Crimson Lies

Prologue

Double-edged sword

Amara: I'm here. Don't forget about the deal. Thank you for everything!

Brian: Pleasure doing business with you – B.

I turned off the volume of my phone and turned off the screen. Slipping it into the back pocket of my skirt, I rubbed my clammy hands against the fabric to dry them. I nodded to myself and set off.

My heart was beating abnormally fast as I walked through the dimly lit hallway of our stupid school. If it didn't slow down, it might burst. That would definitely put a dent in my plans for tonight. I've always had a hard time controlling my nerves in stressful situations, having to resort to putting on a poker face and consuming some liquid courage. But it was time to say goodbye, so I had to do this.

I drew a shaky breath and clenched my fists, trying to still their trembling. Summoning the courage felt more daunting than ever, even though to my peers I was quite the opposite. Doing dumb stunts for attention and drinking yourself senseless around here brands you as fearless. 

I made my way toward Fitz Gibbons' classroom with an unwavering determination, knowing he would be working late, I was counting on it, having memorized his schedule by heart. I wanted to pay him one last visit. I was painfully aware that if I were to do this, there would be no going back.

Before the dark brown Venetian door, I stood motionless, exhaling softly, releasing the breath I was holding. My tunnel vision prevented me from appreciating the elegant Victorian details of the hallway this time. The once vibrant, ornate windows that had bathed the wooden floors in warm, colorful late-afternoon light were now cloaked in the harsh, flickering shadows of the night. The wind outside was picking up. It stirred the trees in a ruthless waltz, making the branches scratch the glass. I could feel it deep within my bones that a storm was brewing. Returning home afterwards might get a bit challenging. All my worries, however, were drowned out by the pounding of my own blood, which made my ears ring, making me forget about the weather outside.

Through the long, elegant glass window on the door, which ended just above my eyes, I saw him focusing on a stack of papers. He was probably grading our Wednesday essays under the small desk lamp. "The beauty of revenge" in Hamlet was our topic—quite fitting.

His brows, weighed down by the fatigue of the past week, were scrunched low over his glasses. The end of the first semester is always stressful, for students and teachers. Beside him, an almost empty whiskey bottle stood next to a short glass filled to the brim with a dark liquid in the trashiest of ways. That was one word he definitely wouldn't use to describe himself. Rough around the edges, perhaps, but trashy, never. Elegant, sophisticated and a prodigy is what he preferred. His current state, however, was a stark contrast to his carefully crafted public persona. He looked drunk—just what I had hoped for, which meant it would be easier than I had anticipated. I placed a hand on the doorknob and pushed it, my head peeking through the opening.

"Fitz, may I interrupt?" I asked softly, pausing to see if he would invite me in. Long ago, he had permitted us to use his first name, wanting to feel closer to us as though he were part of the team. He was closer to some more than others.

"It's not a good time. What are you doing here so late?" He glanced up from his old-fashioned desk and squinted at the light that bothering his eyes. Could he even recognize me right now?

"I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about you—I mean, about your class—and thought I'd stop by to check on my grade if you were still here." I replied with an innocent, soft smile and as I strolled slowly toward him in between the sea of student desks.

"I don't think I've graded your essay yet, so you'll have to excuse me." He rubbed his temples in an attempt to ease the pain, but I suspected it wouldn't fade anytime soon, at least not for a few hours. He tried to stand but struggled, his arms failing to support his weight. His movements were becoming increasingly sluggish.

I finally reached his desk and placed my palms on the mahogany surface. Looking down at him, I felt a swirl of emotions. A tornado picking up every ounce of sadness, regret, pity, and anger I had in me. He, on the other hand, could barely focus on me, as his vision hazily danced all over the room. The belt over his grayish pants was unbuckled, and his shirt was untucked. The tie he had around his neck earlier this evening was undone, tossed to the side and he reeked of alcohol. How could I have been so naive? How could anyone love this man?

"You know, every single night, I fall asleep with your face etched into my mind. I replay all our messages, all those secret moments when you would sneak in to see me—the tender touches, the soft kisses, the longing glances you'd give me in class." I paused, my voice catching in my throat. "I replay it all and wonder how I could have been so foolish." I spat the last word like it was venom.

