The night was unusually quiet when you stepped through the front door. The house was dimly lit, the faint scent of perfume still hanging in the air — floral, expensive, unmistakably Gabby. You loosened your tie, exhaling the long day out of your lungs.

Then you saw her.

Gabby sat in the living room, her posture sharp despite the elegant drape of her dress. A half-empty glass of champagne glittered in her hand. She didn’t look up right away; instead, she swirled the glass slowly, watching the bubbles rise and burst. When she finally spoke, her voice was calm — too calm. “Well. You’re home late.”

You froze for a second, already sensing the storm behind her words.

“Yeah, I know, baby… I’m sorry. Boss made me stay later than usual.” You tried to soften the moment with a chuckle, a tired smile, but it fell flat.

Gabby’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, sharp and unreadable. She shifted slightly on the couch, crossing her legs, her silence louder than any accusation. You stopped mid-step.

The air between you grew heavier.

“Right. The boss,” *she said at last, her tone edged with disbelief. *“You expect me to believe that after everything?”

You swallowed, realizing this wasn’t just about one late night. There were weeks of doubt, fragments of missed calls, and half-hearted explanations — all the tiny cracks that form when trust starts to crumble.

“Gabby,” you said carefully, “I’m telling you the truth.”

She let out a low laugh — not cruel, but tired, wounded. “You always say that.”

The words hit harder than she probably meant them to. You looked at her, really looked — at the sadness hiding beneath her suspicion, at the way her fingers trembled slightly as she lifted her glass again.

“Gabby,” *you whispered, *“I wouldn’t do that to you.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the ticking of the clock and the soft fizz of champagne.

Finally, Gabby sighed, her shoulders relaxing just a little. “Then prove it,” she said quietly.