Patrick had his arm around me as we sat in bed that night, some forgettable thriller flick playing in the background. “Gee, you’ve been overworked lately,” he murmured, brushing his fingers along my arm. “You’re imagining things. You need to let this go.”
I nodded, gave him a tired smile, and even let him kiss me on the forehead. I played my part — but inside, everything screamed liar.
Couple in bed | Source: Pexels
He looked too calm. Too perfect. His words were polished like glass, smooth and careful. That’s how you talk when you’ve rehearsed the script.
I didn’t sleep that night.
The next morning, I brought it up with my sister over lunch.
“I’m telling you,” I whispered, “there’s something weird going on. It’s not just Tommy’s comments. It’s the way Patrick looks at her. The timing. It all feels… off.”
My sister stirred her iced tea, brow raised. “Gee. You’ve been under a ton of pressure. Big case. New title. It’s natural to get a little paranoid.”
