Dragging my aching body into the living room, I noticed a phone lying on the sofa—an unfamiliar one. In his hurry to meet his lover, Anthony had forgotten to take it.
In all our years of marriage, I had never known he had another phone.
The passcode was Vanessa’s birthday.
I remembered it clearly—when I had sued her, I’d memorized her personal information.
The Instagram account on this phone had only one contact: Vanessa.
Her name was saved with three emojis—man, heart, woman.
A simple, blatant declaration of love.
The gallery held over ten thousand photos—every single one of them was Anthony, Vanessa, and their child, smiling and embracing.
All those “business trips” of his were trips abroad with them, for shopping, sightseeing, and luxury vacations.
Transfer records of staggering amounts, receipts for designer goods—each one a slap in the face for my stupidity.
Even worse, every night, after my daughter and I were asleep, he would go upstairs to be with Vanessa.
And then I read the messages—each one a blade twisting into my chest.
[Anthony, thank you for turning down that multi-billion contract just to be with me during childbirth. With you here, I’m not afraid of anything...]