During the week Evan kept me confined, he visited more often than he ever had before
Anne, clearly growing desperate, resorted to increasingly clumsy tacties.
Then one day, I noticed a shift in the online narrative. Suddenly, people were digging up dirt on her, painting her as the real homewrecker.
I scrolled through the so–called “evidence.” It was nothing incriminating just minor details that made me wonder if she had orchestrated the whole thing herself.
That evening at dinner, Evan washed his hands and served me a bowl of soup, his voice unusually gentle.
“Claire, this used to be your favorite.”
I smiled at him, though my tastes had long since changed.
It didn’t surprise me that he didn’t know. His attention had always been on Anne. If I hadn’t noticed the difference in the flowers at the wedding–how they weren’t the ones I’d chosen–I might have believed he truly didn’t care about such things.
Not wanting to argue, I accepted the bowl without a word.
The warm glow of the dining room lights cast a serene, almost idyllic atmosphere. It felt like time itself had stilled.
Then his phone rang again.
