Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
JADE
I wait until Devon leaves for the gym before I start investigating. Yeah—investigating, because that’s what it’s coming down to. Not trusting my husband in the slightest means I’m hunting down the truth instead, like some sort of psycho bitch.
So, yeah, I’m searching for evidence that my husband is lying. I’ll either find it or prove I’m losing my mind.
I’m not sure which I prefer.
I pour coffee I probably won't drink and sit at the kitchen table with my laptop open, telling myself this is normal. Wives check things. It's not crazy to want the truth.
Our credit card statement loads first.
My eyes scan the charges from the weekend he was gone. Flight confirmation—I knew about that. Airport coffee. A ride-share from JFK. Nothing unusual, nothing damning.
Then I see it.
A charge at the Hilton bar for two hundred and forty-seven dollars.
What?
That's not a couple of drinks. That's... a lot of drinks for one person. In fact, I know it’s not just for Devon. He’d be dead if he drank that much.
Unless he was trying to impress someone. Grant?
I hold my breath and screenshot it before I forget to.
I close my eyes and breathe.
This doesn't mean anything. He could’ve been drinking with anyone—a colleague, a speaker at the conference, someone he met networking. There are a thousand innocent explanations.
But I hate that I’m doing this and questioning my husband.
Instagram is next.
I search for the conference hashtag and scroll through the posts. Smiling fitness influencers. Protein shake sponsors.
Then I find her.
Mila's account is exactly what I expected—perfectly aesthetic and glossy, all sunset yoga poses and inspirational quotes. But it's her Highlights from that weekend that make my breath catch.
There's Devon.
In the background of a group photo at the mixer, laughing at something someone said. His head is tilted toward Mila.
I tap to the next Highlight.
A boomerang of two drinks clinking. Whiskey glasses, amber liquid catching the light. The caption reads: Old friends, new adventures.
Old friends. Two drinks.
That fucking bitch.
I want to throw my phone across the room.
Instead, I screenshot everything. The photo. The boomerang. The timestamp that shows it was posted at 11:45 PM—after Devon stopped answering my calls.
After he texted me to say he was with Grant.
He wasn't with Grant. He was with her.
I sit and absorb that fact. My husband ended a call with me and sent a text to say Grant had come over—the one person he went there to meet—but he lied. Not about the room, not about sleeping in the chair—about where he was and who he was with.
Why lie about that unless there's more?
The front door opens and I flinch, nearly dropping my phone. Devon's gym bag hits the floor with a thud.
"Hey,” he sounds wary. "I thought I'd come home for lunch. Surprise you."
You’re doing great at that all by yourself, Devon.
I don't turn around. "That's nice."
He moves into the kitchen, and I feel him pause behind me. I know he’s looking at the laptop screen I haven't closed fast enough. But all he can see is Instagram.
"What are you doing?"
I can't do this anymore.
I turn in my chair to face him. He's holding a container of last night's chicken, looking at me with slight concern. “Checking the credit card bill."
He blinks. "Okay?"
"Two hundred and forty-seven dollars at the Hilton bar. That's a lot of drinks." My voice sounds like it’s going to snap. Maybe it is.
His brows crash together. “It was an open bar for the mixer. That must have been—”
"It wasn't the mixer. The charge is time-stamped after midnight."
Now what is he going to say?
Devon sets down the container. He scratches the back of his neck and presses his lips together. My skin prickles.
“Mila and I got drinks; didn’t I say that?”
My blood boils. I think I’d remember if he fucking said that.
"You told me you were with Grant. You texted me you were talking to Grant."
"Because he came over—"
"Mila posted photos, Devon." I hold up my phone, showing him the screenshot. "Old friends, new adventures. Eleven forty-five PM. Where was Grant then?"
He stares at the screen. I watch his throat bob as he swallows.
"I don't know what you want me to say, Jade. I had drinks with Mila. I told you that. Grant came over, but then—he was weird, so I had some drinks with Mila. She was telling me how he’d turned aggressive after they split—”
I’m not interested in Mila’s fucking sob stories, so I cut him off. “So, you lied.”
"I didn't lie, I just—"
"You told me you were with Grant when you were with her. That's a lie, Devon."
His hands curl into fists at his sides. “Look, I told you I had drinks with her and got silly drunk. I didn’t lie about Grant being there; he just didn’t stay.”
“Oh, so instead of calling me back, you got hammered with Mila?”
He looks at me, and for one moment, I see something flicker across his face—fear, maybe, or regret—before it disappears.
“I didn’t want you to get upset,” he says finally. “It was just drinks.”
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly it hurts.
But I can't.
“Drinks that cost over two hundred dollars and ended with you sleeping in her hotel room,” I whisper. “Something happened. Maybe not what I'm imagining, but something. And until you tell me what it is, I can't trust anything you say."
Devon opens his mouth like he's going to argue, but he doesn’t.
And that tells me everything.