The Truth Hidden In A Folder

BROOKLYN POV:

Grant stared at me, his hand cupped to his reddened cheek, his eyes wide with disbelief. His perfect facade had cracked, revealing a raw, startled vulnerability I' d never seen before.

Chelsey, who had been cowering behind him, quickly recovered. Her eyes flitted between us, then she stepped forward, her hand reaching for Grant' s arm. "Grant, what did you do? You always manage to upset Brooklyn!" Her voice was laced with a fake exasperation, a performance designed to diffuse the situation, to deflect.

She turned to me, her eyes brimming with what looked like concern. "B, honey, he' s such an idiot sometimes, isn' t he? Always saying the wrong thing. Don' t listen to him. If he ever makes you unhappy, I' ll personally make sure you leave him." She started to reach for my arm, a comforting gesture, trying to pull me into her usual embrace.

I recoiled, stepping back so sharply that her hand dropped, suspended in the air between us. The sight of her touch, her pretended sympathy, made my skin crawl.

"Don' t touch me," I said, my voice low and steady, a stark contrast to the earthquake raging inside me. "You' re… you' re dirty. I' m scared I' ll catch something."

Her face drained of color. Her eyes darted to Grant, a flicker of panic, a silent plea for him to intervene.

Grant shook off his shock, quickly putting on his usual mask of concern. He glared at Chelsey. "Look what you' ve done, Chelsey! You' re always causing trouble, always making a mess! Now my wife is upset, and I' m the one who gets hit!" He whispered, his voice dangerously low, "If she makes a fuss about this, you' re dead."

He turned back to me, his expression softening as he took a step forward. "Brooklyn, baby, let' s go home. You' re just emotional right now. Everything will be okay, my love." He reached out for me, his hand hovering. "Don' t you remember? You' re my wife."

I took another step back, out of his reach. My lips curved into a bitter, humorless smile. His face, a picture of helpless confusion, and Chelsey' s, still pale but now watching us like a hawk, made me laugh. It was a cold, hollow sound.

"I' m not your wife," I stated, each word precise, detached. "Not anymore. And I mean it, Grant. I want a divorce."

His eyes narrowed in alarm. "Brooklyn, you' re not serious."

"Oh, I' m very serious," I replied, my voice gaining strength. "Tell me, Grant. Three days before our wedding, when I was in bed with a fever, too sick to even call you… where were you? Really."

He froze. His face went rigid. Chelsey, standing a little behind him, flinched, a small, involuntary twitch. The sudden silence was deafening.

He recovered quickly, a practiced ease returning to his voice. "I told you, baby. I was on a last-minute business trip. My phone died."

A bitter laugh escaped me. My colleague' s words echoed in my ears. "Too good to be true? Usually means they' re hiding something." Grant' s constant calm, his unwavering patience, his "good temper" – it wasn' t genuine. It was the veneer of a man perpetually walking on eggshells, terrified of his secrets being exposed. His real temper, I now realized, was reserved for Chelsey, in those stolen moments when he thought no one else was watching.

I looked at him, truly looked at him, and felt nothing but a profound sense of pity and disgust. "Business trip?" I repeated, my voice dripping with disdain. "Really, Grant? Is that what you' re going with?"

Then I turned my gaze to Chelsey, her face now a mask of feigned innocence. "And you, Chelsey. Where were you that same day? When I couldn' t reach either of you?"

She bristled, her eyes flashing. "What are you implying, Brooklyn? Are you actually suggesting… that I was with him?" Her voice rose, indignant. "You know how much I despise him! How could you even think that?"