Page 18 of Trail of Betrayal
The words land like a body blow, but I don’t flinch. “To me,” I say calmly, “you were agony to work with. To her, you were trapped in a loveless relationship.” I tip my head. “Both can’t be true.”
He reaches for my phone. “Enough.”
I step back. “What’s enough is your carelessness.”
He pivots, searching for leverage. “She pursued me relentlessly,” he snaps, jabbing a finger at Isabella. “Texts. Late nights. The black dress at Miller. She kept finding reasons to be in my office.”
Isabella’s spine straightens. “You scheduled the late nights,” she says to me, not him. “You told me I was special. That she didn’t see you anymore.”
I meet her gaze. “He told me the Bedder account was killing him. Sleeping at his desk.”
Silence draws tight between us. Something passes from her to me—recognition, not forgiveness.
“This is crazy,” Lawrence softens, sensing the shift. “I made mistakes. Turning on me doesn’t fix anything.”
“We’re not turning,” I say. “We’re seeing clearly.”
“You lied to both of us,” Isabella says. “You made each of us the problem.”
He lifts his hands. “You’re taking it out of context.”
“Then give us context,” I say. “Enlighten us.”
Nothing comes. The script ran out.
I place the phone by the bottle; the screen glows with receipts. “You built two narratives,” I say. “Dedicated workaholic for me. Misunderstood partner for her.”
“And we believed you,” Isabella says.
“I never meant to hurt you,” he says, voice cracking. “It got complicated.”
“You could have been honest,” she says.
“You could have chosen,” I say.
“How long?” I ask. “Of the seven months you and I were together—how many with her?”
He doesn’t answer. That’s the answer.
Isabella’s inhale is small and sharp. New damage, same source.
“I loved you,” I say. “I trusted you. You made me a fool.”
“And you made me the villain,” Isabella says. “You promised me an ending that never existed.”
He steps closer, palms out. “Please. Both of you. We can fix this. Couples therapy. A fresh start. Whatever you want.”
“No,” I say. “You want absolution. We want truth.”
Isabella slips her phone into her purse. “I deserve better than being a secret.”
“We both do,” I say.
“So that’s it?” His laugh is hollow. “You’re both just walking out?”
“Yes,” Isabella says.
I shift to the door—not to block her, to blockhim.“Did you want us to compete?” I ask. “So you never had to choose?”
