I was on a business trip out of town when I got a text from my neighbor.

[Can you and your husband keep it down? Also, one of your undies fell onto my balcony.]

Shocked, I opened the photo she had sent.

The underwear wasn't even my style, but it matched the one I'd seen in my husband's online shopping cart.

He'd told me it was a gift for me, but I remember noticing the size—it was one size larger than mine.

When confronted with the neighbor's message, my husband swore that the house must've been broken into and claimed the intruder left the item behind.

But something about his story didn't sit right, so I decided to dig further. That was when I stumbled upon his social media.

His latest post was just three words. [I bought this.]

It was paired with a photo of a lingerie gift set.

Beneath it, there was a comment. [I'm wearing it.]

Attached was a picture of a woman's legs—and the unmistakable background of my living room.

The evidence was undeniable.

I packed up the underwear and brought it straight to the police.

"My husband says our house was broken into. This was left behind by the intruder, and it might have DNA on it."

After staying up all night to finish a task my boss had assigned, my phone buzzed with a message notification.

[Apartment 402, how many times have I told you not to hang your clothes out like that? Your lingerie fell onto my balcony! Ugh, lucky I was home; otherwise, my boyfriend and son would've seen it. That would've been so awkward!]

A photo followed right after, showing a black lace panty hanging precariously on the railing of the balcony of the third floor, swaying in the wind.

I stared at the picture for a moment, zooming in to inspect the details. After a closer look, I was certain it wasn't mine.

I didn't wear lace; besides, the size was clearly too big for me.

I replied, [Hi, are you sure this fell from my apartment? Maybe it was blown down from above.]

The response came almost immediately in the form of a voice message.

"Who else could it be if not you? The tenants from the fifth and sixth floors have moved out. Also, don't you young people know how to be a little more discreet? We've got a kid who has extra lessons tomorrow, and I'm working overtime. If you don't keep it down, I'll tape a speaker to the ceiling and see how you like that!"

I froze, a cold chill wrapping itself tightly around me as if it had a physical form, making me shiver involuntarily.

I looked around the hotel room before my eyes settled on the time displayed on my computer screen.

At that moment, I was over 600 miles away on a business trip.

The neighbor downstairs was notoriously petty. The last time my boyfriend, Milton Taylor, bought a shoe rack, he accidentally scratched their door, barely leaving a mark less than an inch long. That woman had marched to our door with a bucket of paint, threatening to splatter it all over the place unless we replaced their door.

I continued to listen to the string of voice messages from her.

I typed out my reply. [How can you be sure this is mine? Show me some proof, or I'll sue you for slander. My boyfriend works at Nexus International. It's a law firm. If you've got the guts, go ahead and ask him directly. He's not afraid of you. Their company's full of lawyers.]

Sure enough, the woman snapped. After a few seconds of verbal insults, she sent a final, venomous message.

[Fine! You shameless people! I'll send this filthy garment to your boyfriend's company tomorrow. You'd better be ready!]

[Go ahead. I'll be waiting!] I shot back before blocking her number, but there was no relief in my chest, only a heavy feeling.

I sat alone in the empty hotel room, the feeling in my chest like a tangled ball of yarn. Trying to unravel it hurt, but ignoring it was worse—like the kind of frustration that made me want to burst into tears.

I opened Milton's social media. His last post was about me.

[My girlfriend's eyelashes are so long and pretty. I hope my future children will take after her looks.]

I stared at it, tears welling up until my vision blurred. I wiped my eyes, forcing myself to stop.

I sent Milton a message.

[Babe, you're going to have to deal with some drama from the downstairs neighbor tomorrow.

[She somehow got her hands on a lingerie and insists it's mine. She probably thinks I'm a pushover.

[Don't worry. We're in the right, so there's nothing for us to be afraid of!]

It took a while, but eventually, I saw the indication that he was typing.

[Babe, don't worry. I'll handle it. We haven't done anything wrong.]

He took forever to come up with that flimsy reply, and I couldn't help but laugh. It was such a half-hearted response. I simply typed that I was tired, turned off my phone, and went to bed.

That night, I couldn't sleep.

Memories rushed in like an uninvited thief, barging into my mind when I wasn't paying attention.

I thought back to when I first met Milton.

It seemed like no one could escape the pressure of being pushed into marriage, even though I was only 25 at the time. My mom had thrown me straight into the matchmaking scene.

After meeting several bizarre candidates, my best friend, Kay Brown, mysteriously told me she knew a man who was smart, kind-hearted, and good-looking. She quickly set up a meeting for us.

I met the guy at a café. Just as Kay had described, he was tall, handsome, and well-spoken. We hit it off and exchanged contact details.

As I stood up to leave the café, a waiter brushed past me, and in the next second, I felt a piece of paper slip into my palm.

I looked at him as he walked away, his tall figure moving gracefully, and I saw him casually waving his right hand.

After saying goodbye to the guy I was on a blind date with, I opened the note.

[He's a playboy. Watch out. This is his usual hangout. If you want to thank me, you can come by for a drink tomorrow.]

The next day, I went—disguised.

To my surprise, the man who had been so interested in me the day before now had a woman sitting with him.

I couldn't help but feel absurd. I looked up and locked eyes with the waiter, who was smiling knowingly.

Life is strange. Sometimes you try hard, and things don't work out, while other times, things just fall into place.

