My stomach dropped so violently I had to grip the counter to steady myself.
L. Parker. Not a client. Not a vendor. Not a name he’d ever mentioned in the fifteen years we’d shared—fifteen years that included a mortgage, two rescue dogs, and countless small compromises I’d mistaken for security.
I clicked before I could stop myself.
A stream of messages filled the screen—bright and unforgiving. Mirror selfies. A bare shoulder. Ethan’s laugh audible in the background of a video. A voice note from him: “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
My hands went numb. A high ringing filled my ears.
The most painful part wasn’t the evidence. It was how effortless it seemed. The casual way he’d constructed a second life inside the cracks of ours.
I kept scrolling until something narrowed my vision to a pinpoint: her email signature.
Lila Parker — Marketing Intern
Intern.
I didn’t cry. Not then. My body shifted into some emergency setting where emotions felt inefficient. I took screenshots. Forwarded them to myself. Closed the laptop exactly as I’d found it, as though neatness could prevent collapse.