My name is Jonathan Clark. At thirty-two, I believed trust was the bedrock of any meaningful relationship. I was a senior project manager at a Chicago software firm, pulling a solid six-figure salary that afforded me a comfortable life in a Lincoln Park condo. It was the American dream, polished to a perfect shine. I was about to marry Meghan Davis, the woman I thought was my soulmate, and my relationship with my father, Robert Clark, was everything a son could want. He was my hero, my mentor, the man who taught me that integrity was worth more than any paycheck.
My father, sixty years old, was a respected real estate broker, his reputation built over three decades. He and my mother, Mary, had been married for thirty-five years, their bond the gold standard against which I measured all others. When I introduced him to Meghan two years ago, he welcomed her like the daughter he never had.
Meghan, thirty, was a sharp, beautiful marketing coordinator. We met at a Fourth of July barbecue, and within three months, I knew I wanted to spend my life with her. She fit into my family seamlessly. My mother adored her, and my father often remarked how lucky I was.
Our wedding was set for a crisp Saturday in October at St. Michael’s in Old Town. The reception at the Chicago History Museum was booked, invitations sent to 150 guests. I’d obsessed over every detail, from the vintage bourbon bar to the jazz trio. My life was a perfectly executed project plan, on schedule and under budget.
The night before the wedding, I was at the Palmer House Hotel with my father. My mother and Meghan were at another hotel, honoring the tradition of not seeing the groom. Robert and I were reviewing the next day’s timeline over room service when he excused himself to the restroom, leaving his iPhone unlocked on the table.
I wasn’t snooping. But a notification lit up the screen, and my eyes fell upon it. The words made my blood run cold.
It was a text from Meghan, sent just minutes before. It read: “Thank you for the unforgettable night, Robert. The way your lips explored every part of me won’t leave my mind. I can’t wait for the next time. You’re incredible. P.S. Our story will be our secret.”
Attached was a photo that left no room for doubt. It was an intimate picture of them together in a hotel room, taken the previous night.
