No, I wasn’t his mistress…

What you tell others, depends on what you are willing to admit to yourself.

These words still ring in my ears...

I was young and naïve. I was madly in love.
And he made me feel like a princess.

He put me on a pedestal, and told me how much I meant to him.
How good I made him feel about himself.
How much he loved me, and how we would one day be together.

It was just going to take a little longer.
He needed to find the right time, and the right words, the right setting, and the right mood, maybe after the next big business deal, maybe after the next family reunion, on and on, the never-ending reasons why we could not be “official” yet.

Maybe he was waiting for the right fucking planetary alignment, who knows?

I never, ever wanted to be this person.
I refused to think of myself as his mistress.
I refused to be seen as the other woman.
I was not a home wrecker.
I had seen what this type of shit had done to my own family.

So, no, I was not THAT person.

He had pursued me relentlessly, even after I realised he was married.
He told me the marriage was over, even before it had begun.
That he should never have married her. That he knew that now.

He told me they were good friends, but there was no chemistry. And that she complained about his long working hours, which he didn’t appreciate, because he was doing all of this for the family in the first place.

He was tired of a mundane life, and I was the spark that had made him feel alive again.

Even after I told him I could not do this to his family, he kept on breaking down my walls, little by little.
He knew I was naïve.
He knew I was vulnerable.
He knew what he wanted, and he was not going to stop.

I was this little gazelle, in his sights, and he knew all he needed was patience, the right moves, and the perfect timing.

So no, I wasn’t his mistress.
I wasn’t the other woman.
Because he told me so, and I believed him.