Freder

ierced through me. I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that whatever lay hidden beneath that blurred thumbn

ourself! But another, stronger voice, the one that had built an empire,

al shrine to her and Braden' s affair. Each post was a meticulously curated snapshot of t

ry photo, every timestamp. My own timeline, my own suff

week I'd been admitted to the hospital for my gastric bleeding,

wrapped around her, while I lay in bed, weak with fever, Braden s

hers. I remembered that day vividly. I' d been mercilessly torn apart by a demanding client, worki

aption: "Our little secret ." The date burned into my mind. It was the darkest c

aden had offered his condolences, a rushed phone call filled with static, explaining he was "stra

pping out of a shower in a luxurious hotel bathroom. His shoulders bore fresh, angry red scratch marks. The caption

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, alm

to my knees. The bile rose in my throat, hot and acrid. I emptied my s

ted in my chest, consuming everything in its p