I wasn’t a mistress, but no one believed me. In their seven years together, I had spent three years living in a villa on the outskirts of Altheris. Even though we did everything a married couple would, how many people besides Michael’s group of friends even knew I existed?
The one kept in the dark, hidden from the world, had always been me.
My silent trembling seemed to be noticed by her and she asked, "Will you come to pick it up, or should I mail it to you?"
I forced myself to stay calm and replied, "Trash like that? Just throw it away. I don’t need it."
I meant not just the outfit, but Michael as well.
She remained calm and composed, refusing to send another word my way.
Like a desperate voyeur in the dark, I couldn’t resist opening her social media feed, searching for traces of their love story.
But her feed was spotless—just pictures of travels around the world and a single photo of her pulling a suitcase with one hand.
That hand had roamed over me countless times.
It had held mine, time and again, as we watched the stars and talked about the moon.
He had even slipped a ring onto my finger, a symbol of loyalty and honesty.
Three years together, how could I not know it was Michael?