Brad stood on the narrow porch, his hand still raised even after the door opened.
The moment he laid eyes on her, it was almost like he'd forgotten how to breathe.
Clair stared back at him, at first with the warmth he had fallen for, then suddenly her eyes switched from warmth and love, to shock and fear. He wasn't surprised really, she couldn't have expected to see him at her doorstep like this.
Her lips parted as though she wanted to say his name, but no sound came out.
"Brad?" she finally whispered.
A wave of relief washed through him, before the grief came crashing back in. Seeing her—standing there, alive and real—nearly undid him. The weight he'd been carrying since he saw his father's lifeless body being carried away suddenly shifted, leaning dangerously in her direction.
"I—" His voice failed him. He swallowed hard. "I need to talk to you."
She stepped aside without thinking. "Of course. Come in."
The house felt warm, but not from the heat of the day, it was something else, he couldn't quite place it. Brad sucked his breath and got a whiff of food, detergent and something faintly sweet. A domestic atmosphere settled around him, nice, what he needed, but not what entirely what he expected at the moment.
Brad took two steps inside before his eyes caught a glimpse of something behind her.
A framed photograph.
He slightly tilted his head as he focused his gaze on the photograph taking it all in.
It was a picture of Clair standing between a man and a little girl, both smiling at the camera. The man's arm was around her waist, his hand resting there with ease, familiarity. That wasn't a brother's touch. The little girl clutched Clair's leg, her face bright and open, curls bouncing freely around her head.
They weren't posing.
They were together.
Brad slowly straightened back up and kept his gaze fixed.
Clair couldn't help but notice the changes in his expressions
"Oh—" She turned quickly, lifting her hand as if she could block his view after the fact. "That's my—"
She stopped.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Brad turned to her slowly. "Your brother?" he asked, his voice measuredly neutral.
"Yes," she replied, a little too fast.
"And the little girl?"
She hesitated
"My niece."
The lie landed flat.
Brad's gaze moved back to the photograph. Then slowly scanned the room he found himself in. Pink shoes near the door. A small backpack resting against the wall. Crayons scattered neatly on the coffee table.
A child lived here.
Not visited.
Lived.
"She looks like you," he said quietly.
Clair forced a smile. "People say that."
Brad exhaled slowly. His heart was pounding now—not from anger, not yet, but from something colder. Something more painful
"My father died tonight," he said.
The words cut through the room.
Clair gasped. "What?"
"cardiac arrest." His jaw tightened. "I was the only one home."
Her hand flew to her mouth. Tears welled instantly. She moved toward him without thinking. "Brad, I'm so sorry. I—"
He lifted a hand, stopping her just short of touching him.
"I didn't come here for sympathy," he said, though his voice trembled. "I came because I couldn't be alone in that house, everything reminds me of him.
She nodded, tears spilling freely now. "Of course. I understand."
But Brad's attention had already drifted past her.
A sound came from the hallway.
Footsteps first, then a man's voice. Low, relaxed.
"Clair? Who's at the door?"
Brad suddenly felt a pit in his stomach.
Clair froze.
The footsteps grew nearer, unhurried. A man stepped into the living room—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a tired expression and a faded T-shirt. He looked at Brad first, then at Clair.
"Everything okay?" the man asked.
Clair didn't answer.
Brad spoke before she could.
"I'm Brad."
The man nodded politely, extending a hand out of instinct. "Toby."
Then, after a beat: "Clair's husband."
The word hit Brad like a blow to the gut.
Husband.
Brad felt the floor beneath him tilt.
If he wasn't already in so much shock from his father's death, he might have fainted just then.
Brad turned to look at Clair, who could no longer meet his eyes. The truth slowly but surely rearranged itself in his mind with unwavering clarity—every excuse, every boundary, every carefully omitted detail.
"You're married," Brad said.
It wasn't a question.
Clair's voice broke. "Brad—"
"And the child?" His voice shook now, control slipping. "Your niece?"
Her shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of her.
There was no point in keeping up the lies now, everything has come undone.
"My daughter," she whispered.
Brad heard a crack, "must be my heart" he thought.
He let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "You stood in my house. You slept in my bed. You let me plan a future with you."
Toby looked between them, confusion morphing into dread. "Clair?"
Brad took a step back, grief and betrayal crashing violently into each other in what was left of his already fragile heart
"I lost my father tonight," he said, his voice breaking. "And I find out the woman I love doesn't exist."
Clair reached for him. "Brad, please—"
"Don't." He recoiled. "Just…don't."
Toby moved closer to her. "What's going on?"
Brad turned toward the door, his hands shaking.
"You lied to me," he said quietly. "And whatever this was—it's over."
Clair sobbed openly now. "Brad—please—"
He paused at the door but didn't turn around.
"I thought losing my father would be the worst thing that happened to me today," he said. "I was wrong."
Then he left.
The door closed softly behind him, but the sound echoed through the house like a gunshot.
Clair slid down against the wall, her legs giving way beneath her. Toby stood frozen, staring at the closed door, then at his wife.
"How long?" he asked quietly.
She couldn't answer.
Outside, Brad stood on the porch, his breath coming in uneven bursts. His father was gone. The woman he loved had been nothing more than a lie. The beautiful future together he'd been building for both of them now seemed nothing more than wishful thinking and a thing of the past.
Deceit, death and heartbreak
All in one night.
He got into his car and drove away, the image of that photograph burned permanently into his mind.