There is no script for surviving betrayal. No one claims expertise in being the betrayer or the betrayed.
Lillian is the reason why I came up with such a conclusion. Her words cut deep—more than I’d expected. It wasn’t just personal. It was strategic. The entire interview had been a calculated strike, designed to fracture public trust and destabilize my father’s company. My so-called behavior was merely the weapon.
Then another truth spilled out—sharp as glass. Stanley, my best and childhood friend. The one I’d laughed with, leaned on, trusted since university. He’d stood beside me through heartbreaks, career stumbles, and every moment that felt too big to carry alone.
But this? This was something else entirely. Something I can't imagine could be done by a best friend. I remembered the flicker of suspicion that had lingered like smoke—subtle, bitter, suffocating. My gut had whispered his name for days. And now, confirmation landed like a fist to the chest.
He was the one who recorded the video. The footage had caught me walking hand-in-hand with Samantha on the arranged date—a moment Stanley himself orchestrated under the guise of a business favor. Then, as if scripted, we crossed paths with my wife at the shop. Awkward, yes. Misinterpreted? Absolutely. But not scandalous. Not deserving of this fallout.
Stanley had been there. Pretending to be late for a meeting. Pretending not to notice. Pretending to be my friend. And all the while—he recorded.
That shaky footage, delivered like poison to the media, became the spark. Lillian’s interview was the fuel. Together, they ignited the wildfire.
I could still hear Stanley’s voice echoing from weeks ago. "You sure you're ready for all this, man?" Half-joking. Half-sincere. Entirely rehearsed? Was it jealousy? Revenge? Or just selfishness cloaked in loyalty?
My chest tightened. His betrayal wasn’t just public—it was deeply personal. It came from someone who knew me very well, had been with me for as long I could remember, maybe for something like 25 years. Someone who knew my heart, and chose to break it anyway.
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Without a word, I rose from the table, stepped into the cooling air, and walked toward my car—each footfall heavier than the last.
Liza ran after me. She didn’t call my name. She didn’t ask what was wrong. She just grabbed my arm gently, took the keys from my fingers, and said with quiet resolve, “I’m driving you home.”
I couldn’t argue with her—I didn’t have it in me. I knew I couldn’t drive, and if I do, would definitely end-up being involved in an accident. So I handed her the keys and let her take the wheel.
We didn’t speak much. Just the hum of the engine and the steady rhythm of tires rolling across the asphalt. Outside, the world passed in muted shades—trees, buildings, people—all blurred, like my thoughts.
I sat in silence, my mind unraveling. Stanley. My best friend. The betrayal ran deeper than the video. It was the intention. The choice. The fact that he had orchestrated something meant to break me… while pretending nothing was wrong.
And then another thought surfaced—sharp, intrusive. Did Stanley really date Lillian? When? Was it during our relationship… or after? Had everything been a lie wrapped in friendship?
The questions collided in my head, loud and relentless. I couldn’t separate anger from confusion. Memory from speculation. Everything felt tight—like the walls inside me were closing in.
And still, beside me, Liza drove quietly, her presence steady. A kind of calm in the chaos I couldn’t shake. Then, out of nowhere, a call came through. I glanced at my phone. The name lit up the screen. Stanley, My best friend.
My heart twisted. I couldn’t bring myself to answer. Not after everything. Not now. As I stared at the device in my hand, more notifications flooded in—messages from friends, business partners, even distant family members. Each one asking the same thing: Is it true? Did you really do what Lillian said? What happened to you?
I couldn’t take it. I didn’t want to explain. I didn’t even want to exist in that moment. So I switched my phone off. Let the silence swallow me whole.
We arrived at my apartment not long after. Liza didn’t ask questions. She simply walked in, glanced around the quiet room, and said softly,
“I’ll make you a hot cup of coffee… something to calm you down.”
I gave a small nod, barely able to lift my eyes. Then I collapsed onto the couch. No words. No armor, Just heartbreak spilling into the cushions around me.
A few minutes later, Liza returned with a steaming cup of coffee. The rich scent—warm, earthy, comforting—rose into the air, grounding me in the quiet. I took it slowly, letting the heat warm my fingers as I looked up at her.
There was something different about her—gentle, present, steady. I felt myself drawn to her kindness.
She sat down beside me and, without saying a word, began to rub my head softly, her fingers moving in slow, soothing circles. It was her way of calming me—and I let her. I needed it more than I realized.
We sat there for a while, wrapped in silence. No words. Just warmth. Just her presence. Eventually, I drifted to sleep in her hands. Time passed—I don’t know how long—until I felt her gently waking me.
“Listen,” she said, her voice low but urgent. “There’s another girl defending you… I think it’s my friend Samantha.”
Still groggy, I blinked toward the TV. Then I heard her. That voice—I remembered it. “Well,” Samantha said, speaking clearly, “I came here to clarify things. Ethan didn’t cheat on his wife. I’m actually her classmate and close friend. We’re not dating. That day at the mall? It was pure coincidence. We’d planned to go shopping, and someone was supposed to pick us up—turns out, it was Ethan. He drove us, and during that outing, he unexpectedly crossed paths with his wife. That’s all. No scandal. No secret.”
She paused, her voice breaking slightly. “It hurts to hear people call Ethan a liar and a cheater. It’s simply not true. I know him. He’s kind. He deserves better than what’s being said.”
The interviewer nodded, then turned to the camera. “We’re opening our lines for public response,” he said.
Moments later, a call came through. “Ethan is the best man I’ve ever met,” the woman said. “His father arranged a blind date for us once, and from that moment, I knew—he's not the type who cheats. He’s decent. Honest. These rumors are unfair.” The call ended.
The room fell silent. Even the interviewer looked stunned—his expression frozen between journalistic duty and human empathy, as if the words he'd just heard had rewired his response.
He cleared his throat, voice low but steady. “Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve heard it for yourselves. I’m not here to judge Ethan’s character. That choice… is yours.”
Then the screen faded to black. And just like that, the interview ended—leaving behind the quiet hum of the TV and a room thick with questions no one could answer aloud.
Just as the screen faded, my phone rang. It was my dad. “Ethan, my son,” he said, voice heavier than usual. “I know you’re hurting—with all this pressure and the news spreading like wildfire. I was furious at first. But now I realize… it’s not just business. It’s you. And I’ve failed to see how deeply this is affecting you.”
There was a pause, then a softer tone. “I’m your father. That means standing by you—even when things get messy. Come home tonight. Let’s have dinner as a family.”
I swallowed the lump rising in my throat. “Okay, Dad. Thanks,” I said quietly. Then the call ended.
I stared at the dark phone screen, and suddenly—a thought crept in. What if I took Liza with me? She was, legally, my wife. And more than that—she’d supported me emotionally when no one else dared. She was sweet. Kind. Loyal in ways I hadn’t expected.
Would she agree to join me? Could that one gesture change the way my family—and the media—see everything? Maybe it didn't matter, because in a world that had turned its back, she hadn’t.
