His Betrayal Make Me Lost My Baby

The notification sound from my phone cut through the silence of our pristine apartment like a blade. I glanced at the screen, expecting another mundane email, but instead found a message from my bank's fraud alert system.

*Unusual transaction detected: $50,000 charged to Tiffany & Co.*

My heart stuttered. Fifty thousand dollars. At Tiffany's. Leon hadn't mentioned anything about jewelry, and certainly not something that expensive. My fingers trembled as I opened my banking app, scrolling through recent transactions. There it was—a charge from yesterday, processed while I'd been at my father's tedious charity gala, playing the dutiful daughter.

I set my coffee cup down with shaking hands, the porcelain clinking against the marble countertop. Three years. Three years of funneling money into Leon's career, watching from the shadows as he climbed the esports ladder. Three million dollars of my trust fund, all given freely because I believed in us. Because I believed in him.

But a fifty-thousand-dollar ring? That was different. That was... personal.

My laptop was already open on the kitchen island, and I found myself typing before I could second-guess the decision. Leon's email account—I still had access from when I'd helped him organize his sponsorship contracts last year. He'd never changed the password.

I shouldn't be doing this. The rational part of my mind whispered warnings about privacy and trust, but my heart was hammering too loudly to listen. I scrolled through his recent emails, searching for anything related to Tiffany's.

There. A thread with a sales representative named Miranda Chen.

*Mr. Mills, the custom engagement ring you requested is ready for pickup. The 2.5-carat diamond in platinum setting, as discussed, comes to $49,800. We've held it in our vault as requested. Please confirm pickup time.*

Engagement ring.

The words blurred as tears pricked my eyes. I blinked them back, forcing myself to read Leon's response.

*Perfect. I'll pick it up tomorrow afternoon. Make sure it's in the blue Tiffany box—she's going to love the presentation.*

She. Not me. Never me.

I scrolled further, finding earlier messages in the thread. Leon had been meticulous about the details—the cut, the clarity, even requesting a specific engraving inside the band. *'Forever yours, L.'* The same words he'd whispered to me on our wedding night three years ago.

My chest felt hollow, like someone had scooped out everything vital and left only an aching void. I gripped the edge of the counter, my knuckles white against the dark stone. The apartment around me—our apartment, though only my name was on the lease—suddenly felt foreign. The minimalist decor Leon had insisted upon, the gaming setup that dominated our living room, the framed photos of his tournament victories where I appeared in none.

I was funding my own heartbreak.

The sound of keys in the front door made me slam the laptop shut. Leon's voice echoed through the foyer, bright and animated as he spoke into his phone.

"—yeah, the sponsorship deal with HyperX is looking solid. Marcus thinks we can push for even more if the next tournament goes well."

I quickly wiped my eyes and straightened my shoulders, muscle memory from years of charity galas kicking in. Smile. Appear composed. Never let them see you break.

Leon appeared in the kitchen doorway, still on his call, looking effortlessly handsome in his team jacket. His dark hair was perfectly tousled, and his smile was the same one that had made me fall in love with him at that industry party three years ago. Back when I thought I'd found someone who saw past my family's expectations to the real me.

"I'll call you back," he said into the phone, then looked at me with mild surprise. "You're home early."

"The gala ended sooner than expected." My voice sounded steadier than I felt. "Leon, we need to talk."

He was already moving toward the refrigerator, pulling out an energy drink. "Can it wait? I've got scrims in an hour, and Marcus wants to review some footage before—"

"You spent fifty thousand dollars yesterday."

His hand paused on the can's pull-tab. For just a moment, something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe guilt—before his expression smoothed into practiced innocence.

"Fifty thousand? Aria, what are you talking about?"

I pulled out my phone, showing him the bank alert. "Tiffany & Co. Yesterday at 3:47 PM. While I was at the charity gala, you were buying jewelry."

Leon's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "You're monitoring my spending now?"

"It's my money, Leon." The words came out sharper than I'd intended. "Every dollar in that account comes from my trust fund. So yes, when you spend fifty thousand dollars without mentioning it, I notice."

He set down the energy drink and turned to face me fully. There was something cold in his eyes now, a distance that made my stomach clench.

"Our money," he corrected. "We're married, remember? What's yours is mine."

"Then where's my ring?"

The question hung between us like a challenge. Leon's mouth opened, then closed. For the first time in months, he looked genuinely caught off guard.

"What ring?"

"The engagement ring you bought yesterday. The 2.5-carat diamond in platinum. The one you're picking up this afternoon." I watched his face carefully, saw the moment he realized I knew more than he'd expected. "The one with 'Forever yours, L' engraved inside."

Leon's expression hardened. "You went through my emails."

"You used my money to buy an engagement ring for another woman."

The silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating. Outside, Los Angeles traffic hummed in the distance, but inside our apartment, the air felt thick enough to choke on.

Finally, Leon laughed. It was a sound I'd once found charming, but now it felt like ice water in my veins.

"Jesus, Aria. You really don't get it, do you?"

"Get what?"

He moved closer, and I caught the scent of his cologne—expensive, something I'd bought him for his birthday. "This." He gestured between us. "What we have. It's not some fairy tale romance. You're my ATM girl, not my girlfriend."

The words hit me like a physical blow. "What did you just call me?"

"You heard me." His voice was matter-of-fact, almost bored. "Look, I appreciate everything you've done for my career. The money, the support, staying out of the spotlight. But Chloe—she's different. She fits my brand. She's what my fans expect."

Chloe Vance. The rising commentator with her perfect smile and camera-ready personality. I'd seen her at tournaments, had even admired her work from afar. I'd never imagined she was the reason my husband came home later and later each night.

"We're married, Leon."

"We're business partners," he corrected. "And you're good at your job. Keep the money flowing, stay invisible, and everyone wins."

My legs felt unsteady. I gripped the counter again, fighting against the wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm me.

"Three years," I whispered. "Three years of marriage, and you think I'm just your ATM?"

Leon shrugged, already reaching for his energy drink again. "If the shoe fits. Look, I've got to go. The team's expecting me, and I can't be late. We'll talk later, okay?"

He moved toward me as if to kiss my cheek—a gesture so casual, so dismissive, that something inside me snapped.

"Don't touch me."

He paused, eyebrows raised. "Excuse me?"

"I said don't touch me." My voice was stronger now, fueled by a rage I didn't know I possessed. "Get out."

"This is my apartment too."

"No," I said, standing straighter. "It's not. My name is on the lease. My money pays the rent. And right now, I want you gone."

For a moment, Leon looked genuinely surprised. Then his expression shifted to something uglier, more familiar—the look he got when someone dared to challenge him in-game.

"Fine," he said, grabbing his keys from the counter. "But don't think this changes anything, Aria. You need me more than I need you. Without me, you're just another rich girl playing at rebellion."

The front door slammed behind him, leaving me alone in the sudden quiet. I stood there for a long moment, my reflection staring back at me from the dark window. Twenty-six years old, with everything money could buy and nothing that actually mattered.

ATM girl.

The words echoed in my head as I sank onto one of our pristine bar stools. Three years of secret marriage. Three million dollars. And for what? To fund his romance with someone else?

I pulled out my phone with trembling fingers, staring at the banking app. Every transaction told the story of my foolish hope—team equipment, training facilities, his apartment deposit, his car payments, his everything.

But as I sat there in the gathering twilight, something else stirred beneath the heartbreak. Something sharper and more dangerous than grief.

If Leon wanted to treat me like a business transaction, then maybe it was time to renegotiate the terms.