On our engagement day, I discovered countless erotic photos of my fiance with another woman on his laptop.
Eight years with him, and this was my reward.
Betrayal, raw and unforgiving, clawed at me.
Immediately, I booked a flight to Fiassi, a flight scheduled to depart on our wedding day.
This had to end.
I called my boss. “Mr. Rowland, I’ve decided. I’ll take the Fiassi job.”
His surprise was palpable. “Fantastic. I’ll get the team on it. But your wedding…”
“No problem,” I managed, my voice trembling.
Tears streaming down my face, unseen by him, as I ended the call.
It was the first time I’d ever touched Antonio Kaufman’s computer.
We’d started at the same company after graduation, different departments, separate lives.
Tonight, he was at a bachelor party, his phone off.
His boss, desperate for a proposal, contacted me.
That was when I saw those photos.
Eight years of memories flooded back.
No snapshots of us, not a single trace on his phone.
My pleas for shared photos were always dismissed: “We see each other every day. No need for pictures.”
But it wasn’t about the need; he simply wasn’t invested in me.
Then, his friend’s words from our engagement party resurfaced. “I thought Antonio would be a bachelor forever for Mandy’s sake! You’re actually getting married? Are you sure you’re not doing it in a fit of pique?”
I hadn’t notice the guilty look in Antonio’s eyes then.
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