That had been our wedding. He had gently lifted my veil, eyes shining like a sky full of stars, and said firmly, “There will be no betrayal, unless I die.”
And now, the only thing left on my screen was a cold, red exclamation mark. He had blocked me.
Not long after, someone added me, and it was Kristen.
She sent a video.
In it, George sat at a bedside, reading a picture book to a four- or five-year-old boy with tender patience.
The child listened closely, eyes wide, completely absorbed.
Father and son, the warmth between them was undeniable, a scene of effortless harmony.
I replied, my chest tightening, “What are you implying?”
Kristen answered immediately, “Ma’am, don’t you think Dwayne looks a lot like George? Take a closer look.”
“Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t look like.”
I trusted only what I could investigate; I didn’t need her subtle hints.
The following day, at the hospital’s medical conference, I had to give a speech as a shareholder.
My brother handed me the documents he had gathered discreetly.
As I turned the pages, my hands trembled.
Kristen had once attended our school’s comic convention, dressed as a cute, provocative maid.
That was when she had added George’s contact information.