The Colour of War

Chapter 29

Evelyn's hand lingered on the brass handle of the hotel's front door, her heart a pendulum between past and present. "So, I'm going to head inside," she announced, the words feeling heavier than they should as she ascended the first step.

A hint of pain flashed before being quickly banished behind his mask of indifference. He had always been a man of few words, but it was this stoic façade that once drove her to distraction. But now, standing before him, she longed for the intimacy of their shared secrets, for the times when he would drop that guard and let her see the man behind it—the joy, the sorrow, even the anger.

The thought of him with another woman, the woman he'd chosen to rebuild a life with, felt like a physical blow. A wave of jealousy, fierce and unexpected, washed over her. It was a betrayal, not just of their past, but of the unspoken promise she'd held onto, a promise that had faded with the years.

"Take care, Evelyn," Stefan murmured, retreating into his shell.

She cursed inwardly at the stubborn girl within her who yearned to grasp his hand. It was like an itch beneath her skin.

"Stefan," she whispered, but he was already stepping back, creating distance with more than just physical space. The image of Evelyn's soft lips, her warm eyes, trickery that ripped through his carefully constructed defences.

"Well," he began, his voice trailing off as he struggled to find the right words. "It's been a pleasure. I'll always be grateful to you for raising our daughter."

"Good to see you," he said, a rehearsed politeness in his voice that refuted the complexity of their reunion. Evelyn smiled, attempting to hide her own torment. Stefan returned it with the same half-smile that had once drawn her to him. He turned then, a deliberate pivot away from what might have been.

"Good to see you," he repeated under his breath, chastising himself for the inadequacy of his words.

Evelyn watched his retreating form. With a soft sigh, she pushed open the door and stepped into the dimly lit lobby.

Time had erased their connection, leaving them as strangers in a shared past.

Stefan's key grated in the lock, the door already ajar. He gripped the brass handle of his cane, its hidden blade at the ready. Desperate times bred desperate folk. Inside the house, the familiar scent of Frieda's perfume clinging to the air. It was always there, a constant reminder of his new life. Silence, until a brash moan reached his ears, the sound winding around him like a familiar foe.

"Frieda," he acknowledged under his breath. He pushed open the living room door to find Frieda lay on the couch, half-naked, moaning in the arms of the man he'd seen her with at the party. His eyes darted between them, disgust washing over him.

"Going to bed," Stefan announced flatly, ignoring the clench of his jaw. "You left the door open. Don't forget to lock up."

He trudged upstairs, the weight of his wife's infidelity less than the burden of this unfavourable marriage. Frieda's tearful voice chased after him. "You're insane!"

The scent of alcohol preceded her as she stumbled up the steps. Stefan remained unmoved. "Believe what you will, Frieda."

"Sorry, I—" The interloper appeared sheepishly at the base of the stairs, half-dressed. "I had no idea—"

"Doesn't matter," Stefan interrupted without looking back. "Stay or go. It's finished."

The man hesitated, gathering his scattered clothing with obvious discomfort. As he reached the door, he paused. "Sorry for the trouble."

"Close the door behind you," Stefan said, almost kindly. The click of the latch punctuated the man's exit.

"Sorry I disrupted your engagement," he addressed her sarcastically. With a final, deliberate glance, he walked to the spare room. But Frieda, inflamed with drink and rage, launched herself at him, nails seeking flesh.