When I heard those words today, I couldn't help it.
I laughed. Not out of humor, but disbelief. The kind of laugh that slips out when something absurd brushes too close to the truth.
The clatter of plates, the sharp scent of hot sauce, the steady hum of late lunch chatter around us—all of it faded to the background. My voice broke through the stillness between us.
"Samuel, after all these years, we've practically eaten every dish on this menu. The only one I've never touched is the stir-fried lamb offal. I don't like organ meat. I never have. So tell me… was the person you just described really me?"
He didn't answer right away. His hand paused mid-air, utensils hovering above the last of the cold noodles.
For a moment, nothing moved. Then, with care, Samuel set his utensil down beside his plate. He exhaled a long, steady breath, the kind that carries the weight of something final.
"Since you're asking so directly," he said, "I'll tell you the truth."
He looked at me then, unblinking.
"You're right. It wasn't you. It was her."
And just like that, he lifted his hand and pointed toward the entrance.
I turned to look.
My heart slammed against my ribs as I quickly turned around.
But there was no one standing there.
Samuel wasn't pointing at a person at all. His finger aimed at the crowded photo wall, at a candid picture of the two of us taken years ago.
He stared at it for several seconds, his expression softening with a quiet, almost bittersweet affection, before he looked back at me with a helpless smile.
"Leslie… come on. This place? It's ours. You really think I'd bring someone else here?"
He gave a soft laugh, half-shrugging.
"Look, I'm in my thirties. My memory's not what it used to be, alright? I forgot you don't like organ meat. That's all it was."
He paused, his voice softening.
"Those other women were just distractions. They never meant anything. The only person I've ever wanted for real, for forever, is you. Can't you believe that?"
The server, familiar with us for years, likely thought we were having a lovers' spat.
He intervened gently, attempting to help.
"That's right, Ms. Hutton. Plenty of customers have taken photos here, but the one of you and Mr. Grant is the most popular. People always say you look perfect together. And just look at how he gazes at you. You can practically see the affection. I can swear he's never brought another woman here."
I looked up at the photo and felt the world tilt for a moment.
I grew up in an orphanage. They told me my parents and older brother had been killed by business rivals, and our family's company was destroyed.
So, whenever I stood next to someone as dazzling as Samuel, I always felt a bit small.
But Samuel insisted that, in his eyes, I was the best.
When I had terrible period cramps, he'd cancel work, drive overnight from another state, and show up at my door with heating pads and a mug of warm brown sugar water.
When other students mocked me, calling me a bastard or a hillbilly, he defended me so fiercely that no one dared touch me again.
I fell for him, and I fell hard.
He told me he kept all those other mistresses only to avoid being pushed into a political marriage by his grandmother.
He said he didn't touch them because he didn't love them. And he didn't touch me because he treasured me. He wanted us to save our first time for our wedding night.
In the photo the server took, I had just accepted his confession.
My face had been burning red, too shy to look at him, staring at my food instead. And Samuel had rested his chin on his hand, gazing at me with warmth and affection overflowing from his eyes.
But later, it was that same man who shattered my belief in love.
That same man who ended my life with his own hands.
I stared at the photo on the wall. The colors had faded a little over time, but the memory it captured hadn't. My voice came out low, almost more to myself than to him.
"And what about Rhian?" I asked quietly. "She was your first love. If you had walked into her room that night by mistake... would all these words you just said be meant for her instead?"
My eyes stayed on the photo, but I could feel the weight of his silence behind me.
"After all, she and I were the only ones living on the second floor. Identical doors. Right across from each other."
I finally turned to look at him.
"You're barely home. Mixing them up would make sense. Otherwise, why would you tell us to decide ourselves who should carry your child?"
The hand he had placed on my shoulder tightened slightly.
Samuel let out a quiet laugh, the kind that carried more disbelief than amusement. He shook his head slightly, as if even recalling it now felt absurd.
"I dated her for, what, a few days in high school? We didn't even hold hands. Once we figured out we weren't a good match, that was it. She was a tomboy back then. Honestly, I don't think she even knew if she liked me or just thought of me as one of the guys."
He looked at me carefully, his voice dipping lower.
"Later on, she only started clashing with you out of spite. You know that, right?"
He took a breath, the weight of old choices flickering across his expression.
"When I said what I did, it wasn't because I felt anything for her. I didn't want her to get competitive and stir up drama that would hurt you. I was trying to protect you."
A silence settled between us before he added, almost gently, "Now there are five days left. Whatever happens between you two, I still want you to give me a child."
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes meeting mine—the edge of frustration melting into something more vulnerable.
"You little troublemaker. You got jealous for no reason, made me sit in ice water all night, and then told me you slept with someone else. Do you know what that did to me? I thought my heart was going to fall apart."
