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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