It was a week later, on a Sunday afternoon, that I decided to confront Alex. We were in the living room, the kids playing outside, laughter echoing in through the open window. The timing felt right—calm, yet intimate. « Alex, » I started, voice steady but firm. « I need to ask you something about Jordan. »
Alex’s reaction was almost imperceptible, a slight stiffening of posture, a fleeting hesitation before the usual composed demeanor returned. « Jordan’s just a friend, » Alex said, the words clipped and efficient, as if rehearsed. « We go way back, that’s all. »
I nodded slowly, absorbing the response. « Then why the late-night messages? And the meetings? » I pressed gently, holding Alex’s gaze.
« It’s nothing, » Alex insisted, the smile now a little too tight. « You’re reading too much into this. » But there was a flicker of something in Alex’s eyes—guilt, perhaps, or something else I couldn’t quite place.
I let the subject drop, for now, unwilling to escalate the situation further without more concrete evidence. Trust, once fractured, was difficult to mend, but I needed to understand the full scope of what was happening before making any decisions.
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