Beside him stood Chloe Bennett, a junior employee from my own company, dressed in white with one hand resting on her stomach as if waiting for applause. Patricia stood close, glowing with pride.
The caption felt like glass shattering: Jonathan is finally truly happy and finally chose wisely.
My stomach dropped.
I zoomed in. Jonathan’s sisters. His uncles. Cousins. My supposed family — arranged like a choir of complicity. Smiling as if betrayal were just another catered event.
My mind began calculating, the way it always did under pressure. Seven hundred and twenty million pesos for the mansion in Beverly Hills.
The mortgages I never stopped paying. The sports car I financed because Jonathan said it enhanced his image.
I remembered signing every property document — my name bold and clear. Jonathan’s signature nearly absent, always excused. Patricia once called me lucky, as if luck negotiated contracts.
Looking at that photo, I understood: they hadn’t just cheated on me. They had replaced me publicly while I carried everything privately.
I called Patricia immediately. Part of me still hoped for a misunderstanding. She answered cheerfully, as if she had been waiting for fireworks.