Henry hesitated before agreeing to go. There was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, but he nodded and said, “Alright, let’s go.” We drove in silence to her house — a picture-perfect place with trimmed hedges and a glowing porch light. As we walked up the steps, Henry’s steps grew slower. Then she opened the door.

She stood there in a silk robe, her lips painted with a deep gloss, looking like she’d just stepped out of a magazine shoot. But the moment her eyes landed on me, her entire demeanor changed. Her smile faltered, and her posture stiffened. “Oh,” she said with a tight voice. “Didn’t know you were bringing company.”

I offered a polite smile, pretending not to notice the awkward tension radiating off both of them. Henry didn’t say much either, clearly caught off guard by her reaction. We stepped inside, the air thick with something unspoken. Her home was immaculate — almost too perfect — like she had been expecting someone, just not me.

That night unfolded with stilted conversation and sideways glances. Whatever history existed between them, I could feel it pressing in on every word and every pause. It didn’t take long for the truth to unravel later — but that moment at the door? That was the beginning of the end, and I knew it the second her smile disappeared.