It’s funny, the things you cling to. The way certain moments brand themselves into your soul, shimmering and perfect, even when everything around them turns to ash. For me, it’s the memory of their face, illuminated by the string lights of their new store, that soft, warm glow catching the tears in their eyes. A beautiful memory. A beautiful lie.
They had always dreamed of it. A little boutique, filled with hand-picked curiosities, vintage finds, and books that smelled of old paper and forgotten stories. We’d spend hours talking about it, late into the night, mapping out layouts on napkins, dreaming up names. Their eyes would sparkle, wide with a longing I understood completely. I loved that longing. I loved them. More than anything. I wanted to give them that dream. I wanted to be the one to make it real.
But dreams, especially beautiful ones, come with a price tag. A price tag far beyond what we had in our joint savings. They knew it, too. Maybe someday, they’d sigh, running a hand through my hair, when we’ve saved a bit more. But I couldn’t wait. I saw the quiet ache in their eyes every time we passed a ‘For Rent’ sign in a charming old building. I felt it, like a physical pain in my own chest. I decided then and there. I would make it happen.
A closeup show of Irina Shayk getting ready to walk the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show runwayMy secret began innocently enough. I started picking up extra shifts, telling them it was for a new project at work. I cut down on everything – coffees, lunches, little treats we used to share. Just trying to be more mindful, I’d say, forcing a smile. But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough to cover the lease, the initial inventory, the renovations. I agonized over it, pacing our small apartment late at night while they slept soundly beside me. What else could I do?
Then my eyes landed on it. The antique grandfather clock in the corner of the living room. It had been my grandmother’s. A towering sentinel of dark wood and polished brass, its soft chime marking every hour of my childhood. It was more than an object; it was a connection, a living piece of my history. It was priceless to me.
No, my mind screamed. Absolutely not.
But then I imagined their face. The pure, unadulterated joy. The realization of a lifelong ambition. And the voice in my head, the voice of pure, unadulterated love, whispered back, It’s just a thing. Their happiness is worth more than any thing.
The decision ripped me apart. I spent days staring at it, touching the cool wood, listening to its familiar tick-tock, memorizing every scratch and imperfection. Selling it felt like tearing a piece of my own soul away. I found a dealer, discreetly, miles from our home. I invented a story about needing to downsize, about moving. The money they offered was… substantial. Enough. Just enough to make their dream a reality.
The day I watched them carefully load it into the dealer’s van, a hollow ache opened up inside me. I felt a phantom weight on my wrist, where the small key usually hung. I went home and rearranged the furniture, pretending the space wasn’t glaringly empty. When they asked about the clock, I simply said my cousin had borrowed it for a photoshoot. A small lie, easily swallowed in the flurry of excitement to come. It’s for a good cause, I whispered to myself, every single night. For love.
And then, the magic began. I presented them with the funds, a carefully arranged loan from a supposed distant relative, a story I’d meticulously crafted. Their disbelief, then their utter, overwhelming joy, was everything. “You did this,” they cried, hugging me tight, “You made this happen.” Their tears watered my own, happy tears, for them. I remember feeling a soaring pride, a deep, profound satisfaction. I had given them the world.
Irina Shayk posing while dressed in red | Source: Getty Images
We spent months working on the store. Late nights painting walls, building shelves, arranging displays. We laughed, we argued over paint swatches, we dreamt even bigger dreams together. Every moment was a testament to our love, to our partnership. I watched them flourish, their passion blooming with every new book and trinket they found. They were radiant.
The grand opening was a blur of happy faces, congratulatory hugs, and the rich scent of coffee and old paper. I stood back, watching them, truly watching them, beaming, talking excitedly to customers, their face alight. That moment. That was it. The most beautiful memory of my life. My chest swelled with a feeling so pure, so deep, I thought I might burst. I did this for them. I made them this happy. It was the peak. The absolute, undeniable peak of our shared existence.
But peaks are often followed by descents.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, things shifted. They were busier, of course, with the store. I understood. But the late nights became later, the weekend work trips more frequent. They started coming home with a new kind of energy, a secret smile that didn’t quite reach their eyes when they looked at me. Just stress, I told myself. Running a business is hard.
Then came the phone call. Not to me, but near me. A hushed conversation, a name I didn’t recognize, and a phrase that chilled me to the bone: “Our little secret.”
My blood ran cold. No. It couldn’t be. Not after everything. Not after the sacrifice. My mind raced, trying to find rational explanations. Business partner? New supplier? But the tone… the furtive glances…
I started looking. Not because I wanted to, but because I had to. And what I found, slowly, piece by agonizing piece, destroyed me. Messages. Pictures. A whole other life, built in the margins of our life.
The final, crushing blow came with a receipt. Tucked away in a forgotten corner of their desk, a faded slip from a jeweler. Not for my modest ring, the one I’d saved for years for. No. This was for something far more elaborate. A custom design. And the date… The date on that receipt was a week before our store’s grand opening. A week before that beautiful, shimmering memory was forged in fire and lies.
Irina Shayk doing a promo backstage | Source: Instagram/victoriassecret
My breath caught. A scream died in my throat. I looked at the receipt, then at a picture on my phone of their beaming face on opening day. The name on the receipt. It wasn’t mine.
Suddenly, the empty space where my grandmother’s clock once stood felt like a gaping wound. The memory of their joy, once so pure, twisted into something grotesque. Their dream. Our store. The symbol of our love and my ultimate sacrifice. It wasn’t just for them. It was for someone else. It was a beautiful monument built on my broken heart, funded by a piece of my soul, to facilitate their betrayal.
And now, every time I see the store, still thriving, still shining under those warm string lights, I don’t see love. I see a clock. I hear a chime that never rings. And I realize, with a sickening lurch, that the beautiful memory I clung to was nothing but a masterpiece of deceit. Their joy. My pain. All for a love that was never truly mine.