That waiter turned out to be Milton. Our meeting was dramatic, but the way things unfolded after that was smooth and effortless.

Milton was romantic and attentive, a man who understood women better than most. He didn't bother with flowers or gifts, but he noticed the little things—like leaving something where I could easily reach it.

One day, after we had been dating for three years, he quietly took one of my coats, which had sleeves that were a bit too long, and had it altered. The next day when I wore it, the sleeves fit perfectly without me needing to roll them up. As a woman, I found that kind of thoughtfulness incredibly heartwarming.

Eventually, I agreed to his proposal.

Our wedding had been scheduled for six months later, but a sudden quarantine pushed it back, again and again. And now, it felt like the wedding would never happen.

What couldn't be done back then, didn't need to be done now.

After a sleepless night, I came to terms with it. I packed my things and caught the earliest flight home.

When I opened the door to my apartment, everything was surprisingly neat, almost too neat. It had been cleaned with an unsettling level of care.

Even Milton's shoes, which were usually left in disarray, were lined up perfectly, and the trash can was so spotless it almost sparkled.

I let out a short laugh.

Now I understood why Milton felt comfortable bringing someone home—there wasn't a single picture of the two of us together in the house.

It was strange. Our relationship was great, and we had taken plenty of photos when we went out, but Milton was never willing to display them.

"Sharon, in some of the cases we handle, criminals used photos to determine the people living in a house and hid somewhere to rob and hurt them. Don't take it the wrong way; I just can't put your safety at risk."

At the time, I was touched and praised him for being thoughtful.

Looking back, it was clear now—he had been setting up this situation for a long time.

It was a little past 10:00 AM when I passed by our downstairs neighbor's apartment and heard them grumbling loudly.

"Guess what he said? He claimed a thief left it behind. He might as well have said that Santa Clause dropped the panty at his house! I clearly heard them upstairs making those disgusting noises. How shameless can they get?"

"Did you go to his office, honey? Didn't you say you'd just mail it to him?"

"I couldn't let it go. Didn't you see how arrogant his wife was? But don't worry. I didn't let him off easily. I gave him a piece of my mind, and I'm pretty sure he won't dare do it again!"

The voices of the two faded into the background. I pulled out my phone.

[Honey, are you okay? I just got home. Did she really look for you at your office?]

It was a while before Milton finally replied.

[Don't worry, babe. I've already told them. I was out drinking with Malcolm and the guys last night. It must've been a thief who came in and left something behind.]

I stared at the phone, looking at his weak excuse. He really thought I was a fool, didn't he? We lived on the fourth floor—if someone jumped from there, they'd be dead. A thief wouldn't throw a pair of underwear onto the third floor.

I typed coldly, [That's too creepy. Maybe we should call the police.]

To my surprise, Milton called me immediately.

"No, we can't call the police. Thieves these days are vengeful. Don't you remember the cases I told you about? Anyway, nothing was stolen, so I'll change the lock tomorrow. Don't worry!"

I was as obedient as could be. "Okay, I'll do whatever you say."

I could hear the relief in his voice, though he tried to hide it.

"By the way, babe, I might have to work late tonight. You know how it is, with so many cases coming up for court."

How did his workload as an HR assistant relate to the cases? He wasn't even one of the lawyers reviewing them.

"Okay, take care of yourself," I replied gently.

Later that night, I ordered a cake to be delivered to Milton's office, with instructions to ensure he signed for it and that they took a photo for proof. Of course, he wasn't there, and the cake was returned.

I glanced at the clock on the wall: 7:30 PM.

I sent Milton a link.

[Honey, I want to get this dining table. Can you check if there are any special deals for regulars? I heard the price is the same for both new and old customers. I need the info now!]

It took almost two minutes before he finally replied.

[I see it's 770 dollars here. I'm really busy, babe. I'll talk to you when I get home. XX.]

I didn't even bother to reply. I just logged into his shopping app.

Some men don't lock their phones or keep encrypted files on their computers. They leave everything wide open. But then, they have two accounts, and their phone has a clone. Is that considered a high-level tactic?

When I logged in, I could see the address he had just checked into. The address showed a radius of half a mile, with four hotels, two coffee shops, and one popular restaurant nearby.

I hired seven delivery people, one for each place. In the notes, I told them that I was trying to catch my partner cheating. I also included a description of Milton's appearance and asked them to snap pictures if they saw him with anyone, making sure to get clear shots of both faces. I promised extra pay if they got the photos.

Twenty minutes later, one of the couriers sent me a photo.

[Miss, is this him?]

Under the warm, cozy lights of the trendy restaurant, Milton, dressed in a black shirt and beige pants, was chatting with a woman.

[That's him. I want a picture of her face.]

The woman's photo came in shortly after.

I only glanced at it, but it felt familiar, like I'd seen her somewhere before.

At this point, the task was technically over. But the courier, more outraged than I was, sent me over ten more photos all at once.

There were shots of Milton flirting with the woman, of him fixing her hair, and even one where she leaned in to kiss him...

[Miss, you don't have to pay extra. It's everyone's responsibility to fight against immoral behavior. Oh, and I overheard them talking about a house and a car. Be careful.]

I thanked him and sent him a 30-dollar tip.

Putting my phone down, I took a long, deep breath, but my nose started to sting with a familiar bitterness.

Milton wasn't just thinking about other women—he was thinking about my house, my car—everything except the six years we'd spent together.