Chapter 47 Reasonable doubt

Chapter 47 Reasonable doubt
Jason’s POV
I made my way toward the sitting room, adjusting my cufflinks as I walked. The apartment was quiet in that particular way that only happened when someone had been awake for hours but had not done much except sit and think. The curtains were half open, letting in a dull stretch of morning light that settled over the furniture without warmth.
Trisha was sitting exactly where I expected her to be. One leg crossed over the other, her back straight, her posture deliberate. A glass of red wine rested in her hand, the liquid barely disturbed, as if she had been nursing it rather than drinking it. Her eyes were focused on nothing in particular, fixed somewhere ahead of her, distant but alert.
I stopped just short of the doorway and watched her for a moment.
“You used to drink,” I said finally. “You forgot to drink last night, and now you’re drinking this morning. Is that healthy?”
She did not look at me immediately. She lifted the glass instead and took a slow sip, letting it linger before swallowing. Then she turned her head toward me, her gaze steady, unimpressed.
“Is it healthy,” she replied calmly, “to sleep outside and come back the next morning full of excuses?”
I exhaled through my nose and shook my head slightly as I stepped farther into the room.
“I thought we already talked about this,” I said.
She shrugged, the movement light and dismissive. “Well, since you are questioning my healthy choices, I figured I might as well question yours.”
She placed the glass down on the table and stood, smoothing her top as she did. Her movements were unhurried, controlled. She walked toward me, stopping close enough that I could smell the wine on her breath, faint but present.
She reached up and straightened my collar, her fingers brushing against my neck.
“You look good for work, by the way,” she said.
“Thank you,” I replied. “But I really have to go.”
I leaned down and kissed her. It was brief, a simple peck on the lips. No hesitation, no softness, just a gesture meant to reassure rather than connect. It felt unusual even as I did it, like something performed out of obligation rather than instinct.
I turned toward the door and reached for my keys.
That was when I noticed the parcel.
It sat directly in front of the doorstep, plain brown cardboard, sealed neatly, unmarked except for a thin line of handwriting across the top. I paused, staring down at it.
I turned back toward Trisha. “Did you already order the phone?”
She blinked slowly, then shook her head. “No. I’m still drunk. I will go out later.”
“There is a parcel out here,” I said.
She frowned slightly but did not move closer.
I bent down and picked it up. It was lighter than I expected. No return address. No name. Nothing printed or stamped anywhere on the box. Just the handwriting.
I rotated it until I could read the words clearly.
Open me to find out.
I frowned.
“I really do not have time for this,” I muttered under my breath.
But curiosity had already settled in. I carried the parcel inside and placed it on the console table near the entrance. Trisha watched me now, her expression unreadable.
I hesitated for only a moment before opening it.
Inside were photographs.
I stared at the first one, my mind slow to process what I was seeing. Then I picked it up. Then another. And another.
Trisha. Wearing a gown I recognized. Her head tilted back slightly. Someone else’s mouth against her neck. A hand at her waist. Her expression caught somewhere between laughter and indulgence.
They were not nude. Nothing explicit in the obvious sense. But there was no mistaking what was happening. The intimacy was unmistakable. The closeness. The familiarity.
My chest tightened.
I carried the box into the sitting room and set it down on the table with more force than necessary.
“What is this?” I asked. “What is the meaning of this?”
Trisha’s eyes dropped to the photographs. She froze.
For a second, just one, I saw something flicker across her face. Surprise. Then confusion. Then something more guarded.
“I do not know,” she said slowly. “I do not remember last night.”
I stared at her. “You do not remember kissing someone who is not me?”
She shook her head quickly. “No. I do not. You saw what I wore when I came out, did you?”
I frowned. “Before you came out, I left. I did not see you after that.”
She nodded as if that confirmed something for her.
“Right. Right,” she said. “That is not what I wore. I literally slept on the bed. I was drunk. I barely made it through my pajamas before I passed out. You saw me before you left. I was drunk.”
I clenched my jaw.
She leaned closer to the table, studying the photos again. “I think I have this gown,” she said slowly. “Or something like it. But these pictures were taken from my phone. Not these exact ones, but the gown is mine.”
My stomach twisted.
“So you think someone stole your phone,” I said, “and staged photos of you kissing someone else?”
“I think,” she replied, lifting her gaze to meet mine, “that whoever took my phone did this intentionally.”
I crossed my arms. “And who exactly would do that?”
She hesitated, then straightened.
“Your ex,” she said. “She is after me. After she ruined my day at my workplace, this does not surprise me at all. I did not even tell you half of what happened. She showed up at my workplace and started making claims about me. Saying things that made people question me.”
I rubbed my temples.
“I do not have time for this,” I said, more sharply than I intended.
I dropped the box onto the nearest table and stepped back.
“I am sorry about this,” I continued. “I will sort it out. Okay, babe?”
She folded her arms. “You better,” she said. “Because I am tired of this bullshit.”
“I will,” I replied. “But first I really need to get to work.”
I turned toward the door, my head already filled with deadlines, explanations, damage control.
Behind me, I felt her eyes on my back.
I grabbed my keys, opened the door, and rushed out of the house.