The midday sun was over the busy city, its rays flashing off the windows of the high-rise office building. Anya's steps echoed faintly as she walked through the marbled lobby, clutching the tiffin box she had carefully prepared that morning.
It was his favorite meal: pasta in creamy white sauce with just the right sprinkle of chili flakes.
The text message she had received today's morning was brief and curt. Not from her husband's number but the office assistant, kindly requesting whether she could bring him his lunch, as he had gone off without taking it with him. She hadn't given it much consideration. Married for two years, she knew his routines like the back of her hand, always looking to lighten his long days in any little way she could. Anya had been smiling as it was the very first time when her husband, Himself, asked her to bring tiffin, and this somehow made her feel good.
As the elevator doors opened with a ding on the 23rd floor, Anya's mind began to wander to their anniversary just a month ago. She had been glowing with happiness that day, as usual, Eliiot missed this anniversary too, but he did send her a dress and flowers, but she was unaware of the cracks forming beneath her feet.
As she reached the frosted glass door to his private office, her hand tightened around the tiffin handle. Just as she was about to knock, muffled voices drifted through the door. Her husband's familiar baritone mingled with a woman's voice, a voice she couldn't immediately place.
Her heart hesitated for reasons she didn't fully understand. Instead of knocking, she leaned closer, her ear barely brushing the cold glass.
"Elliot, I'm tired of hiding this," the woman's voice said, low and urgent. "You said you'd talk to her. When are you going to divorce Anya?"
Anya froze.
Divorce?
Her pulse quickened as she strained to hear more, her mind racing to dismiss the suspicion brewing in her chest. Maybe it was some misunderstanding. Maybe they were talking about someone else.
Her husband let out a heavy sigh. "I told you, It will take some time. I want to figure out how I'm going to tell her. She doesn't need to be blindsided like this."
The woman's laugh was bitter. "Blindsided? You had an affair with me since the honeymoon. Don't try to play the protector to her."
The world seemed to rock under Anya's feet. The knees were weak as she could hardly digest the words. "Two years?" since her honeymoon?
The voices went on, unconscious of the storm at the door.
"I mean it, Natalie," he replied in a clipped voice. "It is never as simple as you imagined. Anya is. fragile."
"Fragile?" Natalie snapped, her voice rising. "That's just an excuse. You're afraid of looking like the bad guy."
Anya's hands shook, the tiffin clattering faintly against the floor as she stumbled backward. Her head spun, memories of their life together flashing in cruel clarity. Every late-night text he claimed was work, every time he came home smelling of perfume she hadn't recognized, every distant look she had ignored all of it fit into place.
She had trusted him. Loved him. Built her world around him.
But now, everything was gone, swept away by the tide of betrayal.
Taking a deep breath, Anya pressed her hand against her mouth to stifle a sob.
It hurts...
Her vision blurred with tears as she backed away from the door, careful not to make a sound. She couldn't face him not yet.
The hallway seemed too long as she stumbled toward the elevator, her heart pounding against her ribs. In the mirrored walls of the elevator, she caught a glimpse of herself, cheeks pale, eyes wide, and brimming with pain. It felt like something out of a dream from which she would wake. But no matter how many times she pinched herself, the dull ache of betrayal persisted.
When she reached the ground floor, the crowded lobby seemed stifling. Anya escaped the building and stepped into the open air, taking her breath in shallow gasps. The weight of what she had just heard threatened to crush her from inside.
She sat on a bench, embracing the edge of her coat tightly as the city moved around her in oblivion. There was laughter, car honks, and the whole world spinning as if nothing had happened. Yet for Anya, everything had changed. It was all a lie for her: her marriage, her trust, her love.
As tears began to flow down her face, she thought of all the countless nights she had stayed up waiting for him to return home. The meals that she had prepared. The dreams she had shared with him.
And all of it was reduced now to nothing more than some cruel joke.
Elliot's and Natalie's voices echoed in her mind. Their affair. Their plans. Their complete disregard of her.
Anya clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. Her tears slowed. She was becoming numb.
She did not even know what to do about it, but she would not let this define who she was.
The tiffin still clutched in her hands, now the mocking symbol of the life she thought she had. As the sun dipped further into the afternoon, throwing long shadows on the streets of the city, she stood up.
Taking one last, shaky breath, she started walking, not knowing where she was going, but for the first time in two years it was a step away from Elliot.
The door closed with a click, and the sound rang out into the room, like the crack of a gavel on judgment. The tiffin box spilled slightly where it had been flung on the floor, revealing the seasoned pasta, spilled on floor, was enough to understand what had just taken place. Natalie leaned against the desk with her arms crossed over her chest as her face.
"Well, I guess she knows now," she said, breaking the silence with her voice.
Elliot ignored her, shrugging on his jacket. He wasn't panicked. Not yet. Panic was for people who didn't know how to handle situations like this.
"Where are you going?" Natalie asked, her voice sharp with curiosity.
"To make sure this doesn't blow up in my face," he said flatly, pulling the door open.
Natalie's smirk faded. "You're wasting your time. She's just your wife, Elliot, not a business partner. Women like her..."
"She's more than just my wife; she is my piggy bank. " Elliot interrupted, his tone colder than the office air conditioning. "And until I say this is over, it's not over."