Chapter 1 The Red Light When He Says I Love You
# Chapter 1: The Red Light When He Says I Love You
I spent three hours getting ready for tonight. The dark red off-shoulder dress Corwin loves so much hugs my curves perfectly, and I've styled my hair in loose waves that cascade down my back. Three years together, and tonight feels different. Special. Like we're standing at the edge of something new.
The sky garden restaurant glitters above the city, a near-impossible reservation that took me weeks of planning and one very generous tip to the concierge. Worth every penny to see Corwin's face when we step out onto the terrace.
"Eliora," he breathes, squeezing my hand. "This is incredible."
I smile, drinking in his reaction more than the view. "Happy anniversary."
The maître d' leads us to a secluded table near the edge of the terrace, where climbing roses frame our private slice of the night sky. Candlelight flickers across Corwin's features, catching in the depths of his eyes. Three years, and still my heart races when he looks at me like this.
"You're staring," he says, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he unfolds his napkin.
"Can you blame me?" I reach across the table, brushing my fingers against his. "You clean up pretty well, Mr. Sullivan."
Dinner passes in a blur of exquisite food, laughter, and champagne bubbles that dance on my tongue. We reminisce about our first date—how I spilled coffee on his laptop and he pretended not to care, even though I later learned it contained three months of unsaved work. How we stayed up until 4 AM talking on that park bench, neither of us wanting the night to end.
As dessert arrives—a delicate chocolate soufflé with two spoons—Corwin reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small velvet box. Not a ring box, I note with a strange mixture of relief and disappointment, but elegant nonetheless.
"For you," he says, sliding it across the table. "Open it."
Inside nestles a silver pendant, a delicate constellation of stars forming the pattern of Lyra.
"The first constellation you showed me," I whisper, remembering our midnight picnic outside the city limits, where I'd pointed out the stars my father had taught me to recognize.
"You remember," he says, sounding pleased.
"Of course I do."
He helps me fasten it around my neck, his fingers warm against my skin. When he sits back down, he takes both my hands in his, his expression suddenly serious.
Advertisement
"These three years with you, Eliora... they've changed everything. The way I see the world. The way I see myself." His voice drops lower, intimate. "I love you."
That's when I hear it. The sharp, jarring tone in my ear—a sound only I can hear through my AR glasses' discrete audio channel. My heart stutters as bright red text flashes across my field of vision:
*VeriHeart Alert: Emotion Signal Mismatch. Target's emotional projection inconsistent with statement.*
The message expands, clinical and devastating:
*This expression of love is not directed at you. Or: Emotional distribution unfocused, projection target not singular.*
My wine glass nearly slips from my suddenly numb fingers. I catch it just in time, forcing a smile that feels brittle on my face.
"Eliora? Are you okay?" Corwin's brow furrows with concern.
I blink away the alert, swallowing hard. "Fine! Just... remembered I forgot to submit that report to Marcus before we left. He'll be livid on Monday." The lie tastes sour on my tongue.
"I'm sure he'll survive," Corwin says, but his eyes linger on my face. He can tell something's off.
I redirect, asking about his upcoming business trip, letting him talk while my mind races. VeriHeart's emotional analysis system has never been wrong before—at least not for me. I've had it since the beta testing phase, a perk of working adjacent to their development team. Its accuracy in detecting emotional authenticity has saved me from countless bad dates and insincere job offers.
But Corwin? The system has always glowed green for him. Every "I love you" validated with a soft, confirming chime. Until tonight.
We finish dinner, and I'm operating on autopilot, laughing at his jokes, touching his arm, playing the part of the happy girlfriend while my insides twist with dread. The ride home is quiet, his hand resting on my knee as he drives, unaware of the chaos in my head.
"Stay over?" he asks as we pull up to my apartment.
"I'm actually feeling a little off. Might be coming down with something," I lie. "Rain check?"
His face falls slightly, but he nods. "Of course. Get some rest."
His goodnight kiss is tender, lingering. I force myself to pull away before I change my mind.
Inside my apartment, I kick off my heels and sink onto the couch, my hands shaking as I pull up VeriHeart's interface on my tablet. No glitches reported. No system updates pending. Everything functioning normally.
Which means the alert was real.
I pace my living room, the pendant cold against my skin. Three years. Three years of building a life together, of inside jokes and shared dreams and a drawer of his clothes in my dresser. Was it all a lie? Or is he just... drifting away?
Before I can talk myself out of it, I access the backdoor into Corwin's mirror device—a security exploit I discovered months ago but never used. Until now. It's wrong, I know it's wrong, but the red alert keeps flashing in my memory.
His files are meticulously organized, folders within folders, everything labeled with his characteristic precision. It takes me nearly an hour to find anything unusual—a hidden directory buried under layers of encryption. My heart pounds as I crack it open.
*Simulation: J.H. Night Vision – 2:14AM*
The file name alone makes my stomach drop. J.H. Juniper Hawthorne? Corwin's colleague from the research division?
I open the video file, and the world stops spinning.
Corwin and Juniper, tangled together in sheets I recognize from his bedroom. Their bodies bare, intimate. His lips at her ear, whispering things I can't hear. Her laughter, soft and private. The clock on his nightstand showing 2:14 AM in glowing digits.
I can't breathe. Can't think. Can barely see through the tears that suddenly blur my vision.
With trembling fingers, I send a voice message to Juniper.
"We need to talk. About you and Corwin."
Her response comes quickly, her voice tight with confusion:
"I... I never slept with him... I've never seen that video..."
The VeriHeart emotional analysis tags her response with confusion and genuine shock. Not guilt. Not the panic of someone caught.
I wipe my tears away, forcing myself to focus. Something isn't right. I reopen the video file, studying it frame by frame. And there—for just a split second when Juniper turns toward the camera—her eyes. There's something wrong with her eyes. A strange emptiness, a delay in her expression that doesn't match the movement of her face.
The same uncanny valley effect I've seen in high-end AI-generated content.
This isn't a recording. It's not even a memory.
It's something manufactured.
But why? And by whom?