The Executioner

In the dimly lit hotel room, the air hung heavy with unspoken tension as Melbourne’s cityscape painted shadows across the walls. The third corporate voyage had brought us together once more, a team united under the business banner, yet fractured by the complexities of human desire.

As soon as we arrived, Renee followed me to my room. The Queen paced, and her voice trembled with a vulnerability that belied her regal facade, her voice tense with an uneasy request. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Okay,” I replied, though uncertainty clawed at the edges of my composure.

“You’re not going to like it at first but…” she trailed off, her footsteps halting abruptly.

Anxiety coiled in the pit of my stomach as she gestured for me to take a seat. With a heavy sigh, she settled into a chair opposite mine, her eyes betraying a weariness that spoke volumes.

“We’ve danced around this for too long,” her voice was a whisper, laden with the weight of unspoken truths, “and it’s becoming painfully clear to me. I can’t keep away from you, and the more I try, the more consumed I am with thoughts of you. The only solution is…” she paused, her gaze searching mine for understanding.

“Is?” I urged though I feared the answer even as the question left my lips.

“I need you to hurt me,” her words were a dagger to the heart. “I need to see you with another woman. It doesn’t matter who. I must confront the stark reality that what we have is fleeting, or at least, it should be.”

Shock reverberated through me, disbelief warring with a desperate longing for understanding. “Where is this coming from?” I asked, my voice a whisper against the backdrop of her revelation.

She met my gaze with a steady determination, her eyes a mirror to the tumultuous storm raging within her. “We both know this can’t last forever,” her words were a sombre echo of truths long ignored, “I’m too old for you, baby. I want more for you than merely planning my funeral one day.”

At that moment, I knew that our shared journey had reached a crossroads. The path ahead was uncertain, fraught with pitfalls and heartache, but in the depths of her eyes, I saw a flicker of hope—a beacon guiding us toward a future unknown.

“Talk about dramatic! This is insane,” I murmured, the room spinning slightly.

“It sounds dramatic, but I’m serious. You’ll never meet anyone else as long as you’re entangled with me. And frankly, I’m distracted, unable to focus on my life, my children.”

“Fuck, Renee. I thought we were past this!” Frustration boiled over, my voice raising without consent.

“Stop. Be realistic,” she implored, her tone softening. “I’m asking this for both our sakes. If not for yourself, then for me.”

“This is really what you want?” I questioned, hoping for any other answer.

“Yes.”

“Then what? I flaunt something in your face, you get hurt, and? We just… stop talking? Sever all ties?” I was shouting now, the weight of her request crashing down on me.

“I don’t know how it will affect me,” she admitted quietly.

“Have you thought about how it will affect me?”

“I have. I think it’ll be good for you in the long run.”

“So, I’m just supposed to switch off my feelings for you and turn to someone else because it suits you now? All while you’re happy to cut me out completely. Fuck you,” I spat, the hurt too raw, the request too cruel. The room chilled with the gravity of our crossroads, and silence fell like a curtain between us.

“I knew you would be furious with me, and I understand the magnitude of what I’m asking of you, but if you truly love me, you’ll do it,” Renee pleaded through tears.

“This is absurd. How convenient for you to make me the executioner of your peace of mind. You want me to play the villain, so you can sleep soundly? Sweet dreams, baby,” I retorted, my voice laced with bitterness as I slammed the door with a force that beamed down the hallway.

Soon after, I sent a message to Angela, seeking a reprieve from the night’s heaviness. “Wanna hit a gay club with me?” Her reply came instantly, a beacon in the gloom: “Getting ready now.”

I retreated to my room, dressing in my sharpest outfit while taking generous swigs from the mini-bar bottles. Angela arrived looking impeccable, a perfect ten in her vibrant ensemble. Together, we strode out, the night air brisk against our faces, heading to a club just down the street from our hotel. On a whim, I sent a taunting message to Renee with the club’s address: “Want to watch?”

Inside, the club pulsed with vibrant energy. Angela and I didn’t hesitate, ordering drinks and diving into the crowd on the dance floor. It wasn’t long before we were enveloped by a group of lively girls, the rhythm of the music a perfect escape.

