The screen kept lighting up and, as I stared, my fingers hesitated over the passcode. He had once told me not to worry, that his phone password was our anniversary, so I could always check it. But when I typed the date, the phone said the code was wrong. Obviously, he had changed it.
They said no woman ever walked out of her husband’s phone smiling. With my heart racing, I pressed his finger to the sensor and unlocked it with his print.
There, I saw that the top chat wasn’t mine. It was that sultry girl, Dulce.
Opening their messages sent me tumbling down. They’d been close for a long time. Under a client label I recognized, their chat read like the old, intimate messages Ethan used to send me—sweet, flirtatious, electric. In a single day, he could send her thousands of messages, far more than he had said to me in the last two years.
[Ethan, I’ve reserved a VVIP seat for your performance tomorrow. Please come support me!] Together with that message, Dulce had also sent him the ticket location and seat info.
I just found out that she was an arts student, majoring in piano.