After I hung up, I thought for a moment, then created a new account on Instagram and searched the handle I'd memorized.

I sent a request, and she accepted almost immediately. She really had her guard down, even with a stranger.

Bernard didn't come home that night. Apparently, she had kept him very satisfied.

…

The next morning, just as I arrived at the office, Bernard's assistant showed up with a bouquet of roses and a thermos of warm, sweet oatmeal Bernard had made himself.

A minute later, Bernard called. "Honey, I just got notice I have to travel for work. I probably won't be home for the next few days. I swung by to pack and made your favorite oatmeal. Have it while it's hot."

After the call, I opened my Instagram. The "maid" shared a breakfast photo, and there it was—the same sweet oatmeal.

The caption said, "He made me breakfast as a reward for last night."

Bernard once promised he'd never cook for anyone but me.

A coworker stopped by my desk, her eyes lighting up at the roses. "Where do you even find a man this thoughtful and successful?"

To outsiders, Bernard seemed devoted to me. He came across as loyal, refined, and destined for success.

But I wasn't exactly lacking, either. If I could hold his attention, it wasn't by accident. And if he liked me, there were plenty of men who did.

Seeing my colleague admiring the bouquet, I said casually, "You can have it if you like."

Her face lit up. "Really? These flowers are gorgeous! You're not joking, are you?"

I smiled. "Just take it. And I've already had my breakfast. He made sweet oatmeal for me this morning. If you don't mind, you can take it too."

No matter how good it looked, that fake love wasn't worth holding on to.

Over the next few days, the "maid" kept posting on Instagram. Just by watching her Story, I could track their every move.

They went trekking through the rainforest, taking in the sights and sounds.

They watched fireworks at Starfall Park and kissed under the bursts of light.

Bernard took her to my favorite bistro and even cut her steak at the table.

Then, he brought her to a hot-spring retreat, where they indulged every whim.

In between, he bought her multiple sets of lingerie I couldn't even look at without wincing.

I didn't cry or get upset. I just saved every post she was foolish enough to show off.

…

A week later, Bernard finally reached out. "Honey, we haven't been to your favorite restaurant in ages. Want to go this week?"

I almost laughed. He had just taken her there and suddenly remembered me. Was I supposed to be touched?

I didn't call him out. Instead, I asked, "Did you just get back from the trip?"

He slipped into the same sweet tone as always. "Yeah, honey. I'm wiped, but I'm so happy I get to see you."

I simply replied, "Okay."

Since he'd "left for work," I hadn't set foot in the place we shared. I stayed at my own apartment because the condo felt contaminated by him.

…

That night, he came home to the condo buzzing with energy, only to realize I wasn't there.

He sounded wounded over the phone. "Honey, why weren't you here to greet me? Do you know how sad it feels to come home to an empty place? Come on, make it up to me."

"I'm working late. I'll be at the office the next couple of nights. You know how slammed I am," I said.

Bernard soured in an instant. "Why didn't you tell me sooner, honey?"

I almost laughed. If I'd given him a heads-up, he'd have gone to the villa without missing a beat.

I put on my best innocent voice and used his favorite line. "It was a last-minute assignment."

He gave a grumpy little huff. "Then, maybe hear me out for once. Quit and come home. I'll take care of you. I hate seeing you grind yourself down."

Maybe all he ever wanted was a trophy wife he could keep under his thumb.

When I didn't answer, Bernard tried again. "Okay, then at least make time tomorrow night?"

"For what? Do you need something?"

"Did you forget? It's Wyatt's birthday. He invited us weeks ago!"

"Sorry, I'm swamped," I said lightly. "Tell him I'm sorry I can't make it."

"Fine," he replied, though I couldn't tell if he was upset. "Take care of yourself. When you're done, text me. I'll pick you up."

"Got it. I've got to get back to it."

That night, the "maid" posted sultry selfies in a sheer lace slip. The bed behind her was mine. They were in my bedroom.

My stomach flipped, but I kept sorting the evidence I'd been collecting.

The following evening, she updated her feed with a big group shot at a bar. Bernard had his arm wrapped around her, grinning like he'd won the lottery.

So, he'd taken her to Wyatt's party instead.

A minute later, she posted another filtered selfie with a caption. "He says I'm much prettier than his old wife at home."

I gave a cold laugh. If she wanted an audience, I wouldn't disappoint her.

I did my makeup, grabbed my keys, and headed to the party.

As I reached the private booth, a woman barreled out and clipped my shoulder. She slipped and nearly fell. "Watch it! Are you blind?" she snapped, baring her teeth like I'd ruined her night.

I got a good look at her face. What a coincidence! She was Bernard's little maid.

She jutted her chin at me. "Apologize now, or my boyfriend will make you regret it!"

So, she didn't recognize me. Guess Bernard never showed her my picture.

No wonder. If she'd ever seen me, she wouldn't have kept posting that I couldn't compare to her.

I let out a soft laugh and raised an eyebrow. "You bumped into me, and now you want me to apologize? Go ahead, call your boyfriend. Let's see what he does."

She stomped her heel. "Just you wait!"

She spun on her toes and stormed back into the booth.

I heard her voice turn pitiful with fake sobs through the door. "Babe, a woman shoved me and refused to say sorry. You need to do something!"

Bernard barked in anger. "Who dares to push around my sweetheart?"

I strolled up to the private booth, leaned casually against the doorway, and looked over the suddenly silent room with a polite smile. "It's me."