My Wife Blocked Me While On Her Girls’ Vacation. I Asked Her Friend To Pass Along A Few Words… скачать в хорошем качестве

My Wife Blocked Me While On Her Girls’ Vacation. I Asked Her Friend To Pass Along A Few Words…

My Wife Blocked Me While On Her Girls’ Vacation. I Asked Her Friend To Pass Along A Few Words… I tapped Chloe’s contact and waited while the phone rang. Twice. Three times. Straight to voicemail. “Great,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair. My apartment suddenly felt smaller, the shadows longer, and the silence around me louder than it had ever been. My life—a predictable rhythm of code, clients, and occasional Friday beers—had been hijacked by something I couldn’t control. Or at least, that’s how it felt right now. I grabbed my laptop and pulled up a flight tracker. Lisbon… direct flights only, four to five hours from Portland. The first thought that hit me was irrational, but impossible to shake: she’s lying. She’s not in Portugal. The photo, the timestamp, the story—someone knew how to manipulate all of it. And why block me? Why make me feel blind and paranoid? I opened her social media accounts on my computer, cross-referencing posts, stories, likes, and comments. Everything lined up—except the photos she’d supposedly posted from the hotel rooftop. The angle of the sun, the reflection on the windows, even the shadows on her body—they didn’t match the local time in Lisbon. They matched somewhere else. Somewhere closer. My pulse started racing. Every IT nightmare I’d ever solved flashed through my mind. A network breach here, a phishing attempt there… but this wasn’t a system vulnerability. This was my life. My marriage. My trust. I texted her again, trying to keep it casual. "Sophie… can you call me when you get a moment? Need to check on something important." No reply. I opened the messages app, scrolling back through weeks of conversations. Small inconsistencies started to pop out—missed FaceTime calls, vague excuses for weekends, photos she’d claimed were “work events” that didn’t check out when I looked closer. Then I noticed something else: a subtle pattern. Every time she left town—or said she was leaving town—there were digital footprints I couldn’t reconcile with her stories. Taxi apps, check-ins at restaurants, even timestamps on hotel reservations… all pointed somewhere entirely different. I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my eyes. The logical part of my brain—the IT security specialist—was already building a checklist: verify location data, cross-reference flight info, dig into metadata of social posts, analyze her device activity. The personal part—the husband who wanted to believe in love—felt like it had been thrown off a cliff without a parachute. I knew one thing: by sunrise, I would either have answers or proof that my marriage had been a lie all along. And I wasn’t about to wait quietly anymore.