Three months ago, she posted a picture of a man and a woman holding hands. The man wore a wedding ring that looked strikingly similar to Clayton’s.
[My boyfriend loves me so much. To make it easier for us to meet, he bought me a place in the unit next door! Of course, I had to repay him in bed.]
At the time, Clayton had said he’d left his wedding ring at the office.
It turned out the ring had been left at his lover’s house.
A month ago, she posted a photo taken in a private cinema, the shot only revealing the man’s sexy collarbone.
I couldn’t take my eyes off the red mole on his collarbone—exactly like Clayton’s.
If my memory served me right, that day had been the anniversary of my parents’ death.
Clayton had promised to accompany me to the cemetery, but when he received a phone call, his expression shifted.
"Irene, a client urgently needs my attention. I have to rush over."
But he didn’t go to meet any client.
Instead, he was in the private cinema Odessa had arranged, lost in a moment of romantic bliss.
I cried uncontrollably at the cemetery while he was wrapped in another woman’s arms, his eyes glowing with desire.