She finally looked at me then, just for a moment, her eyes filled with hurt rather than anger.
“Why,” she asked quietly. “Why would you do something like that.”
I swallowed hard. “I wanted to know if you were genuine.”
She let out a small, broken laugh. “I am genuine. I am human. And humans feel fear.”
I stepped closer, my voice softer. “What were you afraid of.”
She hesitated, then spoke. “Losing you.”
The words landed heavier than any accusation.
Days passed after that moment, and shame followed me through every room of my house. Lena continued to work, but something had changed. She was more distant, not cold, but careful, as if trust were now something fragile that could not be assumed.
I realized then how careless I had been with something sacred.
One evening, I asked her to sit with me. There was no test this time, no manipulation, only honesty.
“I was wrong,” I said. “Power made me arrogant. It made me believe I had the right to measure people’s hearts.”
She listened silently, her hands folded in her lap.
“Trust,” she said after a long pause, “does not return quickly. It grows slowly.”