"Don't be so dramatic." Even through his slurred speech, his refined English accent remained captivating. "You wanted this just as much as I did." He closed his eyes.

"Did I?" I wondered aloud.

"Of course you did. I saw the desire in your eyes. You wanted this. You wanted me. Trust me." He extended his arm and turned his chair to face me, drawing me closer. He was confident that I would accept it and trust him once again.

"Trust should not be given so easily. You taught us that." I took his arm, swung my leg over his torso, and straddled him.

"And how wonderful of you to remember. You've always been my favorite student—a sharp mind, potential for greatness. An opportunist. All neatly wrapped up in a bow." His head swayed slightly.

"You're making me blush, professor." I replied huskily, inching closer until our noses nearly touched. I could feel his breath on my face and struggled to contain my shudder.

"God, you're teasing me, as always." I slid my hands slowly up his body. He gripped my waist, a low groan escaping from his throat. He was losing control. I could feel his hardness against my thigh, causing a grimace to form, but I quickly masked it. I traced his jaw with the tip of my nose until I reached his ear.

"Over the past year, while we've been together, I've been wondering something." I nibbled on his earlobe. "Does she know? Your wife, I mean?" I whispered. "Does it excite you, knowing she might find out? That you're walking on such a thin ice?"

"Yes." He responded without hesitation, placing his hands on my ass, squeezing firmly. His eyes began to flutter as he struggled to stave off the drowsiness.

"The thrill—I'd love it too if I were you. The thought that she might catch us—it makes me tingle inside." A small smile curved my lips. "But what would happen if she did catch us?"

"Wha-, what?'' He shook his head in denial, tilting it toward me. He shouldn't have drunk so much.

"You're going to lose your job as head teacher at one of the most prestigious schools in England. Gloria will divorce you and probably leave you with nothing. And then, you'll finally be with me." I gazed at him seductively, guiding my hand to the back of his neck and gripping his hair. "It's a shame for our baby, though. We could have been one big, happy family." I gritted my teeth, tightening my grip and pulling his head back.

"What are you doing? This isn't funny anymore." He winced in discomfort.

"I never thought it was. To be honest, I'm willing to keep all of this a secret if you would just do this one thing for me. Give me back the time I lost pining over you. Take away the pain." He began pulling at his scalp, growling in agony. "You can't, can you? What a pity."

He managed to pull his head away from my arm and lift it to face me. As he opened his eyes, I saw something unfamiliar—was it confusion, realization, or had he just grasped what was happening?

"Amar-" I pressed my lips to his, silencing him mid-sentence. I opened my mouth and took the lead, fully aware of where this was going. His kiss was bitter, like acid, searing me as if I had just downed a shot of vodka. I hated vodka, but everyone liked the aftereffect—the buzz. This, however, wasn't bringing the same sense of excitement. Quite the opposite.

I pressed my body against his, pinning him to the chair. Wrapping my hands around his neck, I thrust my tongue into his mouth. He moaned, likely getting more and more disoriented by the minute. Yet, at the same time, a foreign feeling began to pool inside me—a sensation I couldn't grasp. I scrunched my nose and squeezed my eyes shut, pressing even harder against his lips.

I turned us sideways, trapping us between his desk and the whiteboard behind it, knocking down a few markers in the process. As he gripped me, his hold caused a sharp pain on my sides—it would likely leave a mark, but it wouldn't compare to the one he'd left on my life. The anguish he had caused me. Reflecting on everything and how it all began made me realize that he deserved what was coming to him. And so did I.

I felt the room fall silent, with only the sounds of our heated kiss breaking the stillness. In that final moment of passion, the door to my much-dreaded future slowly creaked open, revealing a path I had long feared. The anticipation of what was to come pressed heavily on my chest, mingling with the bitter taste of his saliva. Every breath felt charged with the weight of the impending consequences, and I recognized that this was more than just a culmination of our tumultuous relationship—it was the beginning of a new, uncertain chapter. The silence was amplifying the gravity of the choices I had made and the inevitable reckoning that awaited me.

If Fitz only knew how right he was about the fine line between adoration and resentment, he might never have dared to walk it. After all, love knows no bounds, right?! Just like Hamlet said. But was the quote about love, or was it about something else entirely?