Erika Frederick POV:

The bathroom door creaked open. Braden stepped out, a towel wrapped around his waist, steam clinging to his skin. He saw me, phone still in hand, his face draining of color. His eyes fixed on the illuminated screen, then flickered wildly to my face.

"Erika? What are you doing?" His voice was a harsh whisper, laced with panic. He lunged for the phone, but I held it tight.

"Give me that! Are you going through my things? That's an invasion of privacy!" He stammered, trying to regain control, trying to turn the tables. My gaze drifted to his throat. The faint, almost imperceptible red marks on his neck were gone, scrubbed clean.

"I just picked it up to put it on the charger, Braden," I said, my voice eerily calm. "It was ringing." The lie tasted bitter, but I needed time. I needed to see his reaction, to watch him squirm.

He visibly relaxed, a sigh of relief escaping his lips. "Oh, right. Sorry. I just… you know how sensitive I am about my work stuff." He even managed a weak smile. Sensitive? Or guilty?

I remembered his grand pronouncements about transparency, about how we were partners in everything, no secrets between us. What a joke.

"So," I began, my voice still dangerously soft, "how was that 'work dinner' last night? Did you close the deal?"

He hesitated, his eyes darting around the room. "Uh, yeah, well… we made some progress. It's a tough client, you know. A lot of schmoozing." His words were a tangled mess, a tapestry of evasions.

A tear, unbidden, slipped down my cheek, then another, until my pillow was damp. I couldn't hold it in anymore. The dam broke.

Braden froze, his eyes wide. "Erika? What's wrong? Why are you crying?" He rushed to my side, enveloping me in a hug that felt more like a cage. "Oh, baby, I'm so sorry. I know I've been distant lately. Work, you know. It's been crazy." He stroked my hair, his touch sending shivers of revulsion down my spine.

"It hurts, Braden," I choked out, a fresh wave of sobs racking my body. "Everything hurts. My stomach, my head… everything."

"I know, I know." He murmured, pulling away just enough to look into my eyes. His face was a mask of concern, his eyes shimmering with what looked like genuine sorrow. "I'm so sorry I wasn't here for you yesterday. I should have been. I really am the worst." He found the hot water bottle, filled it, and placed it gently on my stomach, his hands rubbing my back in slow, comforting circles.

I watched him, my tears blurring his face. He looked at me with an intensity that twisted my gut. There was a tender sadness in his eyes, a desperate longing. Could it be real? Could he actually love me, even after everything?

But love, I realized, was a complicated thing. Especially after a decade of shared struggle, shared dreams, shared everything. It wasn't just a feeling; it was a tangled web of habit, dependency, and convenience. He might feel something for me, deep down, a vestige of the man I once knew, but it was tainted, poisoned by his actions.

I wasn' t a character in some dramatic novel who could simply walk away, free and clear. Our lives were too intertwined, our company, our finances, our entire future. He was my partner, my husband, my co-founder. Untangling us would be a massacre.

"Braden," I said, my voice hoarse, but firming with a new resolve. "Kandy has to go."

His hands stilled on my back. He looked up, his face etched with surprise. "Kandy? What are you talking about? She's just an intern, a kid." He tried to sound dismissive, but a flicker of fear danced in his eyes.

I just stared at him, my silence more potent than any accusation. My gaze was cold, unyielding.

He squirmed under my stare, then sighed, a long, drawn-out sound of defeat. "Fine. Fine, Erika. Whatever you want. I'll… I'll let her go. You're right. She's too young, too… distracting." He paused, then looked at me, his eyes pleading. "Just tell me what you need, Erika. Anything. I'll do anything to make this right."

Anything? I thought. We'll see about that.

Erika Frederick POV:

Braden came home more often after that. Every evening, without fail, he' d bring a small gift-a bouquet of my favorite lilies, a new book from a genre I' d mentioned, a box of artisan chocolates. He' d cook, too, meticulously preparing the dishes I loved, the ones that had been staples at our dinner table since our college days.

Each aroma, each familiar taste, was a ghost. I remembered us, young and hungry, sharing ramen noodles in our tiny apartment, dreaming of the day we could afford a real steak. He' d always cooked for me then, too, his clumsy hands creating miracles from meager ingredients. Those simple meals were woven into the fabric of our early love, a testament to our shared struggle and eventual success. Now, those same dishes felt like a mockery, a poisonous offering.

I couldn' t eat. My stomach, still delicate from the surgery, rebelled at the thought. Kandy was a constant, sharp splinter in my heart. Every time Braden looked at me, touched me, or even just spoke my name, all I could see was her. His hands, once a comfort, now felt like a violation. His voice, once a melody, now grated on my nerves.

I hated sharing a room with him, hated the thought of his body next to mine in our bed. But I played my part, the dutiful wife, the grieving partner. I smiled weakly, touched his arm, murmured thank yous.

One evening, he raised a glass of wine to me. "To us, Erika. To our future. And thank you, for everything you do."

I forced a tight smile, clinking my glass against his. The wine tasted like ash. I drained it in one gulp, needing the burn.

He leaned in, trying to kiss me. My stomach lurched. I couldn' t help it. The nausea was overwhelming. I pushed back from the table, stumbling towards the bathroom, emptying the contents of my stomach into the toilet.

Braden followed, his footsteps heavy. He was there in an instant, holding back my hair, stroking my back. "Erika, what's wrong? Is it your stomach again?"

"Just… just a little upset," I gasped, rinsing my mouth. "Too much rich food, I guess. My stomach's still sensitive after the surgery." I knew it was a lie. This sickness was deeper than any physical ailment. It was a visceral rejection of him, of us.

