Attached was a picture: Julian, looking happier and more relaxed than he had in years, his arm casually draped over Lesley's shoulders. They were standing in front of a modern abstract piece, a sardonic backdrop to their vulgar reality.
[Just had the most amazing lobster bisque at that fancy new French place Julian loves. He said you took him there once, ever since that day he wanted to take me there to enjoy the food!]
A picture of two champagne flutes clinking, Julian's hand recognizable by the silver watch I had bought him, now raised in a toast to the woman he had sold me for.
[Morning, sleeping beauty! Julian is making me breakfast in bed. Pancakes and fresh coffee. He's such a domestic god! You know, he never did these things for you. So sad!]
A disgusting, overly bright picture of a breakfast tray resting on white satin sheets. Julian's hand was visible, pouring syrup, wearing the wedding ring I had put on his finger.
I wanted to throw the phone across the room, but my hand was frozen, compelled to scroll. Lesley's messages were a steady stream of calculated cruelty, designed not just to inform me, but to dismantle my self-worth piece by piece.