Shattered Truths

Chapter 3: The Confrontation

Matt had replayed the scene a hundred times: Claire's hand sliding that envelope across the threshold, the older man's face hard and unreadable, the faint shuffle of papers inside. And then her words, dripping with ice the night before: Sometimes the truth is better left alone.

The phrase gnawed at him, sharper each time it surfaced. If the truth was so unbearable, why was she fighting so hard to keep it from him? And why had she been so calm when he confronted her about the house? That composure had unsettled him more than the act itself. She hadn't even scrambled for excuses; she'd dismissed him like a child poking his nose where it didn't belong.

Now, sitting in his living room with the dim glow of the lamp painting the walls in amber shadows, Matt felt the pressure building. Anger pulsed beneath his skin, but it was the need for answers that consumed him. Answers Claire clearly wasn't going to hand over willingly.

He didn't want to follow her again. He hated the idea of turning himself into some detective trailing his own girlfriend like a criminal. But her lies had already made him into something he never wanted to be.

When twilight arrived, he heard the telltale sound of her heels on the hallway tiles, the soft slam of the door. His chest tightened. She was leaving again. This time, Matt didn't hesitate.

He trailed her car, but not with the same frantic desperation as before. He kept further back, headlights dimmed, his mind focused.

She didn't head for the house with the older man. Nor did she drive toward her office. She veered onto another familiar route, one that made Matt's throat dry with dread.

The café.

The place where it had all started, the first time he had seen her with Aaron.

Matt parked in the shadows, his heart pounding as Claire's car rolled into the lot. She stepped out, poised as ever, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. And then he saw him.

Aaron.

Leaning against the café entrance, his hands shoved in his pockets, shifting uneasily like a man who didn't want to be seen.

Matt's jaw tightened.

For a second, rage nearly blinded him. But then something clicked. If she had secrets with the older man and secrets with Aaron, maybe they weren't separate threads at all. Maybe they were pieces of the same knot.

He waited, watching, as Claire approached Aaron. Their voices were hushed, their gestures sharp. This wasn't romance—it was business disguised as intimacy. Claire pressed her hand against Aaron's arm, leaning in close, her lips moving quickly. Aaron shook his head, glancing around nervously, then finally nodded.

And then Claire reached into her bag.

Matt's blood went cold.

Another envelope.

This wasn't coincidence. This was a pattern.

Claire passed it to Aaron with the same fluid motion he had seen at the house. Aaron accepted it reluctantly, slipping it into his jacket. But unlike the older man, Aaron's face was conflicted, guilt flickering across his features.

Matt couldn't stay in the shadows any longer. He shoved open his car door and strode across the lot, his shoes striking hard against the wet asphalt. The sound snapped Claire's head around. For the briefest moment, her mask cracked—surprise, then irritation, then composure.

Aaron muttered something under his breath, half-turning away.

"Matt," Claire said, her voice low, warning. "This isn't what it looks like."