By the time I returned to the villa, the house was pitch black. Margot hadn’t come home yet. I stood there in silence, staring at the emptiness of the place we once shared.
Our two-year relationship had never felt like we were together. At best, it was a hollow arrangement between two strangers who happened to share the same space.
I thought back to the first day we moved in together. I had been so full of excitement, eager to share my life with her, to be close to her. But that night, she brushed me off with a tired smile.
“I’m exhausted,” she’d said. “Let’s save this for another time, okay?”
I believed her. She worked hard, constantly on set, constantly under pressure. I told myself I’d wait, that I’d respect her boundaries.
But that 'other time' never came.
Until that day, I thought I missed her. I thought a part of me still wanted her. But when I checked the villa’s surveillance footage, any lingering feelings I had evaporated.
There he was—Steven Jackson. He had her in his arms, holding her tightly and kissing her like he owned her. She leaned into him without hesitation, her hands tangled in his hair.
At that moment, I finally understood: I had never truly been in her heart.