BROOKLYN POV:

His familiar scent, a mix of his cologne and our laundry detergent, filled my nostrils as he held me. It used to be comforting, a scent of home and safety. Now, it was a sharp, biting pain, a constant reminder of the betrayal that had just ripped through my life.

I pulled back slightly, my voice thin, almost a whisper. "Grant," I began, my throat tight. "Do you… do you love me?"

He looked at me, his eyes wide and innocent. "Of course, I love you, Brooklyn. What kind of question is that?"

I pressed on, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "Do you love me, and only me? Could you ever love someone else while you' re with me?"

His body stiffened, just for a second, a micro-expression of discomfort that I wouldn't have noticed before. But now, it screamed at me. He leaned in, kissing my forehead, then my lips. "Don' t be silly, baby. Of course not. You' re my wife. We' ve been married for three years. Why are you asking such foolish questions?"

He held my face in his hands, gazing at me with a practiced intensity. "Our marriage, Brooklyn. That' s proof enough, isn' t it?"

My mind flickered back to early in our relationship. The rumors had started then, whispers about Grant' s wandering eye, his reputation for being a ladies' man. I' d ignored them, convinced they were just jealous gossip.

Then, one night, I' d gotten a frantic call from Chelsey. "Brooklyn, I just saw Grant with another woman! At the Blue Orchid hotel, room 302! You have to go, now!"

Panic had seized me. I' d called her back, tears streaming down my face, barely able to breathe. "He' s cheating! Chelsey, he' s cheating on me!"

I' d rushed to the hotel, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. But when I burst into room 302, I hadn' t found Grant with another woman. I' d found Chelsey, her hand raised, slapping Grant across the face.

"You bastard!" she' d screamed at him. "How dare you try to bribe me to keep quiet! Brooklyn deserves to know what kind of man you are!"

Grant had looked humiliated, holding his reddened cheek. Chelsey had turned to me, her eyes full of righteous fury. "He tried to pay me off, Brooklyn. Said he' d pay me to keep his dirty little secrets. He thought I' d betray you."

"I was… I was just going to tell you myself," Grant had stammered, avoiding my gaze. "It was a mistake. A moment of weakness. I promise, it won' t happen again."

Chelsey had scoffed. "A mistake? You call trying to sleep with your girlfriend' s best friend a 'mistake' ?" She' d glared at him. "And Brooklyn, do you really think I, your best friend, would ever try to steal your boyfriend? You know me better than that."

I' d felt a surge of shame, an overwhelming guilt. I' d doubted them, doubted my best friend and my boyfriend. I' d apologized profusely to both of them. From then on, I' d been extra-vigilant in showing them how much I trusted them, how much I needed them both in my life.

Grant often teased me about it afterward, calling me his "little drama queen," his "jealous pipsqueak." He would say, "Honestly, if it wasn' t for you, I wouldn' t even give Chelsey a second glance. She' s too much trouble." And I, feeling foolish for my earlier suspicions, would always rush to his side, soothing him, and defending Chelsey. "She just cares about me, Grant. That' s all."

My thoughts were ripped back to the present video. Grant was pushing Chelsey away, his face grim. "No, Chelsey. We can' t keep doing this. I can' t. I' m getting married in three days. This has to stop. We can' t see each other anymore."

Chelsey' s face crumpled. She lunged forward, wrapping her arms around him, desperate. "No! Please, Grant. Just one last time. Please."

A cold shiver ran down my spine. Three days before our wedding. I remembered that week. I' d been so stressed, so overwhelmed with last-minute details, that I' d developed a raging fever. I was confined to bed, barely able to lift my head, unable to reach either Grant or Chelsey. They had both been unreachable, their phones off or going straight to voicemail.

My colleague at work had seen me struggling and, with a knowing wink, said, "Careful, Brooklyn. That' s why they say to guard your husband, guard your home, and guard against your best friend."

I' d been so weak, so feverish, but I' d still managed a weak laugh. "Don' t be ridiculous, Sarah. Chelsey would never betray me. She practically saved my life once."

But now, the image on the screen, the desperate plea of Chelsey, the grim acceptance in Grant' s eyes… It all made a horrifying, sickening kind of sense.

