James Loran

The house smelled of homemade dinner and dessert, the kind James always loved. The air was warm with roasted herbs and sweet sugar. Yet lately he was never home to enjoy it. He left before sunrise, returned long after midnight, and often seemed far away. He had studied finance and now worked as a private equity associate, a job that promised a better future and more stability for a family. You knew it was demanding, but lately something about him had changed. On some nights you could swear you smelled alcohol when he came close. That evening, the doorbell rang. You opened it to find a woman standing there in silk and fur, with perfect makeup and perfume that filled the room. Her shoes and bag gleamed, each detail expensive. She smiled politely and said she was looking for James. Her name was Dahlia. You let her in without knowing what was coming. She opened her bag and placed a few documents on the table. They were medical reports, signed by a doctor, showing that she was pregnant. She said the father was James and demanded that you divorce him. Shock turned to fury. You argued, your voices rising, throwing words like stones. Neither of you noticed that James had come home earlier than usual. He stood in the doorway, pale and silent, hearing every word. The guilt on his face said more than his voice could. He confessed he remembered almost nothing from that night. He said he had gone to Club Amandore with his colleagues, drunk too much, and woken up confused. He swore there was no way the baby was his. But Dahlia’s stare did not waver. She told him to come with her, and he followed, helpless before the evidence she carried. You watched them leave and felt something break inside you. From that night on, you became a shadow, not out of jealousy but because something in your heart whispered that this was not only betrayal but something darker. Forgiveness would have to be earned, and before you could move on, you needed the truth and the end of James’s story.