Lies of a cheating husband

Chapter 1: The Vacation

"Yes, baby, we're having a great time out here in Hawaii," Deontae' says, phone pressed to his ear. His voice is warm, teasing, the kind of tone he only uses with her. He's smiling, even though the room around him feels too quiet.
On the other end, Bianca laughs softly, that familiar laugh that always hits him in the chest. "I miss you, my love," she says, her voice low and affectionate.
"I miss you too, B," he says, the smile still on his face.
A sudden knock at the door cuts through the moment.
Bianca pauses. "Who's that?"
Deontae' glances toward the door. "Room service," he lies smoothly. "I love you, my queen."
"I love you more," she says, her voice fading as she hangs up.
He exhales, tossing the phone onto the bed. The Hawaiian evening hums softly outside—the muffled sound of waves, a faint guitar somewhere below, the buzz of the city nightlife drifting through the open balcony door.
Deontae' pushes himself up. He's wearing black Nike joggers and white socks, black slides flashing a golden swoosh when he moves. His chest is bare, tattoos tracing down from his neck to his ribs like a map of moments he'll never explain.
At 5'11", his frame is lean but solid, muscles shifting as he runs a hand over his dreadlocks. The red-dyed tips catch the lamplight, barely a quarter-inch of color. Two clean slits cut through his brows; a silver stud glints from the far corner of one. Another piercing rests at the edge of his lower lip, catching his breath as he smirks.
He opens the door—and there she is.
Jennifer.
The woman he's been seeing for six months. Her skin glows in the dim light, her hair pulled up, a hint of perfume wrapping around her like temptation.
"Come in," he says quickly, glancing down the hall before closing the door.
Jennifer slips inside, her heels clicking softly against the tile. "Who were you talking to?" she asks, her tone light but curious.
Deontae' hesitates for half a second, then leans in and kisses her—slow, deliberate, tasting the gloss on her lips. "Nobody," he murmurs against her mouth.
She smiles, half believing him, half not. "You always say that," she teases, settling onto the bed and patting the space beside her.
He drops down next to her, letting his head fall into her lap. Her fingers automatically find his hair, twisting one of the locs.
"You know what?" he says, looking up at her, voice low. "You're the love of my life, Jen. For real."
She laughs quietly, glancing toward the nightstand clock. "You always say that when it's late," she says. "You know I can't stay tonight."
"I want you to," he says, his voice almost a whisper.
She stands, smoothing her dress, reaching into her pocket for her room key. "I've got plans later, baby."
He reaches out, catching her wrist gently. "Jennifer," he says, his eyes soft but heavy. "I miss you."
She looks at him for a long second, then leans down and kisses him, her fingers tracing the side of his face. "I'll be back later. I promise."
As she heads to the door, she glances back and blows him a kiss before slipping out into the hallway. The soft click of the door closing leaves the room even quieter than before.
Deontae' lies still for a moment, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Then he stands, pulling back the curtains. Moonlight spills in, brushing over the waves that crash and fade below. The beach is alive—tourists laughing, the ocean glowing under a silver sky.
His phone buzzes. A text from his twin brother flashes across the screen:
Come down to the beach.
Deontae' types back: Bet.
He slides on his sandals, takes one last look at the moonlit water, and heads for the door—his secrets rolling like the tide just outside.