Victor Monroe never carried bags, not for anyone. Yet, that morning, under the cold brightness of the airport terminal’s ceiling lights, he held Nadia’s delicate designer handbag casually over his arm. To him, it felt harmless, a gesture, of convenience, not devotion. But every step he took down the polished marble floor echoed differently. Nadia walked beside him, slender and effortless, her cream-colored dress swaying softly as she adjusted her sunglasses. Her smile was small, private, the kind a mistress wore when she believed she had finally won.
He didn’t look at her. He didn’t have to. His grip on her bag was answer enough.
The luxury terminal hummed around them, executives rushing past, sharp-suited staff checking passports, and lounge music fading into the distant announcement of departing flights. A private jet waited for them, but Nadia insisted on walking through departures. She wanted to be seen with him.
Victor didn’t object. Why would he? For once, he felt in control of his narrative, until he wasn’t that it happened in seconds if this story resonated with. You, subscribe to the channel and like, spread the word, and tell us where you’re watching from.
First, the hush. Then the weight of silence as strangers stopped moving. Conversations cut off mid-word.
Phones were raised, not for calls, but cameras. Victor followed their gaze instinctively. His heartbeat slowed to a tee the far end of the terminal, standing unervingly.
Still amidst the morning chaos, was Evelyn, his wife. She wore no makeup. Her face was pale from exhaustion, her eyes darker than he remembered.
But what Victor saw last wasn’t her face. It was the four small children clustered around her. Four boys, identical, each holding tightly to her skirt.
Their small, matching coats ghost-like against the polished floor. His quadruplets, Victor’s, hand opened reflexively. Nadia’s handbag slipped from his fingers, hitting the ground with a sound far louder than its weight justified.
His mouth moved but produced no words. Sweat prickled beneath his expensive suit. Time fractured.
Evelyn didn’t move. She didn’t speak. She only stared, through him, not at him.
Her expression wasn’t anger. It was worse that IT was pity. Flash.
The first camera caught it. Then another. And another.
Passengers who once envied Victor Monroe now recorded his downfall, frame by frame, in high definition. Victor. Nadia whispered, her voice cracking.
He. Didn’t hear her. His feet wouldn’t move.
His mind spun, uselessly replaying conversations, excuses, plans. None fit this moment. No contingency prepared him for Evelyn standing there, with proof of his neglect gripping her trembling hands.
The children looked up at him, confused. One boy pointed with a chubby finger, tugging Evelyn’s sleeve. Daddy? Evelyn flinched.
Victor’s. Stomach twisted violently. People were whispering now.
Phones angled for better shots. The whispers turned into murmurs. Then audible questions did I ask that his wife? Are those his kids? Who’s the woman with him? Nadia stepped back, as if physical distance could erase her involvement.
She looked from Evelyn to Victor and back again, her lips trembling. She realized too late what everyone else already understood. She.
Wasn’t the woman Victor belonged to. She was the evidence of his betrayal. Evelyn.
His voice cracked like a man unfamiliar with his own name. She finally moved. Slow, deliberate steps toward him.
Not to close the distance, but to wound him with every inch of her composure. The children followed, their steps uneven, unsure to Victor’s. Heart pounded against his ribs, desperate, useless.
Evelyn stopped just short of him. Her voice was almost a whisper, but every syllable cut him open. This is what you carried her for? She didn’t wait for his answer.
She didn’t need it. Turning to her children, she bent down, lifting the smallest boy into her arms as if to shield him. And then she walked.
Right past Victor, past Nadia, past the reporters gathering at the entrance. Victor watched her go, unable. To follow.
And somewhere in the crowd, a journalist’s voice pierced the silence. Victor Monroe, can you explain this? But he couldn’t. Because how do you explain carrying the wrong woman’s bag, when your real life just walked past you holding your legacy? The flashes continued, but Victor no longer saw them.