Not like that.
Not ever.
And then his voice in the video—low, earnest, like he’s confessing something sacred.
“I love you, Esme. It’s always been you.”
I freeze.
Because what comes next?
It’s my voice.
My voice.
Soft. Breathless. Intimate.
“I love you, too, Baby. So much.”
A broken sound tears out of me as I rip the phone away from my face, like distance alone can undo what I just saw.
What I’ve been replaying most often at times like these when I seem to want to torture myself.
My hands are shaking so badly I almost drop it.
“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no?—”
That’s not me.
I didn’t say that.
I would never say that. Not to him. Not to anyone who wasn’t my husband.
Not to anyone who wasn’t Benji.
My chest tightens until it hurts to breathe, panic clawing up my throat as I hit replay—because maybe I’m wrong.
Maybe there’s some explanation. Maybe there’s something I missed.
But it’s the same every time.
The same angles.
The same expressions.
The same lie.
It’s seamless. Clean. Convincing.
Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing.
And Paul?
Paul knew Benji.
Knew how he thinks.
What would break him.
