The moment Charlotte left me alone, I slipped back into Julian's bedroom. That cut photograph haunted me, its jagged edge like a physical manifestation of the lies between us. Something wasn't right, and I couldn't ignore it anymore.
I closed the door quietly behind me and leaned against it, heart hammering. The party continued downstairs—laughter and music filtering up through the floorboards while I stood in my fiancé's childhood bedroom, preparing to invade his privacy.
Was I really doing this? Searching through Julian's things like some paranoid, jealous fiancée?
Yes. Because paranoia implied irrationality, and there was nothing irrational about my suspicions.
I moved methodically through the room, checking dresser drawers first. Nothing but perfectly folded clothes and a few cufflinks. The desk contained only blank stationery and pens. Everything was impeccably organized—almost too perfect, as if it had been carefully curated for inspection.
