Marco stumbled into the room, clearly drunk and cupped my face in his hands, pressing a kiss to my forehead. His eyes, glazed with alcohol, were filled with something soft—concern, maybe even guilt.
“Why are you standing by the door?” he asked gently.
“It’s nothing,” I said with a smile. “I was bringing you something to help sober up… spilled it by accident.”
“You shouldn’t be doing that. Let the housekeeper handle it,” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “You’ve been exhausted lately. Get some rest, or I’ll start worrying.”
Then he leaned in and kissed me again—soft, familiar, just like he always did.
Just this time, I couldn’t feel a thing.
It was strange, how a person could go so far, do so much… all for someone who didn’t love them back. I closed my eyes and a tear slid down my cheek.
I helped him to bed and pulled the covers over him. He fell asleep almost instantly, lulled by the alcohol.
I sat down at the edge of the bed and slowly reached for his phone. The passcode was Amina’s birthday.
Once entered, the screen flickered into a hidden interface—clean, simple, but one thing stood out: the photo gallery, completely full.
He had documented everything from the Vogel case—A thousand photos, maybe more. Every single one tied to Amina. Her possible motives. The evidence that pointed to her. Even surveillance footage of her standing at the gate of the Vogels’ villa the night they were killed.
Clear as day.
When I reached the end of the gallery, I found something that hit harder than anything else. He had labeled the case as “unsolved.”
Marco had brought the files home to avoid drawing suspicion from his colleagues. The only record he kept was here—on his phone. Hidden. Just for himself.
His bias. His protection of her. It was all there, plain as day.
The weight of it made my chest ache. He’d always been a principled investigator—firm, intuitive, driven by truth. Those were the very reasons I fell so deeply in love with him.
I never imagined he’d abandon all of it—his integrity, his convictions—just for Amina.
And then, I noticed another folder. Private. Locked.
I opened it. Nothing but photos of Amina smiling. Hundreds of them. Snapshots spanning five years of her life since the wedding.
As the second daughter-in-law, marrying into the Fisher Family, she naturally had attended countless public events—and Marco had saved them all.
In every group photo, my face had been carefully cropped out. That message couldn’t have been clearer.
I let out a dry, bitter laugh and closed the album. I didn’t need to see any more.
Instead, I pulled out my own phone and began to quietly document everything—every image, every piece of evidence he thought he’d hidden.
That night, I booked a one-way ticket. Departure: three days later. Destination: anywhere but this city.
I filed for the cancellation of all my personal documents—ID, bank cards, everything tied to my current life.
I didn’t sleep.
At sunrise, I went to the bathroom to wash up. My phone buzzed.
Marco’s voice came through the door, confused, “Polly? Why did you cancel your ID?”
I quickly pulled the phone from the counter, slipping it out of sight as casually as I could.
“Oh, nothing,” I said with a small smile. “My ID was about to expire—I just booked an appointment to renew it.” I paused, trying to appear calm. “Don’t you have training today? You should get going.”
He didn’t question it. Instead, he pulled me into his arms, holding me close, his cheek brushing against mine.
“Babe,” he whispered, his voice soft and teasing, “are you trying to surprise me?”
I froze for half a second.
“I saw the pregnancy report.” He reached out and playfully tapped my nose. “Mom and Dad have been asking about grandkids for five years. If they knew, they’d be over the moon.”
Then his tone softened, a little reverent, a little too smooth. “Their memorial’s coming up, isn’t it? Let’s go together. We’ll bring some flowers and tell them the good news, yeah? Maybe even host a family dinner after—Marc hasn’t been back in a while.”
I smiled faintly. Said nothing.
He spun me in a joyful circle, his excitement overflowing. For five years, he had tried so hard to patch things up between me and Marcel, his brother and my former fiancé, pushing for family reunions, holiday dinners, “accidental” run-ins.
I used to believe that was love. Now, I saw it for what it really was—calculated. He wasn’t building bridges for my sake. He just needed a reason to see Amina again.
This entire marriage—five years of it—had been one long, careful performance.
Now, it was time to bring down the curtain.
