The weekend stretched before me like a prison sentence.

I sat in our apartment—my apartment now, I supposed—staring at the throw pillows I'd bought on Black Friday. They were still in their shopping bags by the door, along with the kitchen towels and the scented candles that were supposed to make our home feel warmer, more complete. Now they just looked like evidence of my own stupidity.

Dorian hadn't come home Friday night. Or Saturday. His first text came around midnight Friday: "Staying at Jake's tonight. Need some space to think."

Space to think. As if I was the one who'd done something wrong. As if I was the one who'd been caught in a parking lot with someone else's hands on my waist.

Saturday brought more texts, each one more infuriating than the last. "This is complicated, Leo. We need to talk when things calm down." Then, hours later: "I'm not the bad guy here. You embarrassed me in front of a colleague."

A colleague. That's what Marissa was now. A colleague.

I'd thrown my phone across the room after that one, watched it skitter across the hardwood floor we'd picked out together. The screen cracked in a spider web pattern, which felt appropriate somehow. Everything was breaking.

Sunday was worse. The silence stretched on until evening, when he finally sent: "Staying at Mike's tonight. See you at work tomorrow. We'll figure this out like adults."

Like adults. As if adults threatened their girlfriends' jobs when they got caught cheating.

I'd spent the weekend cycling through every emotion I had. Rage that made me want to throw things, break things, scream until my throat was raw. Heartbreak that left me sobbing into the couch cushions that still smelled like his cologne. And underneath it all, a creeping, paralyzing fear.

He was my supervisor. He could make my life at work a living hell, or worse—he could fire me. I'd worked so hard to get where I was, had put in long hours and taken on extra projects to prove myself worthy of the energy sector. The thought of losing it all because I'd caught my boyfriend cheating made me physically sick.

By Sunday night, I'd convinced myself that maybe I was overreacting. Maybe there was an explanation. Maybe Marissa really was just a colleague, and I'd misread the situation. Maybe the stress of work and the holidays had made me paranoid, jealous, irrational.

Maybe I was the problem.

I'd almost talked myself into apologizing by the time Monday morning rolled around.

Almost.

The commute to work felt surreal, like I was moving through a dream. I'd chosen my outfit carefully—a navy blue blazer and matching skirt, professional but not trying too hard. I wanted to look competent, unshakeable, like someone who had her life together. The opposite of how I felt inside.

I was still in the lobby, checking my reflection in the polished elevator doors and trying to psych myself up for whatever conversation awaited me with Dorian, when I heard my name.

"Leona Moore?"

I turned to find a woman in her forties with short gray hair and a serious expression. I recognized her vaguely—someone from HR, though I couldn't remember her name. She wore a dark pantsuit that screamed 'official business,' and her smile was the kind that didn't reach her eyes.

"Yes, that's me."

"I'm Janet Collins, from Human Resources. I need to speak with you before you head up to your floor. Do you have a moment?"

The words sent a chill down my spine. HR didn't intercept people in lobbies for casual chats. This was serious. This was bad.

"Of course," I managed, my voice steadier than I felt.

She led me to a small conference room on the second floor, one I'd never been in before. It had the sterile feel of a doctor's office—beige walls, fluorescent lighting, a round table surrounded by uncomfortable-looking chairs. Janet gestured for me to sit, then closed the door with a soft click that sounded ominous in the quiet room.

"Leona, I want to start by saying that these conversations are never easy, but they're necessary." She settled into the chair across from me, a manila folder in her hands. "Over the weekend, some concerning information was brought to our attention through several of our internal communication channels."

My mouth went dry. "What kind of information?"

Janet opened the folder and pulled out several printed screenshots. Even upside down, I could see they were from the company's group chats—the ones for our department, the ones for the broader energy division, even the company-wide social channel where people shared lunch recommendations and birthday announcements.

"These messages were posted by Dorian Scott over the weekend," she said, sliding the papers toward me. "I need you to look at them and tell me if there's any truth to the claims being made."

With shaking hands, I turned the screenshots right-side up and began to read. The words seemed to swim on the page at first, my brain refusing to process what I was seeing.

Dorian's profile picture smiled up at me from message after message, posted across multiple group chats. The tone was casual, almost conversational, as if he was just sharing workplace gossip.

"Just a heads up for everyone—be careful around certain team members. Some people bring their personal drama to work, and it's not always... clean, if you know what I mean."

"Without naming names, just want people to be aware that some folks might not be as professional as they appear. Health issues can be... contagious."

"Ladies especially should be cautious in the restrooms. You never know what you might pick up from someone who doesn't take care of themselves."

