When I heard the rumors in the office back then, I tried to remind Francine gently, "Men and women should maintain some distance. You two are getting too close. It might lead to misunderstandings."
Francine laughed it off, dismissing my concerns with a wave. "Evan's just my assistant. Can't you stop being so petty?"
But reality was different.
Last month, after a company team-building trip, she returned home slightly tipsy. When Evan helped her out of the car, his hand lingered on her waist—much longer than necessary.
I stepped forward to help her, but Evan smiled and said, "Miss Watson can't handle her alcohol, Mr. Rutherford. You'll need to take better care of her from now on."
That tone, like he was the one closest to her.
And last week, I saw a message pop up on my wife's phone.
[Babe, see you at the usual spot tonight.]
I casually inquired, "Who's that?"
Francine brushed it off with a smile, replying, "Just my close friend, Lia."
...
Amid the swirling smoke, I stared at my phone screen.
Evan had just updated his social media.
It was a photo of the night view taken at a high-end restaurant.
The photo didn't include him or Francine.
Only two glasses of red wine and a pair of intertwined hands.