BROOKLYN POV:

My cheeks felt raw, stinging as if someone had slapped me repeatedly. My carefully constructed world, built on foundations of trust and loyalty, was crumbling into dust.

Grant was busy in the kitchen, humming softly as he cleared the dinner plates. He moved around our small apartment, tidying up, making sure everything was in its place. He always did this, a quiet ritual after our meals, a testament to his seemingly considerate nature.

"Grant," I called out, my voice still hoarse from crying. "Tell me about your first love again."

He paused, a plate in his hand, and turned to look at me. A slight frown creased his forehead, but it quickly smoothed into a soft smile. "Why, love? Are you feeling nostalgic?"

I remembered his story. He' d told me how his first girlfriend had cheated on him, how the betrayal had left him broken. He' d sworn then, he' d never put anyone he loved through that pain. "I learned my lesson, Brooklyn," he' d said, his eyes earnest. "I would never, ever betray you like that." I had believed him, utterly and completely. I had clung to that promise like a lifeline.

He finished washing the dishes, wiped down the counters, and then came to sit beside me on the couch. He leaned in, his hand reaching for my face, ready to kiss me.

But the image of Chelsey, demanding his loyalty, flashed in my mind. "Promise me you' ll never truly love her. Promise me you' ll always come back to me. That I' m your only one." Her desperate plea, his unwavering affirmation. It was a loop, playing over and over in my head.

His breath, warm and minty from dinner, was inches from my face. My stomach clenched. A wave of nausea hit me, violent and unexpected. I lurched off the couch, pushing past him, and sprinted to the bathroom, just barely making it to the toilet before I started to retch.

I heaved, my body convulsing, until only bitter acid came up. Tears, involuntary and hot, stung my eyes, mixing with the sweat on my forehead. My entire body felt weak and violated.

Grant was immediately by my side, his hand on my back. "Brooklyn? Are you okay? What' s wrong? Should I call a doctor? You look so pale." His voice was full of concern.

He pulled me up, his arm around my waist, his other hand reaching for a coat. "Come on, let' s get you to the hospital. You' re shivering." He started to guide me towards the door, ready to scoop me up.

Just then, my phone rang.

The screen flashed: Chelsey Reyes.

In the past, I would have immediately handed the phone to Grant. "It' s Chelsey, honey. Your biggest fan." I would have laughed, a genuinely happy sound. I always wanted them to get along, even with their fake animosity.

But now, I just stood there, watching him. Studying his face. The concern in his eyes had vanished, replaced by a flicker of something else. Something anxious. Something almost panicked.

He lowered me gently onto the bed. He picked up his phone, his eyes darting to me, then back to the screen. He looked torn, a performance I might have once believed.

"It' s Chelsey," he said, his voice hesitant. "I really should take this. You know how she gets. She' ll start drama if I don' t answer, then she' ll try to drag you into it." He was always so good at making it sound like he was protecting me from her, from her supposed irrationality.

He didn' t wait for my response. He walked out of the bedroom, closing the door softly behind him.

The click of that door closing sealed my understanding. He wasn' t protecting me. He was protecting them. He was so brazen, so utterly confident in my ignorance. And I was so stupid. So, so stupid.

Through the thin door, I heard it. Chelsey' s voice, a whimper turning into a full-blown sob. And then, Grant' s soothing murmur, his voice low and comforting. "Shh, baby. It' s okay. Tell me what happened." More sobs. "I' m coming. I' m on my way."

A few minutes later, he re-entered the room, a forced smile on his face. "God, that woman is such a walking disaster," he grumbled, but his eyes, I noticed, held a distinct sparkle. A hint of excitement. Not annoyance. "Says she got into a fender bender. Can you believe it?"

He shook his head, feigning exasperation. "Honestly, Brooklyn, you pick the worst people for friends. She' s such a trouble magnet. But I have to go. She' s completely beside herself." He grabbed his keys. "I' ll be back as soon as I can, okay? You just rest up. Don' t worry about a thing."

He still had the audacity to call me "baby," to tell me not to worry. My husband, who had just promised his lover he was "on his way." My best friend, who was faking a fender bender to steal away my husband. My life was a joke.

