The Secret in the Shadow

The third year Alan and I were crammed into that tiny apartment was the year the floodwaters took our home.
I buried my face in his shoulder, miserable and shivering.
He told me it broke his heart to see me this way. Then he turned around and donated a hundred million dollars to the city’s relief fund without batting an eye.
On the news, he was Alan Hayes: heir to a dynasty, a philanthropist whose casual generosity was legendary. He was a stranger to me.
I heard the laughter of his friends, the gilded youth of Manhattan’s elite, through the half-open door of the private room.
“All those heiresses throwing themselves at you, and you’re still messing with some broke girl?”
Alan’s handsome eyes, the color of warm whiskey, crinkled at the corners. He let out a low chuckle. “My girl worked three jobs a day just to save up for a ring for me. Can they do that?”
Someone else piped up, their voice sharp. “But what if she actually proposes? Aren’t you getting engaged to Diana Donovan next week?”
“It’s just a game,” Alan scoffed. “You don’t seriously think I’d marry her, do you?” After a pause, his voice dripped with absolute certainty. “Besides, Willow will never find out.”
He didn’t know I was standing right outside the door.

1
I had raced through a torrential downpour to find him. My lab coat, soaked through, clung to me like a second skin of ice, the chill sinking into my bones.
But it was nothing compared to the cold shard of his words driving straight through my heart, a pain so sharp it made my whole body recoil.
Inside the opulent room, the conversation flowed on.
“Damn right. She’d lose her mind if she knew.”
“The pretty boy she’s been keeping for three years makes a hundred-million-dollar donation on a whim. You can’t even write this stuff in a movie, hahaha.”
“So, Alan, you’re just gonna shut her down when the time comes?”
Alan gestured for the waiter to open another bottle of champagne, his voice a casual drawl. “Shut her down? Why would I do that? I’m not done playing with her.”
He stroked his chin, a thoughtful look on his face. Then, a wicked, playful smile spread across his lips, making the small mole near the corner of his eye seem even more vibrant. “You know, I was thinking… maybe I’ll break up with her first. Just to scare her a little. After all,” he said, his voice mock-serious, “a guy making three grand a month can’t hold her back, right?”
“You’re playing with fire, man. What if she actually leaves?”
“You don’t know Willow,” another voice chimed in, smug. “He’s tried breaking up with her how many times? And every single time, she’s the one crying, begging him to take her back.”
Alan clearly savored that, lazily raising his glass in a toast to the speaker, who puffed up with pride.
Then, someone else clicked their tongue. “That’s just pathetic. Like some stray dog nobody wants, just begging to get screwed over for free…”
Outside, I couldn’t listen anymore. I dragged my leaden feet away, my heart a hollow drum. My hand went to my pocket, and when my fingers brushed against the small, velvet ring box, I snatched it back as if I’d been burned.
Behind me, the boisterous room fell silent.
Alan, one arm draped over the back of his chair, swirled the champagne in his glass. His face was a blank mask as he leveled a cold, sideways glance at the man who had just spoken.
Everyone watched him, the air thick with tension. They were all part of the city’s elite, but there were levels to this game. The Hayes family was practically New York royalty, with influence stretching from Wall Street to Washington. And Alan, groomed by the old patriarch himself, was the heir apparent. No one dared to cross him.
“Alan, man, I’m sorry. I was drunk, I shouldn’t have said that about your girl,” the guy, Rick, stammered, slapping his own face in a clumsy show of remorse.
Others jumped in to smooth things over. “You idiot, don’t you know she’s a researcher at Columbia? A bona fide genius. You’re not worthy of even speaking her name.”
Only when a red welt began to form on Rick’s cheek did Alan speak, his voice soft but edged with steel. “That’s enough.”
He leaned forward. “You’re from the King family, right? Pharmaceuticals?”
Rick nodded vigorously.
Alan leaned back, propping his cheek on one hand while casually gesturing with his glass. “Columbia’s been doing some interesting research lately…”
“I get it, Alan, I get it!” Rick cut in, tripping over his words. “Thank you for the opportunity to… uh… show my respect. For Willow.”

