Jocelyn sat on the sofa, her spine perfectly straight, a posture of rigid control. On the coffee table in front of her, two glasses of water sat on cork coasters. One for her, one for him. A final, pointless courtesy.
The silence in the apartment was absolute, broken only by the faint hum of the city twenty floors below.
Then, the doorbell chimed.
Her eyes flickered to the intercom screen. Connor's face appeared, handsome and untroubled. He was smiling, a casual, easy grin that used to make her heart ache with love. Now, it just made her stomach turn. In his hand, he held a bouquet of white roses, her favorite.
The hypocrisy was breathtaking.
Her finger pressed the 'unlock' button. No emotion registered on her face.
The lock clicked, and the heavy door swung open. Connor stepped inside, his smile widening. "Hey, honey, what's so urgent? I was just picking up flowers for you."
He moved to embrace her, to press his lying mouth against hers.
Jocelyn took a small, deliberate step back. It wasn't a dramatic flinch, but it was enough. An invisible wall of ice shot up between them.
Connor's arms dropped to his sides. The smile on his face faltered, replaced by a flicker of confusion. He studied her face, his brow furrowing. "What's wrong? You look pale."
She didn't answer. She simply gestured with her eyes toward the armchair opposite her. Sit.
He hesitated, the roses dangling awkwardly from his hand. The buoyant energy he'd walked in with had evaporated, replaced by a creeping unease. He placed the flowers on a side table and sat down, his knees looking suddenly clumsy. He rubbed his palms together, a nervous habit she'd seen a thousand times.
Jocelyn leaned forward and pushed her phone across the smooth surface of the coffee table. It lay between them, screen-down, a dark, silent rectangle of potential energy.
Her voice, when she finally spoke, was as cold and clear as the water in the glasses. "Connor, where were you last night?"
A visible wave of relief washed over him. His shoulders relaxed slightly. This was it? This was the emergency? A simple question about his whereabouts. He clearly thought this was some pre-wedding jitters, a bride's last-minute panic.
He launched into the lie so smoothly, so effortlessly, it was almost impressive. "I was with the guys, Joss. A little bachelor party pre-game, you know that. We stayed at the hotel."
A tiny, cruel smile touched the corner of Jocelyn's mouth. "Which hotel?"
His eyes darted away for a fraction of a second. A tell. He was searching for a name, any name. "The Grand Hyatt. Why are you asking all this? Is everything okay?"
She ignored his feigned concern. The interrogation continued, each question a tightening of the noose. "And Amber? Did you happen to see her recently?"
The mention of her sister's name made his body go rigid. It was a subtle shift, but she saw it. The muscles in his jaw tightened. He forced a casual laugh, but it sounded strained, brittle. "Amber? No, why would I see her? Isn't she busy with maid of honor stuff?"
Jocelyn just watched him, her gaze unwavering. She let the silence stretch, letting him stew in his own deceit. It was like watching a man walk knowingly into quicksand.
Finally, she reached for her phone. Her movements were slow, theatrical. She picked it up, unlocked it with a swipe of her thumb, and turned the screen to face him.
The first photo filled the display. His own sleeping face, peaceful and oblivious. And next to it, Amber's hand, the red nails like drops of blood against the white sheets, the peace sign a juvenile taunt. Her engagement ring on Amber's finger.
Connor's pupils contracted to pinpricks. The blood drained from his face, leaving his skin a sickly, waxy color. He looked like he'd seen a ghost.
He shot up from the armchair as if the seat had been electrified. "This... this is not what it looks like!" he stammered, his voice cracking. "It's... it's photoshopped! Amber... she's trying to frame me! She's always been jealous of us!"
Jocelyn's expression didn't change. Her thumb moved with chilling calm, swiping to the next image. The selfie. Amber snuggled against his chest, her smug smile a declaration of victory.
Her voice was quiet, but it cut through his frantic denials like a surgeon's scalpel. "The birthmark on your shoulder," she said, her tone conversational. "The lamp I bought last week. Even the sheets from our bed. The ones I had delivered on Tuesday. Are those photoshopped too, Connor?"
Each detail was a nail hammered into the coffin of his lies.
He stared at the screen, his mouth opening and closing, but no sound came out. The carefully constructed facade of the devoted fiancé crumbled into dust, revealing the weak, terrified man beneath. He collapsed back into the chair, his body deflating as if all the bones had been removed. He covered his face with his hands.
Jocelyn pulled the phone back, the screen going dark. "Stop lying, Connor," she said, a weary disgust lacing her words. "It's pathetic."
A choked sob escaped him. He dropped his hands and looked at her, his eyes swimming with tears of panic and self-pity. "I'm sorry, Joss. I'm so, so sorry. It was a mistake. A terrible, stupid mistake."
She looked at him, truly looked at him, and felt nothing. No pain, no anger, just a vast, empty coldness. The man she was supposed to marry was a stranger. A pathetic, lying stranger.
"When did it start?" she asked, her voice flat.
He hesitated, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Three weeks ago," he mumbled. "It only happened once, I swear. Last night was the only time."
Jocelyn let out a short, sharp laugh that held no humor. She turned the phone screen toward him one last time, displaying Amber's text message. She read the words aloud, her voice dripping with scorn.
"'Says he loves me more.'"
Connor's face went from pale to ashen. He stared at the words, knowing he was utterly and completely trapped. There was no way out.
Jocelyn stood up, towering over his crumpled form. Any lingering shred of hope she might have had for an explanation, for some context that made sense of this madness, died in that moment. It wasn't a mistake. It was a choice. A series of choices.
Now, only one question remained. Not why he did it. But why Amber did.
