Even knowing the photos were fabricated, Trent Brown was still shaking like a leaf. "Babe, those photos are fake; someone's trying to frame me. I swear I didn't do anything to hurt you."
His wife's sharp voice came through the phone: "Trent Brown, do you think I'm an idiot? You're just an interior decorator, not big shot; who would bother framing you?"
Trent Brown felt like words were useless: "Honey, you have to believe me. Someone is trying to pin this on me. I swear, if I did anything to betray you, I'll get what's coming."
His wife snapped back, "Trent Brown, not only do you not admit your mistake, but you're arguing with me. I'm telling you now, I'm not living with you anymore!"
"Darling, I swear," Trent Brown started, but was cut off. "If you won't admit it, then don't bother coming home."
No matter what Trent Brown said, he couldn't convince her that he was being framed.
He didn't have any enemies; who would want to frame him?
Without much thought, he figured it must be Jeremy Artis, whom he had just called.
He dialed a number and said, "Jeremy, I was just joking with you; no need to take it so seriously."
Marcus Hartley responded coolly, "What?"
Trent Brown, "Don’t play dumb. Those photos my wife received must have been sent by you. I'm sorry. I apologize. Can you explain this to my wife? If you don’t, she’s going to divorce me."
Marcus chuckled. "What did you do wrong?"
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