It wasn’t until Ivan drove away that Alyssa found a random spot to sit down. She repeatedly refreshed Monica’s social media feed.
For a moment, she despised herself—spying on someone else’s happiness like a voyeur. Happiness that should have been hers.
Fifteen minutes later, a new post appeared: a photo of Ivan holding Monica. This time, her face wasn’t even obscured—clearly, Monica didn’t care to hide anymore.
Then came the next photo, and with it, the reason for Monica’s boldness became clear.
She was pregnant.
Alyssa’s face went pale. She zoomed in on the ultrasound picture, repeatedly confirming the details. Tears fell onto her phone screen as she let out a suppressed, anguished cry, her pain echoing in the night.
She didn’t know how long she sat there. Barefoot, she trudged back home, her soles scraped and bleeding from the gravel, but she felt no pain.
What physical pain could compare to the ache in her heart?
Back home, she carefully recorded the sixth and seventh betrayals in her diary. Closing the book, she decided—it was time to start packing.
Ivan didn’t return until the next morning, carrying a box of her favorite pastries.
“Aly, I drank too much with them last night. I didn’t want to disturb your rest, so I stayed at Peter’s place,” he lied without batting an eyelid.
“Peter messaged you late last night. Did you see it?”
Alyssa nodded without exposing his lie. If he chose to hide the truth, she wasn’t going to be the one to spoil his pretense. She just hoped that when all the lies unraveled, he’d be able to withstand the fallout.
Taking a bite of the pastry, the familiar taste filled her mouth, but it felt bland and empty. Placing it back down, she forced a bitter smile. What she loved had never been the pastries—it was the person who brought them to her.
“Aly, why are you packing?”
Turning around, she saw Ivan standing behind her, his expression cold and his eyes sharp, as if he could see right through her.
Avoiding his gaze, she replied calmly, “We’re getting married soon. This is our marital home. It needs some organizing, and the things we don’t need should be thrown away.”
Including the people who no longer mattered.
Hearing this, Ivan visibly relaxed and pulled her into his arms. “Let the housekeepers take care of it. If you hurt yourself, I’ll feel heartbroken.”
Alyssa wriggled free from his embrace, smiling faintly at him. “Then you have a lot of things to feel sorry for.”
Her smile unsettled him—it looked cheerful, but there was no joy in it. Ivan instinctively reached for her hand, but before he could, his phone rang.
Glancing at the screen, he rushed to answer, stepping toward the window. Alyssa stared at his back for a long moment, lost in thought.
Ivan would never know that last night, she had received not only Peter’s text covering for him but also Monica’s barrage of taunting messages—an outright attempt to oust her.
The messages were bold and cutting.
[Alyssa, how long do you plan to pretend you don’t know and marry a man who doesn’t love you anymore?]
[You’ve seen it. I’m carrying Ivan’s child. That gives me a trump card you don’t have. What makes you think you can compete with me?]
[If I were you, I’d pack up, take the money, and leave. Otherwise, when this all blows up, you’ll end up with nothing.]
Those messages had weighed heavily on her heart since the moment she read them. It was only this morning that she felt the burden begin to lift.
She had foolishly thought Ivan might come back and propose ending things with her. But now, it seemed Monica wasn’t as important to him as she thought.
A short while later, Ivan returned to the room. He gently patted the top of her head, the gesture almost comforting, as if trying to soothe her.
