"Custom-Made" Lies

As the new women's line moved forward, Marc began working overtime even more frequently—sometimes not coming home until one or two in the morning.

He said he'd hit a bottleneck in the new collection's designs.

I told him not to overwork himself, but he only smiled and said he was fine.

Then another detail put me on alert.

After he came home, the scent of his body wash changed. We had always used cedarwood-scented products, yet for the past few days, he'd smelled like a sweet, cloying floral fragrance.

When I asked him about it, he brushed it off.

"The company bought new shower products for the break room. I shower there if I work late so I don't wake you."

The explanation was flawless, yet the unease inside me kept spreading like wildfire.

Another late night, he texted that he might have to stay up all night again and told me to sleep first.

I lay in bed, tossing and turning, and without thinking, opened the surveillance feed again.

The lights in his office were on, but his seat was empty.

Frowning, I slid the timeline back.

Just minutes earlier, a figure had flashed past the camera—quickly stepping into the blind spot of the interior office camera.

It was only a brief glimpse, but I was certain it wasn't Marc.

I shot upright, changed clothes in seconds, packed the chicken soup I'd been stewing into a thermos, and rushed out the door.

Fifteen minutes later, I was downstairs at his company building. Only his office on the entire floor was lit.

My heart hammered as I approached the door.

It wasn't locked. I pushed it open.

The room was empty.

How? I had clearly seen someone go inside!

I searched everywhere—the design department, the break room, the storage closet—every possible hiding place.

Nothing. No one.

Breathless, I returned to his office.

Then I heard the sound of fabric brushing, mixed with a man's muffled breathing. It sounded like it came from the corner of the room.

I stepped quietly toward the sound.

Up close, I noticed a narrow gap where a panel met the wall, faint light seeping through it.

My mind went blank. I grabbed the panel and yanked it open.

"Marc! What are you doing in here?!" I screamed.

Behind the panel was a small space—like a miniature dressing room.

And inside stood Marc, staring at me in shock, holding the arm of a mannequin. There wasn't another living soul in the room.

He stared at my furious expression, utterly baffled.

“Babe? What are you doing here?”

By then, my emotions had already exploded, reasoning completely gone as I tore through the cramped, hidden space like a madwoman.

Marc finally snapped, shouting, "Vera, what the hell is wrong with you?!"

But I still found no one. So I yanked my phone from my pocket, opened the surveillance footage, and thrust the screen in his face.

"Where is this woman? Where did you hide her?!"

His eyes fell on the screen, and his expression darkened with fury.

"You're spying on me?"

But the glimpse of that figure had already drowned out everything else. I didn't care about his anger.

"I'm asking you—where is that woman?!"

"Woman?" A mocking laugh escaped him. He pointed to a female mannequin standing in the corner. "That's the woman you're talking about."

He walked over and positioned the mannequin in the same posture as the blurry figure that had flashed across the video.

I froze.

The silhouette of the mannequin did seem… strangely similar to the one in the footage.

Had I… really misunderstood him?

My clarity returned inch by inch, my limbs turning cold. Not only had I suspected him—I'd spied on him, stormed into his office, and practically accused him of adultery on the spot.

"I… I'm sorry…" I rubbed my forehead, my voice dry and shaky.

With his back facing me, Marc stayed silent for a long time. The line of his shoulders looked stiff, strained. When he finally turned around, his eyes were bloodshot, his face drawn with exhaustion.

"It's fine," he said quietly. "I know I've been working late and neglecting you. It's normal you'd start overthinking."

I blinked, stunned. He… was apologizing to me?

"It's my fault," he continued softly. "I shouldn't let work get to me and make you feel insecure."

He pulled me into his arms, holding me tightly, pressing his chin gently to the top of my head.

"We really haven't talked properly in a while. Go home first, take a shower, wait for me. I'll clean up here and come back right away, okay?"

His gentleness, his patience—every bit of it made my guilt swell unbearably.

What else could I say?

I nodded and went home.

But once I sat down in the living room, a strange unease twisted inside me.

Something still felt wrong. The thorn in my chest hadn't been removed—if anything, it sank even deeper.

I pulled out my phone and replayed the footage. Once. Twice. Ten times. Twenty.

Then I slowed it to half speed, staring at the screen without blinking.

And in that fleeting moment, I finally saw it. I finally realized what had felt wrong from the beginning.

Marc had lied to me.