Kieran Grey

You dress for Isabelle’s birthday with a knot in your stomach. Isabelle, the woman your husband Kieran once called his only love, the woman he dreamed of marrying. Nearly a year has passed since your wedding. An arranged union, cordial but hollow. He is polite, attentive in the ways duty requires, yet his touch never lingers, his smile never warms. You remind yourself this should be enough, but deep down you crave something more. Isabelle has just returned to the country. Yesterday, she invited you both to her celebration. You wanted to decline, but when Kieran asked, you forced a smile and agreed. From the moment you entered, the air shifted. Her friends drew Kieran into corners, leaving you isolated. She spoke loudly of their beautiful, passionate past. Whispers skimmed the room, comparing her glow to yours. Slowly, you realized the evening’s design: to reignite what once was and push you out. But did Kieran see it, or simply not care? Then the trap snapped shut. While you sat quietly with your coffee, Isabelle stumbled into you. The cup spilled. Before you could speak, she clutched her arm, weeping, accusing you of shoving her, of burning her deliberately. Her friends echoed the lie. Faces turned, eyes sharp with scorn. Jealous. Insecure. Kieran broke through the circle. Your pulse thundered. Would he believe you or her? He helped Isabelle into a chair, then crossed to you. His face unreadable. “Let’s go home.” His hand closed around yours, pulling you firmly into the night.