The betrayal

By Milena Galdino                                                             
 

 

The doorbell rang, and Stella Bennet answered with a glass of scotch on ice in her hand.

 

“You don’t usually drink in the morning,” the man in the doorway said. It sounded like irony.

 

“Come in, Ethan. We need to talk,” Stella said. Her eyes were red from crying, though she had tried to look better with vivid red lipstick that contrasted nicely with the blondness of her short Jackie Kennedy-styled hair.

 

They sat outside the room, where the air was better. The conversation would be uncomfortable, so he lit a cigarette.

 

“I heard the news about your new love affair on set. All the others weren’t where I work. So, tell me, who is she?” Stella demanded.

 

“It doesn’t matter, Stel. It’s irrelevant,” he answered.

 

“Irrelevant is what you were before I forced the director to cast you as a condition for me to take the role,” she revealed. “Now, do you want me to find out from a gossip magazine cover? Is that how low you want our marriage to end?” she confronted him.

 

“All right, all right. Martha Smith, the brunette from makeup.”

 

A little of the scotch in Stella’s hand spilled from the glass, just enough to wet her thumb. She tried to keep her voice steady, despite the wreck she felt inside.

 

Why do I love this piece of shit so much?

 

“No wonder that bitch keeps asking so much about us.”

 

“Oh, come on, Stel. It’s no big deal. You’re the kind of woman who gets paparazzi on your heels even if you walk to K-Mart in flip-flops. Quit the drama. You already have what every woman could dream of,” he argued.

 

K-Mart? Seriously?

 

She walked back into the room. The rose carpet matched the bed blankets and curtains, a hit back in the ’70s. The pause was a relief for Ethan.

 

Stella stopped between the two queen-sized beds. They were neatly made—a sign she had arrived before him. She would never have spent the night in such a place, anyway.

 

Stella opened the nightstand drawer, pulled out a gun, and returned, pointing it at his head.

 

“You’d never have the guts, Stel… Like I said, quit the drama. There’s no camera rolling, no need to pretend,” he said, his confidence unshaken.

 

“I thought you’d never have the guts to betray me with such an ordinary, insignificant person,” she said, crying.

 

He’s right. I can’t shoot.

 

She took the bullet out, put the gun back in her purse, grabbed her carry-on luggage, and left the room.

 

The silence after she shut the door weighed on him like a ton of bricks. She deserved more respect. She was right to be mad. He decided to enjoy the free hotel room. After all, confident in Stella’s love, Ethan was still human. He knew she would never shoot, but any man would need a three-minute break after having a gun pointed at his head.

 

Stella had left her scotch on the arm of the wooden chair. By then, the ice had melted—that’s why the glass looked so full. Or at least, that’s what he thought, not noticing that there was no lipstick mark on the rim.

 

He drank it all in one gulp before lying on the bed.

 

After the first minute, Ethan felt something awkward in his back. Probably a neck pain from stress. He knew Martha could easily fix it later with oils and a massage. She was a great lover—one of the best he’d had in years. He started picturing her working on him.

 

Then, suddenly, it became hard to breathe. A choking sensation, like when the throat tightens involuntarily. He sat up, gasping for air, but his vision blurred. The last thing he felt was the rose-colored carpet rushing toward him.

**** 

When the elevator doors opened, the lady from room 101 stepped out, her nice hat resting over her long dark hair. She wore oversized black sunglasses.

 

On the other side of the counter, the attendant was too distracted with a phone complaint about towels to pay much attention.

 

“Checking out,” she said, without making direct eye contact.

 

“Farewell, Miss Smith.”