Aleida POV

My bank account balance read forty-two dollars and sixteen cents. It was a number that meant my dignity had a price tag, and unfortunately, it was on clearance.

I needed a job. Fast.

I scrolled through listings until my eyes blurred, ignoring the ones that required degrees I hadn't finished because I was too busy playing the perfect housewife.

Then I saw it.

A junior assistant position at a high-end photography studio. Immediate start. Cash pay options.

It was suspicious, too good to be true, but desperation makes you blind to red flags.

I walked into the studio the next morning, my portfolio tucked tightly under my arm. It was thin, filled with sketches from a life I had abandoned for Derek.

"You're hired," the studio manager said, not even bothering to open my folder.

He didn't look at my art. He looked at his watch.

"We are short-staffed for the VIP shoot today," he said, thrusting a light reflector into my hands. "Get to Set B. Don't speak unless spoken to."

I walked onto Set B and froze.

The backdrop was a romantic Parisian street scene. Faux cobblestones, faux streetlamps, faux snow.

But the people standing in the center of it were very real.

Derek was adjusting his cufflinks with practiced ease. Else was twirling in a red silk dress that looked like a pool of blood against the white set.

My breath hitched in my throat.

This wasn't a coincidence. This was a setup.

I turned to leave, but the manager barked at me.

"Hey, new girl! Hold the light steady. We're burning time."

Derek looked up. His eyes locked onto mine.

For a second, he looked startled. Then, his expression smoothed into that mask of indifference I had come to hate.

Else saw me a second later. Her smile widened, sharp and predatory.

"Well, look who it is," she cooed, her voice dripping with venomous sweetness. "I didn't know you were reduced to fetching coffee, Aleida."

I gripped the reflector handle until my knuckles turned white. I needed the money. I needed to eat. I needed a ticket out of this city.

"I'm just here to work," I said, my voice flat.

"Good," Else said. "Then work."

She turned to the photographer.

"I want this to be intimate," she commanded. "Really capture the love."

For the next four hours, I was forced to stand three feet away while my husband held another woman.

"Chin up, Derek," the photographer shouted. "Look at her like she's the only woman in the world."

Derek looked at Else. He smiled.

It was the same smile he gave me on our wedding day.

"Okay, now kiss her!"

Derek leaned in. He cupped her face. He kissed her, deep and slow.

I watched. I didn't look away. I forced myself to watch every second of it.

I felt a wave of nausea rise in my throat, but I swallowed it down. I turned the pain into fuel. Every kiss was another brick in the wall I was building between us.

"That's it!" Else laughed, pulling away.

She looked over Derek's shoulder, straight at me.

"Did you get the lighting right on that one, Aleida? I want to make sure everyone sees how happy we are."

My arms ached from holding the equipment. My legs shook.

"Perfect," I said.

When the shoot finally ended, the manager told me I had to stay on site.

"The client requested extended hours," he said, handing me a key card. "You're in the staff dorms upstairs. Be ready at 6 AM."

I walked up to the dorm room. It was a small box with a single bed and thin walls.

I lay down, staring at the ceiling, trying to calculate how many more hours of this I needed to endure to afford a plane ticket.

Then I heard it.

Laughter coming from the room next door.

It was the VIP suite.

I heard the clink of glasses. I heard Else's high-pitched giggle.

"Derek, stop," she squealed.

I heard the low rumble of his voice. I couldn't make out the words, but the tone was familiar. It was the voice he used to use to talk me to sleep.

Then came other sounds. The creak of a bed frame. The heavy thud of a headboard hitting the wall.

My wall.

I sat up, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I clamped my hands over my ears. I squeezed my eyes shut.

But I couldn't block it out. The rhythm of their betrayal vibrated through the plaster.

I felt like I was suffocating. The air in the room turned thick and heavy.

I wasn't crying. I was past crying.

I was suffocating under the weight of my own stupidity for ever loving him.

I sat there in the dark, rocking back and forth, listening to my husband make love to the woman who had helped him kill our child.

