ways kept it locked, claiming he needed a quiet space to work, free from distractions. "

t he was keepi

a book I had given him on our first anniversary. The irony

es. But on one shelf, tucked behind a row of financial textbooks, was a framed photo. It wasn't

op was there, open. He never used

hidden folder on his desktop, ti

of his work. It w

to just last week. There were scanned copies of old lov

rs, every time I had sent him a project update, a data analysis, or a new pitch deck,

ity outreach data is solid. You can inc

lgorithm for resource mat

rthday. Another on our wedding anniversary. While I was cele

more beautiful, a vintage piece with a stunning diamond. I recognized it from photos. It was his grandmother's ring, the Beasley family heirloom. The ring he h

t was rage. A pure, clean rage that burned awa

ed my personal milestones into markers for his deceit. My love, m

he last folder

dated for the month after Cuba' s company launch. There was also a file with real

ormance would be to discard me once I was no longer

iece of jewelry, a simple gold locket, to pay for a server upgrade for my project. H

ery file, every email, every receipt. I copied the entire

oom. He thought he was in control. He thought he was the ma

and found a name I hadn't spoken to in years, a lawyer who had once worke

lp. It's about