But as Philip looked at what was inside, the color drained from his face.
There were no photographs in the album. Only train tickets. Dozens of them.
Back in college, during the National Computing Competition, he'd been part of his school's logistics team. He saw me at the venue and fell for me on the spot, confessing his feelings with reckless abandon.
But by then, I was already the most celebrated prodigy on campus. My software engineering skills were in a league of their own. Compared to him—a serial schmoozer who couldn't pass a single exam—we were worlds apart.
I turned him down gently. So after the competition, he started showing up. Again and again, riding trains for hours, standing the whole way because he couldn't afford a seat, just to see me and plead his case.
On our wedding day, he'd bound every last ticket into an album and presented it to me, tears streaming down his face as he pulled me into his arms.
"It took me ten thousand miles to win you over. How could I ever not cherish you?"
Now that album was nothing but the cruelest joke.
When I said nothing, the coworkers took my silence as confirmation of the affair. Phones shot up instantly, cameras shoved in my face as someone started a livestream.
"Never seen a homewrecker this shameless! One man doesn't work out, so she moves right on to the next. Ladies, steer clear of this one!"
Within seconds, my swollen, battered face was plastered across the internet under a headline that read: "Nothing scarier than an aging side chick who still tries."
The comments section exploded. People were all too happy to pile on.
"At her age and still trying to be someone's mistress? Guess the money between a man's legs is just that good?"
"No real skills, so she makes up for it in the bedroom!"
A few voices pushed back.
"She looks familiar. Hasn't she won a bunch of tech awards? She'd be making good money on her own. Why would she need to be anyone's side piece?"
Fury surged through me. I grabbed Philip by the collar and yanked him close.
"You know damn well whether I'm a homewrecker. Tell them. Tell them the truth."
A flicker of guilt finally crossed Philip's face. He opened his mouth to speak—
My phone chimed.
Winona spotted it before I could. Her eyes lit up like she'd struck gold. She snatched the phone from me and held it up for everyone to see, triumphant as a cat with a mouse.
It was a message from Craig, sent just moments ago:
"I'll come pick you up at your place tomorrow morning. I'll bring breakfast."
He'd added me from a secondary account. Nobody recognized the name. Imaginations ran wild in the worst possible direction.
"Of course! The most dedicated homewrecker in the game. Already has the next rendezvous lined up. No wonder she was so eager to quit!"
Even the few commenters who'd defended me turned hostile.
"So she really is a shameless gold-digger throwing herself at men. Disgusting!"
I opened my mouth to explain, but Philip's eyes had already gone bloodshot. His palm cracked across my face and sent me sprawling to the floor.
"Cora Maxwell. I was actually about to speak up for you just now. And this whole time, you really are that cheap." His voice shook with rage. "No wonder you were so set on leaving. You couldn't wait to crawl into some other man's bed. This company doesn't need a slut like you!"
The others closed in, their faces twisted with self-righteous fury.
"You live like trash and bully your coworkers, and now the whole internet despises you. You're a stain on this company! You're not walking out of here today until you get on your knees and apologize. Otherwise, you don't leave."
Before I could react, someone kicked the back of my knee. My legs buckled and I crashed to the floor, knees slamming against the tile.
A hand fisted in my hair and slammed my forehead into the ground. Pain split through my skull. Blood ran down my face.
Winona crouched in front of me, pinching my chin between her fingers. She leaned in close, her lips brushing my ear.
"A worn-out thing like you thinks she can steal my man? Someone needs to teach you your place."
When Philip finally saw the blood streaming down my face, something in him snapped back to reason. He grabbed me by the arm, hauled me up, and threw me into the elevator. His voice was a low, venomous hiss.
"Go home. Wait for me. And if you ever bring up divorce again, you'll find out what I do to you when I get back."
But just before the elevator doors slid shut, Winona's voice drifted in from outside—syrupy, pouting, playful.
"Mr. Delgado, you promised you'd spend tonight with me. Don't you dare go back on your word!"
