People whispered now. Phones angled for better views. Murmurs grew into questions.
“Is that his wife?”
“Are those his kids?”
“Who’s the woman with him?”
Nadia stepped back, as if distance could erase her involvement. Her lips trembled.
She realized too late what everyone else already knew: she wasn’t the woman he belonged to.
She was evidence of betrayal.
“Evelyn,” Victor finally said, his voice cracking.
She stepped forward—slow, deliberate. Not to close the distance. But to deepen the wound.
The children followed her, unsure.
Victor’s heart pounded.
Evelyn stopped just short of him. Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut like glass.
“This is what you carried her for?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She didn’t need one.
She bent down, lifted the smallest boy, and turned.
Past Victor. Past Nadia. Toward the exit. Toward freedom.
Reporters swarmed the entrance. “Victor Monroe, can you explain this?”
He couldn’t. How do you explain carrying the wrong woman’s bag when your real life walks past you holding your legacy?
