Roger's eyes crinkled at the corners, his voice dripping with indulgence. "You're my girlfriend. Why would I care who sees?"
That voice. I knew that voice—but not that tone. Never that tone. Not for me.
A sharp pain lanced through my chest as I watched him gently pull her hands away from her face, gazing at her like she was something precious.
"Why so shy?" he murmured. "You're nothing like this in bed."
Beside me, my colleague was already whispering to the others.
"People these days have no shame."
"Right out in public."
"Talking about that."
My feet felt like they'd been filled with lead. My chest heaved. The sheer impact of betrayal threatened to crack my ribs open from the inside.
I kept my eyes locked on them—on Roger and this woman, flirting like teenagers—and pulled out my phone. I took photos. One. Two. Three. Then I opened my chat with Roger and stared at the messages he'd sent thirty minutes ago.
[Honey, I have to work late tonight.]
[Don't wait up for dinner.]
[Love you.]
My eyes burned. My colleague tugged at my arm, ready to leave, and I understood: if I pretended I hadn't seen anything, maybe Roger and I could maintain the illusion a little longer. Keep the surface smooth.