My hand trembled as I opened it.

Every word on the screen was a dagger to my heart.

[February 5. Meeting Phoebe was the luckiest thing that ever happened to me. Unlike Willow, who reeks of cheap grease. The smell makes me sick.]

[March 10. Phoebe had terrible morning sickness today. The bacon smell on Willow's clothes meant she couldn't eat a bite. Pregnancy is so hard on her.]

[April 2. The research grant came in. Didn't tell Willow. Bought Phoebe those diamond earrings she wanted.]

[My beloved Phoebe.]

So, the woman had a name.

Phoebe Montgomery. The very same “eager underclassman” he’d so often mentioned.

A hidden folder in his cloud drive was filled with screenshots of electronic receipts. Each one was more chilling than the last.

Designer crib — $8,000.

Luxury postpartum care service — $15,000.

Down payment for a luxury condo in Redwood Hills — $200,000.

I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood.

The day he paid that down payment—

Was the day of my second miscarriage.

That day, he told me he couldn’t afford to send me to a hospital for the D&C I needed because he had to pay an “emergency treatment fee.” Instead, he bought me painkillers from a 7-Eleven. He had put on such a show of remorse, promising he would make it up to me and give me a better life after he graduated.

I suppose his better life had indeed arrived.

It just didn't include me.

A venomous rage began to boil in my veins.

I had pinched every penny, wearing threadbare clothes while giving him the best of everything.

And he was disgusted by the honest smell of my work, taking every sacrifice for granted.

The money I earned, leaving before dawn and returning after midnight?

He had used it to build a love nest with another woman.

Four years.

I had raised a monster.

I wouldn't let him get away with this.

I hunched over the screen, saving a screenshot of every single receipt to my email.

Evidence.

When Idris came home, he was practically glowing.

He held up a cheap supermarket cupcake. “Got it on sale. To celebrate.”

I took it without a word.

He started rambling, a sure sign of guilt.

“The ceremony was so boring. The president's speech went on forever, I almost fell asleep. It's a good thing you didn't come—you would have been miserable.”

My gaze fell on the 99-cent price tag.

“I heard the families of outstanding graduates get invited on stage. Is that true?”

Idris’s smile froze.

His eyes darted around for a second before he waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t listen to rumors. It’s all complicated academic stuff. You wouldn’t understand it anyway, so don't worry about it.”

His words were a slap in the face.

The cupcake in my hand was nearly crushed.

His phone rang.

“A friend calling to congratulate me,” he muttered, already hurrying toward the balcony.

I watched him go.

His steps were steady, effortless, agile. He moved with an ease that betrayed no hint of a man with a severe spinal injury.

I quietly followed him out.

His voice was low and gentle.

“Phoebe, don't cry. Of course I love you. As soon as I finalize the new job tomorrow, I'll divorce her. I’ll give you and the baby a real home.”

So that was his plan.

The moment his brilliant future began—

I’d be thrown out like trash.

My hands shaking, I recorded every word.

Then I slid down the wall, silent tears tracking paths through the day’s grime on my cheeks.

This would not be my end.

That night, after Idris was sound asleep, I picked up his phone.

In the list of accounts he followed was a private Instagram.

The profile picture was blank.

Username: Starry_S.

The latest post was from this afternoon.

[Happy graduation, my dear husband, Dr. Crestwood.]

In the photo, Idris was holding his diploma, hugging Phoebe on stage.

My vision blurred as I scrolled down.

Yesterday:

[Have to dress up beautifully. A doctor's wife must attend the degree ceremony!]

Phoebe, in her white dress, stood on her toes to kiss him.

Last week:

[Our little miracle.]

A photo of an ultrasound scan.

Twenty-four weeks pregnant.

I couldn't look anymore. I wanted to smash the phone against Idris's smug, sleeping face.

Then another notification popped up.

Phoebe had posted again.

[Our new home is ready—a double joy!]

[Tomorrow is Idris's job celebration and our housewarming party. Friends, please come join us!]

[10 AM, 1006 Oak Avenue, Redwood Hills. Our family of three will be waiting for you!]