The messages went on, each one more vicious than the last. He never mentioned my name directly, but the implications were clear. He was painting me as promiscuous, diseased, dangerous. He was destroying my reputation with surgical precision, using just enough innuendo to avoid outright slander while making sure everyone knew exactly who he was talking about.

I felt bile rise in my throat. "This is... this is about me."

Janet's expression was carefully neutral. "We believe so, yes. Several employees have reached out to HR asking for clarification about these posts, and your name has come up in those conversations."

"It's not true," I whispered, then louder, stronger: "None of this is true. He's lying."

"I understand this must be very upsetting," Janet said, her tone professional but not unkind. "However, given the serious nature of these allegations—particularly the health-related implications—we need more than your word. We need documentation, medical records, something concrete that can definitively disprove these claims."

"You want me to prove I don't have an STD?" The words came out strangled, disbelieving.

"I know it's invasive, but without that kind of evidence, we have no choice but to place you on administrative leave while we investigate. The company has a responsibility to protect all employees, and if there's even a chance—"

"There's no chance!" I shot to my feet, the chair scraping against the floor. "This is retaliation! He's doing this because I caught him cheating!"

Janet's eyebrows rose slightly. "Cheating?"

The question hung in the air, and I realized I'd just admitted to having a personal relationship with my supervisor. Another strike against me in the corporate handbook.

"I... we..." I sank back into the chair, suddenly exhausted. "We were dating. I caught him with another woman on Friday, and now he's trying to destroy my career to keep me quiet."

"I see." Janet made a note in her folder. "That's certainly relevant information. However, it doesn't change the fact that these allegations are now part of the company record, and we need concrete evidence to refute them."

She slid a business card across the table. "This is the name of a clinic that can provide the kind of documentation we need. Fast turnaround, completely confidential. If you can get us a clean bill of health by Wednesday, we can move forward with addressing the source of these rumors."

I stared at the card, my vision blurring. Two days. I had two days to prove my innocence, to provide medical documentation of my sexual health like some kind of criminal defendant.

"What happens if I refuse?"

"Then we have no choice but to proceed with the administrative leave," Janet said quietly. "I'm sorry, Leona. I know this isn't fair. But we have policies, and liability concerns, and—"

"And a reputation to protect," I finished bitterly.

She didn't deny it.

I stood up slowly, my legs unsteady. "I need to get to my desk."

"Of course. And Leona?" She waited until I looked at her. "For what it's worth, I hope we can resolve this quickly. You have a good reputation here, and I'd hate to see that destroyed over... personal conflicts."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, and walked out of the conference room on shaking legs. The elevator ride to my floor felt endless, each ding of the floors counting down to my public humiliation.

The moment I stepped onto the fifth floor, I knew everyone had seen the messages. The usual morning chatter died away, replaced by a suffocating silence broken only by the sound of my heels on the tile floor. Conversations resumed in whispers as I passed, and I caught fragments that made my cheeks burn.

"...heard she's got something..."

"...always wondered about her and Scott..."

"...explains why she's been so moody lately..."

Someone snickered. Someone else made a crude joke about checking the toilet seats. The laughter that followed felt like knives sliding between my ribs.

I kept my eyes straight ahead, my spine rigid, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other until I reached my desk. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely log into my computer, and when I finally managed it, I found seventeen new messages in my work email. Most were from colleagues asking if I was "okay" with that particular tone of false concern that really meant 'tell me all the gossip.' A few were more direct, asking if the rumors were true.

One was from my mother, forwarded from someone she worked with who'd apparently heard through the corporate graprapevine. "Honey, call me. Are you alright?"

I closed my email without responding to any of them and looked around the office with new eyes. These people I'd worked alongside for three years, shared coffee with, celebrated birthdays and promotions with—they were all looking at me like I was contaminated. Like I was dangerous.

And somewhere in this building, Dorian was probably sitting in his office, satisfied with a job well done.

I walked toward Dorian's desk with my chin up, trying to project confidence I didn't feel. Each step felt like walking through quicksand, heavy and deliberate, while dozens of pairs of eyes tracked my movement across the office floor.

His desk sat empty in the corner, his computer monitor dark, but his phone lay there charging—a sleek black rectangle that might hold all the answers I needed. The irony wasn't lost on me that the device he'd used to destroy my reputation over the weekend might be the very thing that could save it.

"Look who decided to show up," came a voice from behind me. I recognized it as Marcus from accounting, though I didn't turn around. "Brave of her, considering."

