrogant/Dominant

Chapter 13 Shadows broken

06-12 18:02

Chapter 1 Shadows in the fog

Chapter One:

Shadows in the Fog

The fog hung low like an omen over Kensington Park, the upscale neighborhood where secrets dressed in pearls and diamonds. At precisely 2:33 a.m., a lone woman emerged from the mist-tall, graceful, wearing a black trench coat that fluttered in the soft wind like a raven's wing. She moved with urgency, almost as if haunted by time, and approached a discreet mailbox marked PRIVATE on the far end of the crescent drive. She paused. Gloved fingers trembled slightly as she dropped an envelope inside, sealing fate in ink. Without a glance back, she vanished into the night, as if consumed by the fog itself.

That night blurred into memory, echoing back to a decade earlier.

It was the summer of recklessness in a sleepy village in southern France. Rebecca Miller was sixteen, wild-eyed, sharp-tongued, and painfully aware of the power she wielded. Allen Walker was seventeen-a British diplomat's son with the kind of smile that disarmed sense and a reputation for danger wrapped in charisma. They met at the Wishing Pond, a place where secrets were whispered and fate listened.

She threw a coin in and wished for love. He watched her from a distance and wished she would notice him.

It didn't take much time. One shared glance. One bold step forward. A touch. Then kisses. And a fire that burned through their inhibitions. Beneath the whispering willows and the drowsy sun, they fell into each other with breathless passion, shedding their pasts like clothing. Their bodies spoke the words they feared to say-of longing, of surrender, of being understood.

They returned to the pond again and again, as if drawn by some ancient spell. And each time, love burned brighter, wilder. It was stunning. It was dangerous.

But passion often invites consequences. Word reached Collins Miller, Rebecca's powerful and conservative father. He viewed Allen not as a boy in love with his daughter, but as a threat-a disease needing quarantine. Overnight, Allen vanished. No explanations. No goodbyes. Just silence.

Rebecca broke down. In time, she buried it all-the pond, the whispers, the late-night moans. She married a man she barely knew. She learned to smile like her mother did: without feeling.

Now, years later, Rebecca Miller was a woman with secrets stitched beneath designer gowns. But she wasn't the only one.

Rebecca Miller was a woman of ambition, sleek in charm and sharp with her secrets. Allen Walker, a smooth-talking businessman with a past as murky as his smile, was drawn to her like a moth to flame. Their love story wasn't born out of purity but out of necessity-each needing the other for reasons they dared not admit aloud.

They met at a charity gala, where Allen lied about being a philanthropist. Rebecca, in turn, wore a mask of innocence, hiding the fact that she was investigating him for a private client. What started as surveillance soon spiraled into passionate nights and whispered promises.

But every kiss came with a hidden agenda.

Rebecca stole confidential documents while Allen slept. Allen, aware of her duplicity, fed her doctored files, leading her in circles. They danced around the truth like seasoned actors, never breaking character. When Allen proposed a weekend getaway to Rome, it wasn't for love-it was to test her loyalty. Rebecca, always one step ahead, swapped his passport with a fake just hours before departure.

Still, somewhere beneath the lies, a flicker of real emotion burned.

Rebecca once cried in his arms after nearly being caught in a web of her own deceit. Allen wiped her tears, though he knew she'd likely manipulated the situation. And when Allen was hospitalized after a staged car crash, Rebecca didn't leave his side for days-perhaps out of guilt, or something deeper.

Their love wasn't built on trust-it thrived on betrayal, secrets, and the thrill of outsmarting one another. Yet, in those rare moments when their lies collapsed, what remained between them was raw, real, and terrifying. Because loving a liar meant never truly knowing where the truth ended-or if it ever began.

Her sister, Racheal Miller, had always lived in her shadow. Where Rebecca was composed chaos, Racheal was controlled elegance. But even porcelain cracks. She was about to find that out.

Then there was Collins Miller Jr.-their younger brother. Gifted. Isolated. Often seen talking to himself in mirrors. He lived in his own world, writing journals no one dared to read.

Paulina Donwell, Allen's sharp, discreet secretary, knew too much for her own good. She kept secrets like trophies and could dismantle reputations with a single email.

And Cruz Miller-the ghost child. Born of an affair, raised in whispers. A reminder of the family's fractured morality, yet the most human among them all.

The envelope dropped into the mailbox held more than paper. It held memories, blood, and betrayal. And when it reached the right hands, nothing would ever be the same.

Rebecca and Allen's story didn't end with youthful love. Years after Collins Miller forcibly separated them, they found their way back-quietly, urgently. They met in rented apartments, country motels, and Allen's office in the city, slipping between moments of duty and devotion. Love returned, darker now, laced with desperation.

But love has consequences, especially in a state governed by strict Christian law. Pregnancy outside wedlock was not just taboo-it was criminal. And abortion? Unthinkable. Illegal. Dangerous.

Rebecca was having a baby. Three times. Each time, fear gripped her more tightly than the last. Each time, Allen swore it would be the last mistake. They paid doctors in back alleys, used pseudonyms, paid in cash, and burned the records. After every procedure, they would hold each other in sterile rooms reeking of bleach and guilt.

The final time came next. It was harsh. Something went wrong. She bled for hours, curled on Allen's floor, her tears soaking into the rug. He wanted to call for help, but they couldn't risk exposure. Allen's political ambitions would be dashed, and Rebecca would face trial or worse if the truth emerged. The evidence was scrubbed, discarded in biohazard bags that disappeared into incinerators. But secrets like these don't burn quietly. Someone noticed. Someone talked.

The envelope dropped into the mailbox that night didn't hold gossip. It held records, testimonies, photos.

It held proof.

News of an anonymous tip ricocheted through the state's legal network. A quiet investigation began-names whispered behind closed doors. Rebecca received a strange call with no voice, just the sound of her heartbeat echoed back to her. Allen discovered that his office had been ransacked, but nothing had been taken. Paulina Donwell grew nervous her loyalty slipping under pressure. And Cruz, the outsider with silent eyes, found a document meant to remain buried.

A storm was gathering.

And this time, no one would be spared.