The footage was shaky but clear enough. Alexa, breathless and hurried, undressing with fevered hands as Nathan stood waiting. She clung to him as though her very existence depended on it, her movements urgent, almost desperate. The sound of her murmured words—half-lost between gasps—sent a chill through me.
Below the video, Nathan's message read: [Harry, take a good look. This is your refined wife. Always so calm and collected with you, isn't she? But with me? She's wild. She's mine.]
My lips pressed into a thin line. Anger didn't rise—not the blinding fury one might expect. Instead, there was only an eerie calm as I saved the video, tucking it away like evidence in a courtroom trial.
I stayed long enough to finish the meal we'd ordered. Alone in the sea of tables filled with laughing couples and clinking glasses, I didn't feel an ounce of bitterness. By the time I walked out, my decision was clear.