A few snickers followed, then someone else chimed in with a stage whisper clearly meant for me to hear: "Better keep your distance, man. You don't know where she's been."

My cheeks burned, but I kept walking. The cruel laughter that erupted made my stomach clench, but I forced myself not to react. They wanted a show, wanted to see me break down or lash out. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

I reached Dorian's desk and stood there for a moment, staring at his phone. My hands were trembling so badly I had to clasp them behind my back to hide it. Around me, the office buzzed with barely concealed excitement, like vultures circling roadkill.

"She's probably looking for more evidence to make up," someone whispered, not quietly enough.

"Or trying to delete the real evidence," came the reply, followed by more laughter.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to center myself. When I opened them, I noticed movement in my peripheral vision. A woman approached cautiously—Sarah from marketing, someone I'd shared coffee with a few times but didn't know well. She had kind eyes and graying hair pulled back in a neat bun.

She glanced around nervously, then leaned in close enough that only I could hear her.

"He's in the CTO's office," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the office noise. "Third floor, conference room C. They've been in there for about twenty minutes."

I looked at her, surprised by the unexpected kindness. Her expression was sympathetic, almost apologetic, as if she was sorry for what everyone else was putting me through.

"Thank you," I managed, my voice hoarse.

She gave me a small nod and quickly walked away, probably not wanting to be associated with me any longer than necessary. I didn't blame her. In the current climate, even talking to me felt like a risk.

But her information was exactly what I needed. If Dorian was in a meeting on the third floor, I had time. Not much, but enough.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I reached for his phone. The movement felt surreal, like I was watching someone else's hand extend toward the device. I'd never violated anyone's privacy like this before, never even been tempted to snoop through a partner's messages. But then again, I'd never had a partner systematically destroy my life either.

I grabbed the phone and walked quickly toward the break room, trying to look casual despite the fact that my pulse was racing so fast I felt dizzy. Behind me, I heard someone comment about my suspicious behavior, but I didn't stop to listen.

The break room was mercifully empty, just the hum of the refrigerator and the lingering smell of burnt coffee. I locked the door behind me—something I'd never done before, but these weren't normal circumstances.

My hands were shaking so violently I could barely hold the phone steady. The screen was locked, of course, protected by a six-digit passcode. For a moment, panic set in. What if I couldn't guess it? What if he'd changed it recently?

Then I remembered our six-month anniversary dinner just last month, how he'd made such a big deal about the date being special, about how it marked the beginning of something real between us. The irony was bitter now, but maybe it would work in my favor.

I typed in the numbers: 051523. The date we'd first kissed, first said we loved each other, first talked about moving in together. The date that had meant everything to me and apparently nothing to him.

The phone unlocked.

I stared at the home screen for a moment, overwhelmed by the violation I was about to commit and the necessity of it. Then I opened his messaging app, my finger trembling as I scrolled through his recent conversations.

Marissa's name was right there at the top, their last exchange from Sunday night. I tapped on it, expecting to find the evidence of their affair that I could use to prove his hypocrisy.

What I found was so much worse.

The messages between Dorian and Marissa read like a carbon copy of our own relationship. The same pet names he used with me. The same promises about their future together. The same intimate jokes and references to shared experiences.

"Can't wait to see you tonight, beautiful. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

"I love you too, babe. You make everything better."

"We should start looking at apartments together soon. I want to wake up next to you every morning."

My stomach lurched. These weren't the messages of a man having a casual affair. These were the messages of someone in love, someone building a relationship, someone making the same promises he'd made to me.

But that wasn't the worst part.

I scrolled back further in his message history, and other names caught my eye. Jessica. Amanda. Chloe. Each conversation thread looked disturbingly familiar.

With shaking fingers, I opened Jessica's messages. The same endearments. The same promises. The same declarations of love.

"You're my everything, Jess. I can't imagine my life without you."

"I love you more than words can say. You're the only woman for me."

"Let's talk about moving in together soon. I want to build a life with you."

Amanda's messages were identical in tone and content. So were Chloe's. Each woman was receiving the same carefully crafted romantic attention, the same promises of exclusivity and commitment, the same lies about being the only one.

I felt like I was going to be sick. This wasn't just cheating—this was systematic deception on a scale I couldn't have imagined. Dorian wasn't just having affairs; he was running multiple fake relationships simultaneously, convincing each woman that she was his one true love.

The phone slipped from my numb fingers, clattering onto the break room table. I stared at it in horror, my mind reeling as I tried to process what I'd discovered.

Marissa wasn't the other woman. She was another victim. They all were.

Dorian had been lying to us all.