The footage stretched until nearly dawn. At 5 a.m., I walked out of the hotel alone, hair tousled, makeup smudged, exhaustion etched into my expression.
"The surveillance and video files show no signs of editing," one of the officers confirmed calmly.
I heard Sean suck in a sharp breath beside me.
When I turned, his fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned bone-white. His jaw trembled. His eyes, bloodshot and burning, locked onto mine.
"Maya," he said, his voice cracking. "It's all there. What more do you want me to believe? That this is some kind of deepfake? You're not just cheating—you've dumped a bucket of shit over my head!"
His words sliced into me like a blade. But I forced myself to breathe, to think. I couldn't panic. If I lost control now, I'd have no way to claw myself out of this.
My gaze dropped to my arm. There, near the bend of my elbow, was a faint red bump—just a mosquito bite.
A sudden thought struck me.
"Look!" I cried out, lifting my arm. "There's nothing on my body! Not a single bruise or mark! If I'd really been with that many men like the video shows, how could I look like this?"