Matt hadn't realized how much energy it took just to get back into his apartment until he shut the door behind him. The space felt sterile, colder than usual, the familiar furniture stripped of comfort by the hollow silence that followed him everywhere now. He dropped his keys onto the counter, rubbed the back of his neck, and exhaled slowly.
Sarah's words still lingered: Trust your instincts. Don't bury them again.
But instincts without answers gnawed at him like hunger. He needed more than intuition. He needed proof.
Matt paced the apartment, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the stillness. His eyes landed on the small desk shoved against the far wall, the place where he and Claire had once sat together planning budgets, trips, and weekend groceries. He remembered the way she'd insisted they set up a joint account—"It'll make things easier, Matt. Shared bills, transparency. No secrets." He had thought it was a sign of her commitment, of her willingness to build a life with him.
Now, with suspicion sharpening his vision, he saw it differently. Maybe it wasn't about transparency at all. Maybe it had been about access.
He sat down heavily, opened his laptop, and logged into the online banking portal. At first, everything looked ordinary: utility payments, supermarket charges, gas stations. Mundane lines of text that reflected the fabric of their daily lives. But as he scrolled further, his breath caught.
There were purchases he didn't recognize—designer boutiques in parts of the city he'd never visited, expensive dinners for two at restaurants well outside their budget, and multiple hotel charges spread across the past six months.
Matt's hand trembled as he clicked into one of the transactions. Hotel Phoenix. Date: three months ago. Amount: enough to cover two nights.
He pushed back from the desk, muttering aloud. "We never went there. We never—"
The words died in his throat.
Scrolling further, one line stood out. A transfer to an external account, with a note attached: For your trust and silence.
Matt's pulse hammered. This wasn't just infidelity. This was something else—something darker. The hotels could be explained away with lies, but not this. Who was she paying? And what silence was she buying?
He grabbed a notebook and jotted down the account details, his handwriting jagged with adrenaline. He tried searching the number online, but nothing came up. No obvious links, no casual breadcrumbs. Just a dead end.
He sat back, raking both hands through his hair. The evidence was there, but it wasn't enough. He needed context. He needed help.
The following morning, Matt dragged himself to a café on the other side of town. The bags under his eyes betrayed a sleepless night spent staring at those transactions, each line seared into his memory. He had found Marie Doyle's name after hours of searching through forums about financial tracing and private investigators. Her reviews painted her as efficient, discreet, and unflinchingly honest. That was exactly what he needed.
The bell above the café door chimed as he entered. At a corner table sat a woman in her late thirties, dark hair tied back neatly, sharp eyes scanning him as if she'd already read half his story before he said a word.
"Matt?" she asked, her voice even.
He nodded and shook her hand. "Marie. Thanks for meeting me."
"Of course. Let's get to it." She gestured for him to sit, pulling a small notepad from her bag. "You mentioned financial irregularities connected to your partner?"
YOU ARE READING
Shattered Truths
RomanceBUY NOW ON AMAZON https://a.co/d/cCaeK7o Betrayal cuts deep. Healing requires courage. When Matt suspects his girlfriend, Claire, of hiding secrets, he can't shake the feeling that something is wrong. Despite his attempts to brush off his doubts, Ma...
