My Best Friend Despised My Husband—Now I Know Why
Blaire never liked my husband.
“Don’t trust him,” she used to warn.
She vanished just weeks after our wedding. No goodbye, no explanation. I was heartbroken.
Joran, my husband, told me to move on. “Let her go,” he said.
Three years passed before Blaire reappeared. When I saw her, I nearly didn’t recognize her.
The Blaire I knew wore thrifted jeans and sipped gas station coffee. This woman stepped out of a luxury car in stilettos and a camel coat that screamed designer. Her hair was sleek, her stance confident—but her eyes were unmistakable. Fierce. Focused.
“Delia,” she said gently. “Can we talk?”
We sat at a small café near my office. The silence was suffocating. I didn’t know whether to hug her or demand answers.
“I left because I couldn’t bear to watch you get hurt,” she said.
“By who?” I asked. “Joran?”
She nodded. “I found out something. Something you needed to know. But back then, you wouldn’t have listened.”
I gave a nervous laugh. “Blaire, I’ve been married three years. We have a house, a dog. He brings me coffee every morning.”
She sighed and handed me her phone. “Just read this.”
Messages. Emails. From Joran—to her.
My chest tightened as I scrolled.
Some were dated right before our wedding. Others were recent. All of them had the same undertone—flirtation, manipulation. He called her “a mistake.” He begged her to stay quiet. There were implications I hadn’t even considered.
“You two…?” I asked, barely able to say it.
“We kissed,” she said quickly. “Six months before your wedding. I told him it was wrong. He claimed he was confused. I walked away. But he didn’t stop.”
Rage bubbled up in me—at her, at him, at myself.
“You should’ve told me.”
“I tried,” she whispered. “But you were in love. You shut me out. Remember when I said he wasn’t who he seemed? You said, ‘Love means trust.’”
I remembered. I had said that.
That night, I went home in a daze. I didn’t confront Joran right away—I needed to be sure.
I dug into our accounts. Checked his phone records. Created a fake email and messaged him, pretending to be someone else.
His response? Fast, flirty, familiar. It chilled me.
Then came the final blow.
A hidden credit card statement—restaurants, jewelry, hotel stays. Nothing that aligned with our life.
One charge stood out: a boutique in Charleston.
That’s where Blaire had lived.
When I showed Joran the receipt, he laughed. Laughed.
“Oh, come on, Delia. You’re being paranoid,” he said. “I bought…”