A buxom blonde in thigh-high boots and a tight black dress caught my attention. Our eyes locked—a silent challenge—and I approached her. “Can I buy you a drink?” I asked. As we made our way to the bar, she introduced herself as Chelsea, a makeup artist who had moved from Sydney to Melbourne for a fresh start. We chatted easily, swaying to the beat, but a nagging sense of surveillance gnawed at me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the unmistakable glint of ginger hair, illuminated like a halo by the club’s lights. Renee—the Red Queen—was here, watching. I consciously avoided her gaze, refusing to acknowledge her presence. In my mind, I wanted her to believe she was invisible to me, like a ghost… as if her gambit had rendered her as such to my heart.

At that moment, part of me wanted to hurt her, to fulfil her masochistic request, but there was a deeper, more reluctant part that wished to spare her. Surrendering to the whirlwind of emotions threatening to unravel me, I chose instead to focus entirely on Chelsea. I was candid with her about my desire to keep things light and even confessed my lingering heartbreak.

To my astonishment, Chelsea responded not with discomfort but with a compassionate embrace, her lips meeting mine in a tender kiss. I allowed it, finding solace in her readiness to soothe my pain with gentle affection.

Later, when she invited me back to her place, I declined, citing professional obligations. We exchanged numbers before parting, and when I finally looked up, Renee had vanished from the club.

Angela and I decided to end the night, each retreating to our separate rooms within the quiet sanctum of the hotel. As my anger receded, I couldn’t help but speculate on what Renee had observed and how it might have affected her. The heartache was real; there was plenty of truth in what she said to me… if things remained the way they were. It’s not sustainable to lead a double life but it didn’t have to be that way. She could leave Aidan, she was choosing not to. I wasn’t worth it to her. This was salt on a very old wound that had been reopened. I ached and I wept the whole night through.

The next morning, burdened by puffy, bullfrog eyes from my tears and feeling utterly miserable, I opted out of the first seminar. I texted Bea to advise of my absence and took a long shower, trying to piece myself together for the afternoon sessions.

Dressed in a fresh suit and using chilled bottles from the mini-bar to soothe my swollen eyes, I made myself presentable. I attended the first-afternoon seminar, mingling with colleagues as usual, though I carefully avoided Renee. Catching only fleeting glimpses of her—when her attention was directed elsewhere—she seemed unaffected, perfectly composed. This facade, whether real or imagined, fuelled a silent fury within me.

The seminar seemed to stretch endlessly into the afternoon, and as soon as it concluded, I retreated to the solitude of my room. No sooner had I closed the door behind me than a message from Renee appeared: “Can I have a word?” Despite everything, professional decorum prevailed, and I texted back, “What is it about?” But before she could respond, the sound of fingernails tapping at my door drew me swiftly from the phone. I opened the door to find her standing there, her presence demanding entry. My eyes shot her a questioning look, clear and sharp. “What do you want?”

“Please don’t be mad at me, this is killing me,” she said in a hushed tone.

Stepping aside, I motioned her in—this was not a conversation for the hallway. “Killing you?” I echoed sharply as I shut the door with a forceful click. “You seem perfectly fine to me. But of course, why wouldn’t you? As long as you get what you want, everything’s splendid, isn’t it?” My words cut through the air, heavy with scorn.

Renee flinched, closing her eyes as if to shield herself from the sting of my accusations. “I’m trying really hard here,” she murmured, her voice trembling.

“Are you?” I countered, my voice rising with a mixture of incredulity and exhaustion. “To me, it seems like you’re just doing what every woman I’ve ever loved has done. I don’t care what the number is beside my name; I’ve lived a million lifetimes, and I’m tired, Renee. You wanted a dalliance, and you got it. Now you can go back to your white picket fence. I won’t stand in your way—I won’t chase you.”

Her eyes, now mirroring mine, welled up with tears. A surge of frustration overwhelmed me, and I punched my pillow hard. “Fuck!” I yelled, the word reverberating against the walls. “I can’t bear to see you cry, but honestly, I don’t want to see you at all. You’re such a coward.”

