Victor Monroe never carried bags—not for anyone. But that morning, under the sterile glow of the airport terminal lights, he had Nadia’s delicate designer purse draped over his arm. To him, it seemed insignificant—more convenience than commitment.
Yet with each step on the sleek marble floor, the sound beneath his feet shifted, like the rhythm of a story slipping out of his control.
Nadia walked beside him, graceful in a flowing cream dress that moved with each stride as she adjusted her sunglasses. Her smile was subtle and knowing—the kind a woman wears when she believes she’s finally claimed her prize.
She wanted to be seen, to make undeniable what had only been rumored. Victor didn’t need to glance at her.
The handbag on his arm already said everything.
While Nadia carried herself like someone stepping into the spotlight, Victor felt like a man walking away from an unfinished sentence. Around them, the luxury terminal hummed with quiet urgency—executives weaving through the crowd, staff in tailored uniforms scanning documents, ambient lounge music blending with boarding calls. A private jet waited on the tarmac, but Nadia had insisted they walk through the main departure hall.
She wanted to be seen.
Victor hadn’t argued. Why would he?
For a moment, he believed he was steering the narrative—convinced that being seen made it all feel legitimate. Until the illusion cracked.
It took only seconds.
First, a pause. Then a silence so dense it seemed to anchor the entire terminal in place. Voices stopped mid-sentence.
Motion halted.
Phones rose—not to make calls, but to capture the moment. Victor’s eyes followed the shift in attention automatically.
His heartbeat slowed, heavy and deliberate. At the far end of the terminal stood Evelyn, his wife.
No makeup.
Worn down. Her face pale, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion. But it wasn’t her expression that shattered him.
It was the children.
Four little boys clung to her skirt. Identical.
His sons. Quadruplets.
Victor’s fingers uncurled instinctively, and Nadia’s handbag slipped from his arm, landing on the floor with a sound that felt deafening in the hush.
His lips moved, but no words came out. The silence pressed in, thick and brittle—like glass moments from breaking. Evelyn didn’t speak.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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