2
I stumbled home in a daze, their words echoing in my mind.
“That girl is a real fool. She kind of deserves to be played.”
“Remember three years ago? Alan lost a dare and had to pretend to be a host at that karaoke bar on K-Town.”
“A few women went in before her, they all got the joke. But her? She actually believed it.”
I was a fool.
A complete and utter fool. I didn't recognize that the strategically distressed sweater he wore was fresh off a Paris runway. I didn't know the simple silver watch on his wrist was a Richard Mille that cost more than a brownstone.
I heard his sob story—a gambling father, a sick mother—and in him, I saw a reflection of my own painful past. I looked at that beautiful face, like something out of a Japanese drama, and my heart melted.
I never imagined he was sizing me up, thinking, God, what an idiot. How could anyone fall for such a ridiculous lie?
I moved heaven and earth to get him out of that life. I helped him find a “real” job.
I had just started as a research assistant myself, barely making a few thousand a month. But I didn't hesitate to spend two thousand on a decent suit for him, so he could look the part.
Meanwhile, I wore the same trench coat for three years.
And him? He would always narrow those captivating eyes into a lazy, charming smile. "My beautiful girl, you're too good to me. I'll have to find a way to repay you properly."
Then he would pull me into his arms, and we’d become a tangle of limbs. He was twenty, a young man with an endless, raw energy that he poured into me, over and over again. The walls of our old apartment were paper-thin. The more I bit my lip to stay quiet, the more determined he was to draw a sound from me. Every time, he’d push me to the edge until I was whispering pleas for him to stop, again and again, before he would finally relent.
He was beautiful. He loved to be coddled. He loved to cook for me.
I truly believed we would be tangled up like that forever.
I was even planning to propose, taking on two extra freelance gigs to save up for the perfect ring.

3
On my way home, I passed the subway station Alan usually used.
A crowd had gathered at the entrance: firefighters, paramedics, shell-shocked survivors wrapped in foil blankets.
I stopped, my feet rooted to the spot.
A message buzzed on my phone.
[Hey, baby. My phone fell in the water, just got it fixed.]
[Brought you a little cake. Almost home~]
It was followed by a sticker of a cartoon puppy holding up a heart. The caption read: [Puppy loves you most!]
For a moment, the world tilted.
After a long time, I typed back with trembling fingers:
[I’m at the subway station. The Broadway exit at 116th.]
It didn’t take long for him to appear around the corner. The young man was tall and lean, his skin so pale it seemed to glow under the streetlights. A simple white t-shirt, a gray hoodie, and dark blue jeans—on him, it looked like a high-fashion ensemble. He turned heads; people were stealing glances at him.
“I thought I told you to stay home and rest,” he chided, shrugging off his hoodie and draping it over my shoulders. “You know how easily you get sick, and you still run out in the rain.”
The familiar scent of pine and clean earth enveloped me, and a sharp, sudden ache filled my sinuses.
“I thought you were dead,” I said, pointing a shaking finger toward the station entrance.
I expected to be hysterical, to scream and cry, but my throat felt like a broken pipe—raw, hoarse, and utterly exhausted.
“You texted that you were just getting on the train, and then… nothing. The news said the station was flooded. I was terrified. I ran for miles in this storm to get here. They wouldn't let me go down. I told them I had to, that my boyfriend was in there, and if he was going to die, we were going to die together.”
“Alan—” I looked up, my eyes red-rimmed, staring directly into his. “While I was so worried about you I was ready to die, where were you?”
He lowered his long, dark lashes, hiding those perpetually smiling eyes, concealing the storm that was surely brewing within them.
Maybe the game had gone further than he’d intended. Or maybe he was laughing inside, thinking, This stupid woman, she’d actually do something like that.
He just turned his face away and offered a light, breezy smile. “On my way to buy you a cake, of course.”
No, you weren’t. You were with your trust-fund friends, drinking and laughing. You were taking my heart and grinding it into the dirt with the heel of your expensive shoe.
Before I could press him further, he turned and crouched down in front of me. “Get on. Let’s get you home before you really get sick.”
And just like that, Alan carried me on his back, wading through the muddy, waist-deep water.
My voice was a hollow whisper next to his ear. “What home? Alan, we don’t have a home anymore.”

