At first it was subtle, little things like,
“Your phone wasn’t ringing, was it? I thought I heard something.”
Then he rummaged around “looking for a charger,” claiming his cord was broken.
Kiana watched as he quickly glanced at her wallet lying on the dresser.
On Sunday, he asked if she wanted to open a joint bank account.
“It’s easier that way,” he argued. “We can save together, spend together. We’re family, Kiki.”
Kiana stood at the bedroom mirror, braiding her hair, and looked at his reflection.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, just as sweet and caring—and lying.
Lying so badly it was almost awkward to watch.
“I’m fine with my own account,” she replied calmly. “I’m used to it.”
He frowned.
“That’s silly. We’ve been together for so many years, and you still act like a stranger.”
“I’m not a stranger. I’m just used to managing my own money.”
He didn’t press it, but he was moody and dark all day.
Kiana thought, remembered, and analyzed.
Five years ago, she’d married Darius almost by chance.
He was charming, easygoing, and knew how to say the right things at the right time.
She was tired of being alone.
She was thirty‑two, and everyone around her kept saying,
“It’s time. It’s time. It’s time.”
So she gave in.
The first year was tolerable.
Not bliss, but not hell either.
Just ordinary life.
