By SpeciaRotica
Disclaimer: This story is a mix of reality and fiction. Some scenes are taken from real experiences, while others are shaped by imagination. There may be moments of intensity--passion, regret, temptation, and perhaps even danger. This is not just a story--it's a confession. Good Luck
My name is Helen. I'm thirty years old, and I used to think I had the perfect life.
I was never a girl who believed in fairy tales. Maybe it's because I grew up in an orphanage, never knowing what real love was. Or maybe I just learned early on that life wasn't going to hand me anything for free.
But then I met Ethan. Charming, powerful, rich Ethan.
He swooped into my life like a knight in shining armour, made me feel special, made me believe I was his world.
I gave up everything for him. My job. My independence. My own last name. I became his wife, his perfect little wife, and in the beginning, it felt like a dream.
But dreams don't last forever.
Three years later, here I am. Alone.
Ethan is a powerful businessman, always in meetings, always taking calls, always too busy. I tell myself he still loves me. He still makes time for me--sometimes.
But I can't remember the last time he actually looked at me.
Not just in passing, not just as an afterthought. Really looked at me.
And now, he's leaving.
"Two months," he said over breakfast like it was nothing.
"It's an important deal. You understand, don't you?"
No, I don't.
I don't understand how I became so invisible to the man I once worshipped.
I don't understand why my body aches for something I can't even name.
We fought. God, we fought. I told him I was sick of being second place. I threatened to leave, to divorce him.
And you know what he said?
"Go ahead. But you'll get nothing. No money, no house, no lawyer. You have no family, no job. Where will you go?"
That should have broken me. Maybe it did.
But it also did something else.
It made me angry.
That night, he tried to make it up to me in the only way he knew how.
Sex.
But it wasn't love.
It was lazy, half-hearted, routine. His hands roamed over my body like he was checking off a list. He was done before I even felt anything.
And I just laid there, staring at the ceiling, feeling nothing but frustration, loneliness... and something else.
Something dark.
Something dangerous.
The next morning, he kissed my forehead like I was a pet, whispered, "I'll be back soon," and walked out the door.
And now, I'm alone.
Alone in this massive, empty house on the west side of the city, where all the new developments are still half-built and most of the houses are empty.
No neighbours.
No one around to hear me scream.
And for the first time in my life... I feel like I might actually do something reckless.
Something I can never take back.
After few hours while I was doing some yoga the doorbell rang, and for a moment, I just stood there, confused.
Nobody ever came to my door.
My heart pounded as I tightened the silk robe around my waist and hesitantly pulled it open.
And then I saw him.
A man--tall, broad-shouldered, built like he had spent his life fighting battles most men wouldn't survive. His hair was a mix of black and silver, cropped short, and his eyes... God, his eyes. Dark, intense, the kind that made you feel seen in a way that was unsettling.
For a second, I froze. He looked like he belonged in a warzone, not standing in front of my house in a quiet, unfinished neighbourhood.
"May I help you?" I finally asked, my voice a little unsure.
"Hello, miss--"
"It's Helen," I cut him off, surprising myself. "You can just call me Helen."
He paused for a second, like he wasn't used to being interrupted, then gave a small nod.
"Alright, Helen. I'm Harris Johnson. I was trying to find an address... seems like nobody else lives here except you?"
I glanced down at the paper in his hand. My eyes widened with excitement.
"Oh!" I gasped. "You're my neighbour! That apartment on the left--that's yours!"
A flash of something crossed his face--relief, maybe? --before he gave me a short, appreciative nod.
"Thank you," he said simply, then turned and walked away.
I stood there, watching him go.
For the first time in months, I wasn't alone anymore.
And I had no idea why that made my heart race.
That evening, I saw him again.
He was standing outside, unpacking a few things from his truck, looking as powerful and controlled as he had that morning.
Before I could stop myself, I stepped outside.
"Mr. Harris!" I called out.
He looked up, raising an eyebrow.
"Since we're neighbours now," I smiled, "I thought you might want a break. Maybe a little snack?"
For a second, I thought he'd say no. He seemed like the kind of man who didn't need anything from anyone.
But then he gave me a small, tired smile.
"I could use a break," he admitted.
Inside, I set out some tea and a plate of biscuits--nothing fancy, but it felt like the first real human connection I'd had in ages.
We sat across from each other, and for the first time, he let his guard down.
"No formalities," he said. "Just call me Harris, Helen. I'm not that old yet."
I chuckled. His voice was deep, soothing, like a storm rolling in.
Then, he told me his story.
A former Marine. A widower. A father who lost his son and daughter-in-law in a tragic accident.
My heart ached for him.
