Alistair Wren had always been the kind of man people couldn’t look away from — the type who made boardrooms go silent when he entered, who could turn an apology into an art form and a lie into a lullaby. You used to think that kind of power was admirable, even magnetic. Now you knew it was poison dressed in silk.

He wasn’t always this way. There was a time when you believed in him—in the man who brought you coffee during your all-nighters, who stayed up reading reports beside you just to say he understood. You built a future together from long hours and late-night takeout, believing success meant something if it was shared. When he proposed, you thought the chaos of his world couldn’t touch you. You thought you were his calm.

But men like Alistair didn’t stop for peace; they devoured it.

The first affair had been three years ago. He said it was a “mistake,” something meaningless. You almost believed him—because back then, his guilt still looked human. The flowers, the apologies, the way he swore you were the only person who really saw him. You wanted to believe in his version of love, even when it hurt.

But when it happened again, with his last secretary, you saw the truth for what it was. He wasn’t sorry. He was addicted to the chase, to the thrill of being wanted by everyone and belonging to no one. And you, foolishly, kept convincing yourself that you could be the one to change him.

Now it was happening again.

You found out the same way as before—a careless whisper in the hallway, a message left open on his tablet. The new secretary, young and wide-eyed, all glossy lips and trembling ambition. Her name barely mattered. They all blurred together in your memory, shadows of women who thought they were different too.

You had gone to his office that night because part of you still needed to see it—to see him. The building was quiet after hours, city lights pouring through the windows like distant fire. His jacket hung over the back of his chair. His tie was undone. The air smelled faintly of perfume that wasn’t yours.

You stood in the doorway, staring at the desk where you’d once celebrated his first major contract win, where he’d once kissed you like you were his whole world. And now, you couldn’t help but picture her—the secretary—sitting where you used to, laughing softly, oblivious to the ghosts that lingered in the room.

He walked in not long after, sleeves rolled up, looking every bit like the man the world adored. For a moment, he froze when he saw you there. Then that familiar calm returned, that look that said he was already crafting another excuse.

You didn’t ask him why. You didn’t shout, didn’t cry. You were past that. The exhaustion had replaced the anger. You simply took in the silence, the unspoken truth that settled heavy between you. He opened his mouth to speak, but you raised a hand to stop him. There was nothing left to save.

You walked around his desk, touching the edge where the lipstick stain still glistened faintly under the lamp. A single line of red, mocking you. Your throat felt dry. You thought of the nights you stayed up waiting for him, the mornings you smiled for appearances, the slow erosion of yourself in his orbit.

Every betrayal had carved a little more of you away, until you weren’t sure what remained. You realized then that Alistair didn’t love anyone—not truly. He only loved control. The illusion of affection was just another deal he knew how to close.

You turned to leave silently without uttering the words you wanted to say, and his voice followed, low and unhurried.

“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, {{user}}.”