Secrets Beneath the Surface: Passion and Deception in Paris.
It had been three months since Max and I arrived in Paris. What was supposed to be a romantic honeymoon had stretched into a confusing routine of moving from one hotel to another. Max seemed uninterested in settling down or returning home, always claiming he had business to finalize. But the nature of his "business" remained elusive—his vague explanations only fueled my growing suspicion.
Max's behavior had changed drastically. He would leave early in the morning, sometimes not returning until late at night, his phone perpetually off. I tried to brush it off initially, convincing myself it was all part of his work. But as days turned into weeks, his secrecy began to wear me down. One morning, as he was dressing for yet another meeting, I decided to confront him.
"Max, we need to talk," I said, my voice firm.
"Now? Can't it wait? I have an important meeting," he replied, adjusting the cufflinks on his tailored suit.
"No, it can't wait. I need answers, Max. What is going on? Why are we still in Paris? Why are we moving from one hotel to another? And why won't you tell me what kind of business you're handling?"
Max sighed heavily, turning to face me. His usual charm was replaced with irritation. "Mma, I've told you before—there's nothing to worry about. I'm handling everything. Just trust me."
"Trust you? How can I trust you when you refuse to tell me the truth? You leave me alone all day with no way to reach you. You won't even give me the number to your second phone! Max, I'm your wife, not a stranger. I deserve to know what's happening!"
His expression darkened. "You're overreacting. I'm doing this for us—for you. All I ask is for you to be patient and let me handle things."
"Handle what? Max, I'm tired of being kept in the dark. If you don't tell me what's going on, I'll pack my bags and leave."
Max's eyes widened, his usual confidence faltering for a moment. "Don't say that," he said, his voice low and tense. "You know how much I love you. I promised to give you the best life, and that's exactly what I'm doing. But you need to stop questioning me."
Before I could respond, there was a knock at the door. Max stiffened, his jaw tightening. "Stay here," he ordered, walking quickly to the door.
Curiosity got the better of me, and I followed silently. Peeking from behind him, I saw three men standing at the door. They were tall, broad-shouldered, and scarred in ways that gave them a menacing appearance.
"Maxwell," one of them said, his voice deep and cold. "We need to talk."
Max stepped outside, closing the door behind him. Through the crack, I could see him speaking in hushed tones, his body language tense. He handed one of the men his phone, the same phone he wouldn't let me touch. The man spoke briefly into it, nodded, and handed it back.
When Max returned, he looked shaken. He avoided my eyes as he grabbed his wallet and headed for the door.
"Max! Who were those men? What do they want?" I demanded.
"It's nothing," he muttered, brushing past me.
"Nothing? Max, I saw how scared you looked. Please, just talk to me!"
But he was already gone.
Hours passed, and I sat in the room, anxiety eating away at me. When Max finally returned, it was well past midnight. He smelled of chemicals—sharp, pungent, and unsettling.
"Max, we need to talk," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
"I told you there's nothing to talk about," he replied, his tone cold and dismissive.
"Don't lie to me, Max! I saw those men. I saw how they looked at you. Please, just tell me what's going on. Are you in danger? Are we in danger?"
He froze, his shoulders tense. Slowly, he turned to face me, his expression unreadable.
"You really want to know?" he asked, his voice soft but laced with an edge.
"Yes. I can't take this anymore, Max. I need to know the truth."
He stared at me for a long moment, then suddenly pulled me into his arms. His touch was tender, his lips brushing against my neck.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered. "I hate seeing you like this. Let me make it up to you."
"Max, stop—"
But his mouth was on mine, his hands sliding over my body with a familiar, intoxicating intensity. He kissed me deeply, his lips silencing my protests. My resolve crumbled as his touch grew more insistent, his skilled hands and lips igniting a fire that left me breathless.
He lifted me, carrying me to the bed with ease. His movements were both tender and urgent, as though trying to distract me from the darkness looming over us.
For a moment, I let myself forget. Forget the secrets, the lies, and the danger that lurked just beyond the door. But as Max held me close, his heart pounding against mine, I couldn't shake the feeling that this was just a temporary reprieve—that the truth, whatever it was, would soon shatter our fragile world.