4
Our apartment was on the ground floor of an old, pre-war building. A relic from the nineties with a drainage system to match.
When we pushed the door open, we were met with utter devastation.
Three feet of murky water filled the space, and floating in the grim soup were the matching couple’s mugs Alan had bought, the his-and-hers slippers, the carefully curated photo wall…
In those pictures, we were laughing, smearing birthday cake on each other’s faces. We were drawing hearts in the air with sparklers on New Year’s Eve. So many perfect moments, now warped and blurred by the flood.
“It’s all ruined. You can’t even see them anymore,” Alan murmured, his brow furrowing deeper as he fished out one sodden photo after another, setting me down on top of the shoe cabinet.
I opened my mouth, wanting so badly to ask, Is it really worth feeling sad over these moments when it was all just a game?
But all I said was, “They’re gone, so they’re gone. It’s not like they were important.”
“Not important?” He stared at me, a wounded look in his eyes. “If this isn’t important, then what is?”
Is it because they’re trophies from the three years you successfully conned a woman out of her love? Is that why they’re so important?
I squeezed my hands into fists, my lips pressed into a thin line. I didn’t ask.

5
The apartment was uninhabitable. Every hotel nearby was either fully booked or charging astronomical prices. One place quoted us four thousand dollars for a single night.
We ended up huddled in the crowded lobby, leaning against a corner wall, trying to figure out what to do next.
A couple of young women next to us were chatting.
“God, I wish some random trust-fund baby would just fall madly in love with me and drop a million dollars in my lap.”
“Forget that, did you see the top trending story? I’m so jealous of Diana Donovan. Being a famous actress and a Manhattan socialite isn’t enough, her fiancé just casually donates a hundred million dollars. It’s insane.”
“And get this—he made the donation in both of their names. Talk about being head-over-heels in love.”
Behind me, I felt Alan’s muscles tighten. He leaned in, his voice a sweet, cloying whisper in my ear. “Baby, let’s just pay the four thousand. Please? Let’s just get a room.”
The warmth from his body radiated against my back, but I could feel a slight tremor running through him. It was late autumn, and he’d given me his hoodie, leaving himself in just a t-shirt.
Before, my heart would have ached for him. I would have gladly spent a third of my salary just to keep him comfortable.
But now, I pinched his thigh, hard. My voice was flat. “You made your bed, now lie in it. You deserve this.”
I paused, then added in a casual, mocking tone, “If you were like her fiancé, throwing around a hundred million like it was pocket change, do you think I’d be living this miserable life?”
As soon as the words were out, a violent coughing fit seized me. Alan gently patted my back.
When I finally caught my breath, he lowered his head and nibbled on my earlobe, his voice a soft, manufactured whine. “I get it. You think I’m poor now. It’s my fault. I can’t give you a mansion… I let you get sick, shivering in the cold with nowhere to go. It’s all my fault…”
I thought I was done crying. But hearing him spin that same, tired, oh-so-sincere script about not being able to give me a better life, a fresh wave of bitterness stung my eyes.
For a thousand days, he had watched me struggle, watched me sacrifice for him, and then soothed it all with a few empty, beautiful words. He probably got a sick thrill out of it.
“Yes,” I said, cutting him off. “It is all your fault.”
He froze, his litany of self-pity dying on his lips. His face went blank.
Of course. In the past, I would have immediately comforted him. Don’t you dare blame yourself. It hurts me to hear you say that, you know?
But this time, I turned to face him, locking my eyes on his, and spoke each word with chilling clarity. “Who else would it be? You make three thousand dollars a month. You can’t even afford a bathroom in this city. You think I want you holding me back for the rest of my life? You didn’t actually believe I wanted to spend forever with you in that tiny, rundown apartment, did you?”
Alan just stared, stunned. It took him a long moment to force a stiff, awkward smile and raise his hands in surrender. “I… I can work overtime—”
I couldn’t listen to another lie. I pushed him away.
“I’m just kidding,” I said lightly.
In my peripheral vision, I saw his tense shoulders finally slump in relief.

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