Page 5 of Trail of Betrayal
“Not about work.” My voice sounds foreign. “Personal.”
That earns me a blink. “You’re scaring me a little. Go on.”
I exhale, hard. “I think Lawrence is cheating on me. With Isabella.”
The pause stretches. Even the hum of the vent sounds louder, like static between radio stations.
Elise doesn’t flinch. Just a low whistle. “Well. Fuck.”
A laugh bursts out of me, too sharp. “Yeah.”
She studies me carefully. “You sure?”
“Ninety percent.” My throat tightens. “Maybe more.”
Elise leans forward, elbows on the glass. “What happened?”
“I heard them. Voices in the corridor. The conference room door wasn’t closed. I—I saw shadows.” I stop, pressing my nails into my palm until they sting. “Then he said my name.”
Her eyes soften. “Oh, Veronica.”
“I keep thinking maybe I misheard.”
“You didn’t.”
A beat.
“I wish I had.”
Elise looks down at her mug, then back up. “What do you want to do?”
“I want to confront them. Both of them. I want—” My voice breaks on the wordwant. “I want to see their faces.”
“Don’t.”
“Elise—”
“No.” She cuts me off gently, like she’s afraid I’ll shatter. “You won’t get satisfaction. Just lies. Denial. You’ll end up looking—” she hesitates “—emotional. He’ll use that.”
“I already look emotional.” I gesture weakly at the table. “And unstable’s the word you’re dancing around.”
She exhales through her nose. “Fine. Unstable. But smart women can be both, and still win. You need proof. Screenshots. Receipts. Something digital. Men like Lawrence never think they’ll be audited.”
I let out a shaky laugh that turns bitter halfway through. “Already ahead of you.”
Her head tilts. “Of course you are.”
Outside, the window washers drift past. Water streaks the glass, catching the light in thin silver ribbons. For a second, it looks like the skyline’s crying for us.
“You’re not paranoid,” she says quietly. “And I’m sorry you had to find out like that.”
I nod, throat tight. “At least I’ll have time to write a killer closing argument.”
Elise smirks. “That’s my girl.” Then, after a pause: “You need backup, you call me. Until then, stay quiet. Gather everything. Don’t give them a reason to spin the narrative.”
“Thanks,” I say. “For not telling me to move on.”
“Forgive, maybe,” she says, weary smile returning. “Forget? Never. That’s how we survive.”
