Months passed after June showed up unannounced at Albert's house, yet the memory of that night lingered far longer than I cared to admit.
Time softened many things, but it did not erase the image of her standing in the doorway—confident, beautiful, unapologetic. Some nights, when Albert slept beside me, her voice returned in whispers. Other days, her eyes followed me through crowded rooms I had never been in. I told myself it was nothing. That I was overthinking. That love was stronger than insecurity.
Life, as it always does, moved forward.
Albert remained attentive—sometimes excessively so. He called often, checked in regularly, showed up when he said he would. He brought flowers home for no reason, planned dates, held my hand in public like he was proving something. When I asked if everything was okay, he smiled and said he was just grateful for me.
He reassured me with words.
He reassured me with actions.
He reassured me by choosing me every single day.
And still, something subtle shifted inside me.
It wasn't distrust. Not yet. It was awareness.
June was beautiful.
That truth lodged itself in my mind and refused to leave.
She wasn't just attractive; she was aware of it. She carried her beauty like a weapon, wielded it with confidence and intention. I told myself beauty alone did not define love. Commitment did. Loyalty did. Shared dreams did.
Albert had chosen me.
Hadn't he?
The proposal came on a quiet evening that felt no different from the countless dinners we had shared before. Nothing extravagant. No grand gesture. Just us.
We were seated at our usual table in a softly lit restaurant—the kind where the air hummed with low conversations and the gentle clink of glasses. Albert reached across the table and took my hand, his thumb rubbing slow circles into my palm.
"Susan," he said.
Something in his voice made me look up.
He seemed nervous. Not unsure—just overwhelmed.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box.
My heart skipped violently.
"Will you marry me?" he asked. "Make me the happiest man in the whole world."
For a moment, the world stilled.
Fear flickered—quiet and fleeting. A whisper, not a scream. I saw June's face for half a second, then pushed it away. What was there to fear? This was the man I loved. The man who chose me. The man who had stood between me and his past and shut the door firmly behind him.
"Yes," I breathed.
Then louder, laughing through tears I hadn't expected, "Yes, Albert. I will."
His face lit up like I had handed him the universe. He slid the ring onto my finger with trembling hands, and I stared at it like it might disappear if I blinked too long.
That ring felt like certainty.
Like victory.
Like safety.
That night, back home, I called my mother first.
She cried—happy, uncontrollable tears that made me cry too.
Then I called my brother, who laughed loudly and promised to embarrass me with terrible dance moves at the wedding.
Then Kim—my closest friend—who screamed so loudly I had to pull the phone away from my ear.
Everyone was happy for me.
Everyone believed in us.
The wedding was small but elegant. Intimate. Carefully chosen details instead of excess. Standing at the altar, dressed in white, looking into Albert's eyes, I felt like the luckiest woman alive. Like I had done something right in a world that often felt uncertain.
Marriage was kind to us—at least in the beginning.
It was gentle. Sweet. Peaceful.
For a year and several months, our life together felt like a reward I had finally earned. Morning coffee shared in silence. Laughter in the evenings. Warm bodies tangled in sleep. No raised voices. No slammed doors.
No June.
And then—
The kitchen came back into focus.
The present rushed in like cold air.
Albert emerged from the bedroom sharply dressed, tie perfectly knotted, briefcase in hand. He looked every inch the successful man the world admired. The man other women admired.
My chest tightened.
"Is… is there anything I should know?" I asked, hating how small my voice sounded.
He stopped abruptly.
"About what?" he asked sharply, turning toward me.
"Anything," I said carefully. "Work. June."
Something flickered across his face before he masked it.
"June?" he repeated. "She works in the office now. That's all there is to know."
My stomach clenched.
"I don't know how it happened," he continued firmly, "but you shouldn't let that bother you. You're my wife. That's all."
He stepped closer, pressed a quick kiss to my forehead, already halfway gone.
"I'll see you later."
The door clicked shut behind him.
The house felt too quiet.
I stood there, sweating despite the air conditioner humming above me, my chest tight with unease. The silence felt heavier than sound.
I knew trouble was brewing.
I knew June was trouble.
I knew she was desperate.
And desperate people never stayed calm for long.
But what about Albert?
He had been faithful—yes.
Loving—yes.
Present—yes.
Could I trust him?
I closed my eyes and forced myself to breathe.
"Albert is a good man," I whispered. "He would never hurt me."
I repeated it like a prayer as I walked into the bedroom and shut the door behind me.
But deep down, fear stirred.
Because some promises are tested.
And some love stories only begin to unravel when you think they are already secured