He sighed, his hand gently rubbing my back. "I'm so sorry, baby. I hate that you're going through this. All those years, working yourself sick for us..." His voice was thick with what sounded like genuine regret.

I pulled away, needing space. Work became my refuge. I buried myself in spreadsheets, client calls, anything to keep my mind from wandering to the abyss that was my marriage.

The next day, I had a meeting with a crucial client across town. As I pulled into the parking lot, a familiar sleek black sedan caught my eye. Braden's car. What is he doing here? A strange sense of unease settled over me. He rarely handled this account.

Then I saw her. Kandy. She practically flew across the parking lot, her bright pink dress a jarring splash of color against the drab concrete. She launched herself into Braden' s arms, her legs wrapping around his waist. He caught her effortlessly, his face alight with a smile I hadn't seen in years.

"Braden, you're here!" she shrieked, her voice high and childish. "I thought you'd never come!"

He held her close, his eyes twinkling. "Couldn't stay away from my favorite Sweet Pea, could I?" He kissed her forehead, then her lips, a long, lingering kiss that left no doubt about their relationship.

"You're so mean!" she pouted, a theatrical flick of her hair. "You only say you love me once a day now. I need more! I need to hear it every hour!"

Braden chuckled, his eyes full of indulgence. "You greedy little thing. You know I only have eyes for you. You're my favorite. My only love."

My blood ran cold. My only love. He'd said the same words to me, a hundred times over our decade together. They meant nothing. They were cheap, disposable words. My heart, which I thought had already shattered, found new ways to break. It didn't just feel like a punch; it felt like a complete and utter erasure. I was nothing.

"Look at those two," a passerby whispered to their friend, a woman my age. "So young, so in love. He must adore her."

I forced a smile, my face stiff. "Excuse me," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "Do you know who that young woman is?"

The woman shrugged. "Oh, she works for his company, I think. He treats her like a princess. Very sweet."

Very sweet. I walked away, the ground swaying beneath me. Braden didn't come home that night. I called, but his phone went straight to voicemail. Again.

Later, my phone buzzed. A friend request. From Kandy Romero. Her profile picture was a selfie with Braden, taken in our bed. My blood boiled.

I won't give her the satisfaction. I ignored the request.

Another buzz, a message from Kandy. He' s in the shower, babe. Don't worry, he' s all mine.

I scoffed. What a pathetic, childish attempt to provoke me. I typed a reply, then deleted it. Don't engage, Erika. Don't give her what she wants.

Then another message came through. An image. A screenshot. You really don't want to see this, do you? she wrote. Or are you too scared?

My thumb hovered over the image. A cold dread, far deeper than any I'd felt before, began to spread through my chest.

Erika Frederick POV:

My breath hitched. The image on my screen, sent by Kandy, pulsed with a malevolent energy. A profound fear, cold and sharp, pierced through me. I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that whatever lay hidden beneath that blurred thumbnail would irrevocably change my life. There was no going back, no pretending. This was the precipice, and I was about to fall.

Do I really want to see this? A voice inside me screamed, No! Protect yourself! But another, stronger voice, the one that had built an empire, demanded, Face it. Know your enemy. I clenched my jaw. No more hiding.

I tapped the image. It was a screenshot of Kandy' s private social media account, a digital shrine to her and Braden' s affair. Each post was a meticulously curated snapshot of their "love," a sickeningly saccharine narrative of stolen moments and whispered promises.

Like a thief in the night, I devoured every detail, every photo, every timestamp. My own timeline, my own suffering, played out in stark contrast to their illicit joy.

There was the picture of them laughing on a beach, taken the very week I'd been admitted to the hospital for my gastric bleeding, the same week Braden had told me he was "stuck on a business trip."

Another showed them hiking in a secluded mountain range, his arm wrapped around her, while I lay in bed, weak with fever, Braden sending me a terse text: "Can't make it home, huge client meeting."

Then a photo of them at sunrise, overlooking a breathtaking cityscape, his hand intertwining with hers. I remembered that day vividly. I' d been mercilessly torn apart by a demanding client, working until dawn to salvage a deal, Braden' s only contact a bland email about his "unavoidable delay."

My gaze snagged on a specific date, a post marked with a red heart emoji and the caption: "Our little secret ." The date burned into my mind. It was the darkest chapter of my life, a time when I thought I couldn' t possibly endure any more pain.

My grandmother. The woman who raised me, my rock, my everything. She had passed away suddenly. Braden had offered his condolences, a rushed phone call filled with static, explaining he was "stranded overseas due to an unexpected travel ban." He sounded distant, distracted, his words hollow.

But Kandy' s post, dated the exact same day, told a different story. A photo of Braden, his back to the camera, stepping out of a shower in a luxurious hotel bathroom. His shoulders bore fresh, angry red scratch marks. The caption: "Stuck with my hubby in this cozy hotel. Best 'quarantine' ever! He always knows how to make me feel better ."

Hubby. Stuck. I knew how much my grandmother had meant to him, how he' d often called her his "second mother." My tears had poured out in torrents at her funeral, my body shaking with grief, while he, my husband, had been showering, laughing, and intertwining with her, his back crisscrossed with her nails. His hurried, almost annoyed text message, "So sorry for your loss, babe. Wish I could be there. Hang in there." It wasn't because of a travel ban. It was because he was with her.

My stomach muscles seized, a violent, wrenching spasm that brought me to my knees. The bile rose in my throat, hot and acrid. I emptied my stomach into the toilet, dry heaving until my body shook with exhaustion.

My vision swam. A furious, burning hatred ignited in my chest, consuming everything in its path. Everyone should feel this pain. Everyone.