And in that darkness, the last ember of my love for him finally flickered out.

Aleida POV

The silence that followed was infinitely heavier than the noise.

When the rhythmic thumping and stifled cries from the next room finally ceased, the quiet settled over me like a suffocating blanket, a physical weight crushing my chest. I couldn't stay in that cramped box of a room a second longer.

I grabbed my coat and slipped out of the building.

The night air was biting, a sharp contrast to the stifling heat of the indoors, but I welcomed the cold. It stung my cheeks and numbed my skin, a welcome distraction from the rotting sensation spreading through my gut.

I walked without a destination, my boots striking the pavement on autopilot. Somehow, gravity pulled me toward the old district, where the streetlights hummed with a dim, sickly yellow glow.

I stopped in front of a small cafe: The Java Bean.

We used to come here in the beginning. Before the money, before the lies became our second language. Derek would play the guitar during open mic nights, singing songs he swore he wrote for me, his eyes crinkling with what I thought was adoration.

I pushed the door open, triggering the jingle of the overhead bell.

The place was empty, except for the old owner, Mr. Henderson, who was methodically wiping down the counter.

He looked up and squinted through his thick glasses. "Aleida? Is that you?"

I forced a brittle smile. "Hi, Mr. Henderson."

He came around the counter, wiping his hands on his apron. "I haven't seen you in ages. Or Derek."

He reached under the counter, his joints popping slightly, and pulled out a dusty wooden box.

"Speaking of Derek," he said, his voice raspy and kind. "He left this here months ago. Said he was working on a surprise for you and didn't want you to find it at home. He never came back for it."

He handed me the box.

I took it. My hands felt detached, like they belonged to a mannequin.

I opened the lid.

Inside was a photo album. Leather-bound. Expensive. The kind meant to sit on a coffee table to impress guests.

I opened the first page.

It was a picture of us. Sleeping. He must have taken it with a timer. We looked... peaceful. Artfully disheveled.

Underneath, in his impeccable handwriting: *The start of everything.*

I turned the page. A ticket stub from our first movie. A dried flower from the bouquet he gave me when I got my first design commission. Every page was a curated exhibit, a testament to a love that looked so visually perfect it made my teeth ache.

Mr. Henderson was smiling wistfully. "He loved you so much, that boy. You could see it in his eyes."

I closed the album with a soft thud.

"He didn't love me, Mr. Henderson," I said softly, the realization finally crystallizing. "He loved the plan."

The bell above the door chimed again.

I turned around.

Derek walked in. Else was hanging on his arm, wrapped in a fur coat that looked ridiculous in this dive.

They froze when they saw me.

"Well, isn't this a cozy reunion," Else sneered, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "Following us now, Aleida?"

Derek looked at the box in my hands. His eyes widened. He took a step forward, almost instinctively.

"Aleida," he started, his voice cracking. "That's..."

Mr. Henderson looked between us, confused. "Derek? I just gave your wife the album."

Derek's face went ashen. He looked at the album, then at me. For a second, the arrogant mask slipped. He looked like a boy who had been caught stealing. He looked... mournful.

Else tugged on his arm, impatient. "Let's go, Derek. This place smells like stale coffee and desperation."

She looked at me with pure venom. "You can keep the trash, honey. We're making new memories."

Derek hesitated. He looked at the album in my hands like it was an unexploded bomb.

I looked down at it.

I remembered the man who took these photos. I remembered how safe I felt. But it was all a performance. Even this. Even the memories were tainted because the architect of those moments was a fraud.

I walked over to the large metal trash can by the door.

Derek watched me. His breath hitched.

"Don't," he whispered.

It was the first honest thing he had said in months.

I looked him in the eye. I felt nothing. No anger. No sadness. Just a vast, empty plain of indifference.

"It's just paper, Derek," I said. "Just props."

I dropped the album into the trash.

It landed with a heavy, final thud among the coffee grounds and dirty napkins.

I didn't look back. I walked past them, pushing the door open.

The cold air hit my face again, but this time, it didn't just numb me. It felt like freedom.