Her voice dripped with satisfaction: "Look, Professor Pruitt—he even keeps his razor at my place now. He told me being with you was exhausting. Said I'm the one who truly understands him..."
Then came the photos. One after another. Intimate. Unmistakable.
I scrolled through them, and my heart sank to the bottom.
So this was the truth. Fabian's heart had never been with me.
The papers. The essay collections. All those little moments I thought we shared.
Doris's gloating voice kept playing:
"Remember your anniversary last year? He told you he was working late. But actually, I texted him saying the library lost power and I was scared of the dark. So he came to me instead."
"And last night when he said he was working overtime? He was sleeping at my apartment."
"If you know what's good for you, you'll sign the divorce papers now."
"Don't drag this out. The only one who'll be humiliated in the end is you."
I set down my phone.
Then I dialed a number I hadn't called in a very long time.
Seven days later.
Doris had submitted my paper under her name—and won a national award. The ceremony was in full swing.