BROOKLYN POV:

I watched him. Grant, my husband. He was at the door, pulling on his jacket, his back to me. Every cell in my body screamed to do what I always did. "Drive safe, honey. Call me when you get there." But the words caught in my throat, tangled with bile and shattered trust.

His broad shoulders, once a symbol of my security, now looked utterly foreign. His retreating figure was no longer the man I knew. It was a stranger walking away.

A choked cry escaped me. I scrambled off the bed, my bare feet hitting the cold wooden floor. "Grant!" I screamed, my voice raw and desperate. I ran after him, out into the living room.

He stopped at the entryway, his hand on the doorknob, turning to face me. His expression was one of mild annoyance, confusion. He didn' t even glance down at my bare feet, didn' t notice the goosebumps rising on my arms in the chilly air. He simply stared blankly.

My heart was dying, inch by excruciating inch. He didn' t see me. He didn' t care.

"Please," I whispered, my voice breaking. "Don' t go, Grant. Please." It was a plea I hated making, but a sliver of hope, a desperate, foolish hope, still flickered within me. Maybe, just maybe, he would choose me.

My eyes burned, tears blurring my vision. My chest tightened, a searing pain, making it hard to breathe. My entire body felt like it was suffocating.

He frowned, his brows knitting together in irritation. "Brooklyn, what is wrong with you? She just had an accident. If I don' t go, who will?" His voice was sharp, laced with impatience.

"And honestly, you' re being ridiculous. Don' t you think I' ll come back? Just try to be understanding for once." He paused, then softened his voice, a practiced tone designed to placate. "I' ll be back soon. I promise. Just get some rest."

Then, he was gone. The door clicked shut, leaving me standing alone in the vast, empty living room. The only sound was my ragged, uncontrolled breathing, echoing in the silence.

A ping from my phone. It was a text from Chelsey.

"So sorry, B. Had a little fender bender. Borrowing your husband for a bit. You don' t mind, do you? Xoxo."

Xoxo. Kisses and hugs. From my best friend. Who was with my husband. My world, my love, my friendship-all of it had just collapsed into a pile of rubble.

My mind went blank. A cold, hard resolve crystallized within me. I ran to the parking garage, my feet pounding against the concrete. Enough. This had to end. Now.

I drove to the address Chelsey had sent, the one from her "fender bender" text. My hands gripped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles were white. The scent of burnt rubber and exhaust fumes clung to the air when I arrived.

There he was. Grant. His arms were wrapped tightly around Chelsey, comforting her. She was sobbing into his shoulder, her face buried in his chest. He stroked her hair, his movements tender, protective.

"Sir, your car is fine. It' s just a scratch," the other driver was saying, clearly frustrated. "There' s no need for all this drama."

Grant pulled away from Chelsey slightly, his face contorted in anger as he faced the other driver. "A scratch? This is my wife' s car! And you upset my… my love! How dare you!"

He then turned back to Chelsey, pulling her closer. "It' s okay, baby. Don' t listen to him. I' ll make sure he pays for every little thing. I' ll take care of you. You' re my wife, you shouldn' t have to deal with this."

My wife. My love. I stood frozen, watching the grotesque play unfold. Chelsey peeked up at Grant, her eyes wide and overflowing with a sickening adoration. The truth of their long-standing affair, the depth of their deception, hit me with the force of a physical blow. My love, my friendship-they weren't just ruined. They were outright annihilated.

Chelsey pulled back, her voice still trembling. "Grant, please don' t leave me tonight. I can' t be alone. Can you… can you stay with me?"

My nails dug into my palms, drawing blood. The pain was sharp, but it was nothing compared to the agony ripping through my chest. I felt like I was drowning in plain sight.

Grant hesitated, his gaze briefly flicking towards his car, then back to Chelsey' s tear-stained face. He nodded slowly. "Okay, baby. Just one last time. I' ll stay. But this is the absolute last time I choose you over… over everything else."

My blood ran cold. How many "last times" had there been? How many more would there be? A wave of pure, unadulterated fury surged through me. My legs moved before my mind registered the command.

I stormed towards them, my eyes locked on Grant. I raised my hand. And I slapped him. Hard. The sound echoed in the sudden silence.

"Divorce," I spat, my voice shaking with rage, my gaze sweeping from Grant' s stunned face to Chelsey' s shocked one. "We' re getting a divorce."