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I found the secret couple's acc0unt on his old computer. Eight years of posts. Eight years of her. He took her to Iceland every September. I begged him for those photos once. He said it was a waste of m0ney. Last night, he came home with a keychain for me. And a suitcase full of gifts for her parents. This morning, I made him breakfast. He left because she had a fever. The wedding photos we were supposed to take today? Canceled. I packed one suitcase. That's all I had after eight years. Then I opened my laptop and posted everything. The screenshots. The timeline. The other woman's smug captions. [Eight years. Now the whole world knows.] I left the keychain on the table. My plane leaves in three hours. He's still peeling apples for her. But he doesn't know yet. The apartment deed with my name on it? I signed it over to a domestic violence shelter this morning. Every designer shirt I helped pay for? Already donated. And that little envelope I left inside his nightstand? The recording he thought I deleted is inside. He'll open it tonight. Right after he finds out I'm gone. When I canceled the five-figure wedding photo package, the consultant at the studio froze. "Ms. Hayes, the deposit is nonrefundable. Are you sure you don't want to wait until your fiancé gets back from his business trip and discuss it with him?" I pushed the receipt across the counter and said softly, "There's no need. He's busy watching the northern lights in Iceland with his childhood sweeth34rt." Michael Whitmore and I had been together for eight years. During those eight years, I had told him countless times that I wanted to take our wedding photos beneath the northern lights in Iceland. Every time, he would frown and say, "It's far and expensive. Don't waste m0#n33y on that kind of flashy nonsense. A wedding photography studio can just Photoshop in the northern lights afterward. It's basically the same." Then, last night, I found a couple's acc0#unt with more than a m!11=