Her reply came between sobs, her composure cracking. “I never expected to feel this way. And believe me, we’re a long way from a dalliance. You can call me a coward for not wanting to split up my family. I put my children first—it’s something I don’t expect you to understand.” Her words hung between us, a testament to the tangled web of our emotions, revealing a chasm too wide to bridge with mere words.

“And when they’ve left the nest and it’s just you and Aidan? What then?” I asked, my voice a mix of curiosity and despair.

“That’s a different story,” she replied, her voice low.

I looked at her, feeling utterly defeated. “I don’t know what to say to you anymore. You’ve expressed your feelings and made your choices. What’s left to discuss?”

“Plenty. This isn’t as simple as choosing some boyfriend over you,” she insisted, her eyes pleading for understanding. “It’s about my kids. They will always come first.”

“I’ve never suggested otherwise,” I said quietly.

“I know.”

“Then why drag this out so long?” My frustration was building, my voice rising slightly.

“I’m human! I’m imperfect. I fell for you,” she cried, her voice breaking.

“I’m not going to sit here and comfort you because you’re sad about kicking me to the curb!”

“I don’t expect you to,” she said, wiping away her tears.

“I told you I was big enough and ugly enough to make the call if this was too much for me, and I didn’t,” I yelled, the walls seeming to absorb the shock of my voice. “You want this. You chose this.”

“Clearly I fucking don’t. This is unbearable,” she retorted, her voice raw.

“So why are you doing this?” I demanded, my hands gesturing in frustration.

“I don’t want to hurt you more than I already have. If I don’t cut this off now, it will only get worse.”

“Why is cutting it off the only option?” I asked, desperate for a rational answer.

“Don’t you see? I can’t resist you,” she confessed, her voice thick with emotion. “I’m not a Queen, I’m merely a woman overwhelmed by feelings I’ve never experienced before, and for another woman no less.” Her eyes searched mine, seeking empathy. “Bea spoke to me. She knows something is going on. I’ve ‘softened’. I’ve never been called soft in my life.”

“There it is,” I murmured, the truth finally laid bare between us.

“What?” She blinked, confusion etched across her features.

“You’re worried about what other people think,” I pointed out flatly.

“I’m concerned about the consequences of other people knowing!” Her voice carried a mix of frustration and desperation.

I shook my head, a weary smile tracing my lips. “This is such a cliché.”

“I’m not going to stand here and argue with you when you’ve already decided there’s nothing left worth fighting for. I understand—you’re sorry,
you’re absolved. Okay?” My words, thick with bitter resignation, lingered between us as I stood mere inches from her. “You think you’re the first woman to whip me then ask for forgiveness?” The words spilled from my lips, laden with the weight of wearied experience, signalling the end of our conversation—a closure riddled with unresolved tension.

As I turned to walk away, she caught me in a desperate embrace from behind. “Please. Please don’t walk away from me. I can’t stand this,” she pleaded, her voice breaking once again, her arms tightening with a force that spoke of fear and something raw, unspoken, that neither of us could fully grasp. 

I felt her heart thumping against my back, her whole body shaking as she cried. Each beat fractured my resolve a little more. Slowly, I turned to face her, my hands finding her waist to steady us both as her arms instinctively wrapped around my neck. Her eyes, brimming with tears, met mine with a vulnerability that pierced through the last defences around my heart. “I can’t do this, baby. I’m not strong enough. I need you,” she whispered, her voice a broken plea.

“Tell me what to do and I’ll do it,” I offered, attempting to be a pillar of strength for her in her moment of vulnerability.

“Love me,” she replied, her voice choked with tears, her heart laid bare before me.

“I do. You know I do. That’s the problem,” I confessed.

“No, I’m the problem. I’m sorry. I don’t know how to handle this. I want you. I love you,” she admitted, her voice tinged with remorse and longing, the complexity of her emotions painting a vivid picture of our shared struggle.

“Woman, you’re going to kill me!” I managed to smile through the tears that threatened to spill from my eyes.

“I’m going to kill me,” she murmured, leaning back to meet my gaze before sealing her words with a tender kiss.

Lost in the sweetness of our embrace, we gave in to the moment before she gently pulled away, suggesting she should go to her room to freshen up before dinner. I watched her go, a mixture of relief and apprehension washing over me like waves crashing against the shore.