“Assistant,” I said simply, inspecting a lemon. “Though clearly, she’s been promoted.”
Celeste chuckled nervously. “I mean, I just wanted to say—we’re all behind you. Like, team Arianne all the way. If you ever want to talk, or come by for sangria night...”
“That’s kind,” I said, placing the lemon in my cart. “But I think I’ve had enough sour for a while.”
She blinked again. I didn’t fill the silence.
She shifted her weight awkwardly. “Well, anyway. You're handling it all with so much grace. Honestly, if it were me, I’d beat the shit out of them.”
“Trust me,” I said, pushing the cart forward. “The temptation was there.”
I left her standing there with a polite nod and a heart that felt a little heavier than when I walked in. Back in the car, I sat with the engine off. Grocery bags filled the backseat, my fingers tightened around the steering wheel as if I could squeeze the ache out of my chest. The video didn’t lie. But it didn’t tell the full story either.
By the time I got home, the sun had dipped low. I walked in to find Liam curled on the couch, cartoons playing quietly. He smiled when he saw me—like nothing had changed. Like he was still my anchor.
I ruffled his hair, kissed his forehead, then excused myself to the study. That’s where I noticed a white envelope sitting on the desk. My pulse slowed as I pulled out the photo.
It was my husband. In an expensive suite. Shirtless. Leaning over Celine. It was clearly taken in secret—but the intent was unmistakable.
And on the back, in careful handwriting: The concert was only the beginning. You deserve the truth.
My tears ran out days ago. What remained was a quiet burn. Like embers refusing to die. It’s devastating, yet I was trying to move on—slowly. But that photo… it clawed its way back into my mind at random moments.
The handwriting on the back of it was neat, slanted slightly to the right. It reminded me of someone who paid attention to detail. Not vindictive, but intentional. It didn’t feel like a threat, but more like a warning.