I FOUND A WORN BOOK IN HIS BAG AND IT WASN’T THE ONE HE CLAIMED
The spine of the worn book felt rough under my fingers as I pulled it from the bottom of his travel bag. He’d sworn this particular library copy was long overdue, something he’d forgotten about for weeks, stuffed deep inside. But this one, unlike the one he usually reads, smelled faintly but distinctly of stale cigar smoke, a smell he always claimed he couldn’t stand being near.
Curiosity overriding my unease, I slid the cheap plastic bookmark out, expecting a receipt. Instead, something flat and small fluttered from between the pages, landing with a faint clatter on the cold hardwood floor where I was standing. My heart hammered against my ribs as I picked it up – a hotel key card.
My hands were shaking as I read it. “What is THIS?” I demanded, holding the plastic rectangle out to him, my voice suddenly loud and unsteady despite myself. He went completely pale, fumbling for words, stammering something about a last-minute detour on a work trip he took last month, said it was for a quick meeting.
He was supposed to be in Chicago that entire week, staying on his brother’s pull-out couch near the airport, absolutely nowhere near Denver or a ‘Grand City Suites.’ Then I saw the name printed faintly on the card – ‘Guest: Sarah Miller’.
👇 *Full story continued in the comments…*His forced explanation crumbled before my eyes. The confidence, the easy charm he usually wielded so effortlessly, vanished. “Sarah Miller… who is Sarah Miller?” I pressed, my voice dangerously low.
He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them, a look of abject defeat washing over his face. “It’s… complicated,” he mumbled, avoiding my gaze.
Complicated? Complicated wasn’t a forgotten library book. Complicated wasn’t a hotel key card from Denver with another woman’s name on it. Complicated was an understatement for the gaping chasm that was now forming between us.
He launched into a convoluted story about a business conference in Chicago, a last-minute change of plans orchestrated by his boss, a vital client based in Denver, and Sarah, a colleague who had helped him prepare for the meeting. He claimed he’d booked the hotel to avoid inconveniencing his brother further, that Sarah was strictly a work contact, and the key card… he couldn’t explain the key card. He swore nothing happened.
But the stale cigar smoke clinging to the pages of the book painted a different picture. It spoke of clandestine meetings, hushed conversations, and a secret life I knew nothing about. The book wasn’t an innocent mistake; it was a breadcrumb, a clue to a betrayal I wasn’t sure I could forgive.
I looked at him, really looked at him, and the man I thought I knew – the man I loved – seemed like a stranger. The trust was gone, replaced by a cold, hollow ache in my chest.
“I need you to leave,” I said, my voice trembling slightly.
He started to protest, to plead, but I held up a hand, stopping him. “Just go. I need time to think, to process this. I can’t even look at you right now.”
He packed his bag, his movements slow and defeated. As he reached the door, he turned back, his eyes filled with regret. “Please believe me,” he whispered.
I didn’t answer. The door clicked shut, and I was left alone with the worn book, the key card, and the crushing weight of a broken promise. The future stretched before me, uncertain and painful, but one thing was clear: my life would never be the same. Whether I could forgive him, whether we could rebuild what we had lost, remained to be seen. But for now, all I could feel was the bitter taste of betrayal.