“Paul would never do that, Esme. You’re reading too much into it. He’s like my brother. He’s just looking out for you because I asked him to.”
End of conversation.
So I stopped trying.
Because what was the point?
My husband was thousands of miles away, risking his life, and the last thing I wanted to do was add stress or make him question someone he trusted with his life.
I thought I could handle it.
I thought I was strong enough.
God, I was so wrong.
My chest tightens as the memory hits—the message. The video.
I still remember the way my hands shook when I opened it.
The confusion.
The horror.
Because it looked like me—it was me.
But then it wasn’t.
I don’t know how he did it.
What software he used.
If it was AI or just clever editing.
But in the video he sent—to Benji and to me—along with that sick, smug confession about our so-called affair, it all looked so real.
Too real.
I remember staring at my phone, my hands going numb as it played.
Because that was me.
My face.
My body.
My voice.
Laughing.
Leaning in.
Letting him touch me like I wanted it.
Like I asked for it.
My stomach churns, bile rising in my throat even now just thinking about it.
Because I know—I know—that moment never happened.
