The Call Boy I Met in Paris – Episode 54
Patrick called Justin before the headline reached the largest news sites. “I am not sure I trust the source,” he said, “but Miss Swift is in trouble. Check the trending feed.” His voice carried the restrained urgency he used when a crisis could no longer be contained quietly.
Justin opened the link and saw Sophie slumped in Ted’s arms outside the café. The photograph had been cropped to hide her condition and framed to suggest intimacy. Beneath it, an anonymous account described her as publicly intoxicated and used language designed to humiliate rather than report.
A second post asked whether Sophie’s husband knew she had spent the night with an attractive mystery man. Comments multiplied faster than Patrick’s team could remove them. Some mocked her marriage; others called her unstable, promiscuous, or unfit to lead Swift Company.
Justin stared at the image long enough to recognize what the caption concealed. Sophie was not embracing Ted. Her arms hung without strength, and her head had fallen against his shoulder because she appeared incapable of holding it up.
“Find the original footage,” he ordered. “Identify who contacted the photographers, preserve every post, and issue takedown notices. I want a doctor sent to Sophie’s apartment immediately.”
“Already moving,” Patrick said. “The café cameras may tell us who she met.”
Justin ended the call and drove himself. Rage urged him to blame Ted, because Ted had been the man holding her and because jealousy made simple conclusions tempting. The evidence in the photograph stopped him. Whatever had happened, Sophie looked like a victim, not a woman caught betraying him.
The apartment door was unlocked. Justin entered and found Ted bending over the bed, adjusting a blanket around Sophie. For one blinding instant, instinct overpowered reason.
“What are you doing?” Justin crossed the room and pulled him back. “Are you out of your mind?”
Ted shoved his hand away but kept his voice low. “She is sleeping. If you want to yell, we talk outside.”
Justin looked at Sophie. Her face had no color, and a hospital band circled her wrist. The sight cut through his fury and replaced it with something colder. “What happened to her?”
“I found her barely conscious at the café. The doctor believes she was drugged.” Ted indicated the medical instructions on the bedside table. “They ran tests. She needs rest and someone nearby until morning.”
Justin’s gaze returned to the photographs on his phone. Stella’s invitation, Sophie’s abrupt silence, and the conveniently waiting cameras formed a pattern too deliberate to dismiss. “Why did you take her home instead of calling me?”
“I was busy making sure she could breathe.” Ted’s restraint began to fracture. “Her safety mattered more than protecting your pride.”
“She is my wife.”
“Then act like it.” Ted stepped between him and the bed. “If you are willing to believe one poisonous headline before looking at her condition, you do not deserve her at all.”
Justin might have struck another man for less, but Ted’s anger came from the same place as his own. He looked past him at Sophie and forced his hands to unclench. “I never believed she cheated.”
“Good,” Ted said. “Because whoever did this is counting on the two of us fighting while Sophie pays the price.”