Locked. All of them locked.
My hands were shaking badly as I dropped to my knees, running my palms under the desk, along every edge, every surface. My fingers caught on tape. A tug—and a small brass key dropped into my palm.
For a moment I just knelt there, key clutched in my fist. This was it. Whatever Michael was hiding, it was in that cabinet.
Did I want to know?
Stupid question. I was already here, already searching, and suspecting.
I stood on shaking legs and went back to the cabinet. The key slid into the lock with a soft metallic sound that seemed too loud in the quiet room.
The drawer slid open with a soft metallic sigh.
Files. All of them alphabetically organized. Tab labels in his neat handwriting—Ashford Technologies – Board Minutes, Budget Projections Q3, Contracts – Pending Review
I flipped through them, my fingers clumsy and rushing.
Something slipped out from between two folders and fluttered to the floor.
A magazine slipped free—old, crumpled, hidden like a secret someone didn’t want found.
I bent down and picked it up. The cover showed a woman in a cream dress—elegant, poised, diamonds glittering at her throat and a massive engagement ring catching the light.
Hannah Pierce.
The woman from the carnival.
The headline punched the air out of my lungs:
Hannah Pierce and Michael Ashford Announce Engagement.
The blood drained out of me so fast the room tilted. My heart might've stopped because I couldn’t feel anything. I could hear nothing but the sound of blood pummeling in my ears.
Hannah.
I’d asked him if she was his ex, my gut instinct had been right. But Michael had denied it, but why? The magazine was dated just four months ago.
It slipped from my numb fingers.
Hannah at the carnival, the way she’d looked at me—not hostile, but sad, understanding, like she’d known something I didn’t. Pauline’s careful subject changes whenever I mentioned her. Michael’s vague non-answers about his past. Everyone protecting the same lie.
He’d called off his wedding to Hannah… and married me instead.
The room felt too small, too hot. My chest was tight, breath coming in short gasps as I turned back to the cabinet, hands shaking so badly I could barely grip the files. Flipping through them faster now, desperate for something, anything else.
Then I saw it.
A folder near the back, thicker than the others, edges worn like it had been opened and closed many times.
Claudette – Medical
I stared at my own name written on the folder.
Medical.
Why would Michael have the medical folder about me in his office?
My hands were shaking so violently I almost couldn’t pull it out. The folder was heavy, full of something that made my chest feel like it was being crushed.
