The Hidden Truth

Richard

The morning sun filtered through the silk curtains, casting a soft glow over the luxurious suite. I opened my eyes slowly, feeling the warmth of Vanessa's body beside me. Her blonde hair was spread across the pillow, and her sweet perfume mixed with the scent of the expensive sheets. For a moment, I allowed myself to forget everything: the mansion, Charlotte, Marta, and the responsibilities awaiting me.

Vanessa was my escape. I met her at a gala months ago. Her seductive smile and contagious laughter attracted me immediately. With her, I could just be Richard—not the heir of the Andersons, not Charlotte's husband, not the son pressured by Marta. With Vanessa, I was free.

"Good morning," she whispered, turning to face me, her blue eyes shining with a mix of mischief and tenderness.

"Good morning," I replied, running my fingers across her soft face.

"Are you going to stay a little longer?" she asked, hope evident in her voice.

I sighed, knowing I shouldn’t have prolonged this escape as much as I already had. "I can't, Vanessa. I've stayed too long already."

She pouted adorably, pulling herself closer to me. "You always say that. Why can't we just forget about the world out there?"

I smiled sadly. "Because the world out there doesn't forget about me."

She let out a soft laugh, but there was a shadow of sadness in her eyes. "You're always so serious, Richard. You should relax more."

With Vanessa, relaxing was easy. She lived in the moment, without worrying about the consequences. She was the opposite of everything my life represented. But as tempting as it was, I knew I couldn’t stay in this bubble forever.

I got out of bed, starting to dress. "I have to go back. There are matters that require my attention."

"Matters," she repeated, rolling her eyes. "Always these 'matters.'"

"You know how it is," I replied, trying to keep the tone light.

She got up, sliding over to me and wrapping her arms around my neck. "We could just run away, you know. Leave all of this behind. You and me, somewhere far away."

For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine that possibility. A life away from my family’s expectations, away from the pressures and responsibilities. But it was just that: a fantasy. Reality was much more complex.

"You know it’s not that simple," I said, caressing her face. "There are people who depend on me."

"Charlotte?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

I nodded. "And my mother, the family business. I can’t just abandon everything."

She sighed, stepping back. "I know, Richard. I just wish that, for once, you’d choose yourself."

Her comment hit me deeper than I expected. How many times had I put the desires and needs of others before my own? With Charlotte, our marriage was more of a strategic alliance than a union of love. With Marta, I had always been the obedient son, molded to take on the Anderson legacy.

"I choose," I murmured, more to myself than to her.

"Then at least stay for breakfast," she suggested, trying to lighten the mood.

I smiled. "That I can do."

We sat on the veranda, overlooking the sea, sharing a simple but pleasant meal. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore was soothing, and for a moment, I allowed myself to forget everything else.

"You seem distant," Vanessa commented, watching me.

"I'm just thinking," I replied, looking out at the horizon.

"About what?"

"About the choices I’ve made," I admitted.

She placed her hand on mine. "Richard, no matter what happens, you'll always have a place here with me."

I thanked her silently, appreciating her understanding. But I knew that this arrangement couldn’t last forever. Every time I escaped to Vanessa’s arms, I was only delaying the inevitable.

After breakfast, I began to prepare to leave. Vanessa watched me in silence, a mix of sadness and resignation in her eyes.

"When will we see each other again?" she asked, her voice soft.

"Soon," I lied, knowing that it was becoming more difficult to find excuses for my absences.

She nodded, forcing a smile. "I’ll be waiting."

I gave her one last kiss before leaving, the taste of her salty tears still on my lips. As I drove back, my thoughts were confused. I knew Charlotte had undergone the first attempt at fertilization, and I was anxious to know the results. Not because I desired a child, but because it would mean that part of Marta’s expectations would be fulfilled.

When I arrived at the mansion, the atmosphere was heavy. Marta was in the living room, her face grim. As soon as she saw me, she stood up, approaching with determined steps.

"Richard," she began, her voice laden with disappointment. "The fertilization failed."

I felt a knot form in my stomach. "What?"

"Charlotte is not pregnant. She failed," Marta stated, her anger evident.

The impact of those words was immediate, like a punch to the gut. Everything inside me began to boil in a mixture of frustration and anger. I had distanced myself, trusting that Charlotte would do her part, that she would follow orders, that she would play the role assigned to her. And she failed.

The anger rose quickly, a flame burning inside me. How could she fail at something so simple, something essential to the family’s future? I had chosen her for this task, believing that she could handle the responsibility, that she could do what was necessary. And now, everything was at risk because of her inability.

Marta continued to speak, but her words blended into an indistinct hum as I processed what she had said. My mind whirled, focusing on only one thing: Charlotte failed, and that was not acceptable.

"I'll talk to her," I finally declared, my voice cold and controlled, hiding the turmoil of emotions bubbling beneath the surface.

As I climbed the stairs, each step was heavier than the last. The hatred inside me was palpable. I knew that when I opened the door to Charlotte’s room, I would have to face this situation head-on, and I had no intention of being lenient. She had failed, and I couldn’t let that go without consequences.

When I reached the door, I paused for a moment, taking a deep breath to calm the fury that threatened to overflow. Then, I knocked on the door, not waiting for a response before entering.

When I saw Charlotte sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes red and swollen from crying, something inside me hardened even more. She looked at me, surprised by my presence, but there was no longer any room for compassion in my heart.

"Richard," she murmured, her voice weak.

"What happened, Charlotte?" I asked, each word coming out with a cold tone.

She tried to speak, but only sobs escaped her lips. My gaze narrowed, anger simmering just below the surface. I had no time for tears, for laments. We needed results, and all she had delivered was failure.

"You failed," I said, my voice firm. "And that’s not something I can tolerate."

She looked at me, more tears streaming down her face, but I could no longer see beyond the growing hatred I felt. Charlotte had risked everything, and now, she would have to deal with the consequences of her actions.

I left the room, the door closing with a slam, and my mind was already beginning to formulate what would come next. Failure was not an option.