I saw Donovan stiffen slightly, panic flickering in his movements as he hastily wiped at the stain on his collar. "Are you serious? Are you accusing me of something? It's just a stain I got from my Ferrari!" His voice was defensive and the guilt radiated off him. "I'm not in the mood for this, Clara. I'm exhausted." With that, he brushed past me, clearly trying to avoid further confrontation.
Strangely, I felt numb.
No anger, no tears—just emptiness.
After a few moments, I retreated to my bedroom. We had long since decided on separate rooms—another indication of our crumbling relationship.
To distract myself from the chaos in my mind, I unlocked my phone and opened my social media, something I hadn't done in ages. Unexpectedly, the first post I saw was from someone close to Donovan.
It was Arlene Blake, Donovan's ex. His first love.
She had posted a photo from the airport two days after Donovan's party—the night he had hit me before claiming he had to meet a friend arriving from abroad.
Suddenly, something inside me says that none of this was coincidental. And as I pieced things together, dread settled over. Could he have been meeting her all along?