Connor didn’t defend himself. He didn’t protest or deflect. Instead, something inside him seemed to collapse. His shoulders dropped, and his eyes welled up as he sat down heavily on the edge of the couch. “You think I’m cheating on you,” he whispered. “But that’s not what this is.”
Julia said nothing, stunned by the shift in his demeanor. She had expected denial, maybe defiance. But not this—this sudden, raw grief. “Then what is it, Connor?” she asked, voice low. “Who is she?” He looked up at her then, eyes shining. “Elena is my perfumery instructor.”