Ellen POV:
"Hurry up, I need to use the toilet," Adrian grumbled through the heavy oak door. His heavy footsteps retreated, moving across the bedroom carpet toward the hallway to use the guest bathroom.
He didn't ask if I was okay. He didn't care if I was sick. He just needed me out of his way. That was the reality of our ten-year marriage, laid bare in a single sentence.
I slid down the door and hit the cold tile floor. I pulled my knees up and focused on the glowing screen in my hand. I wasn't done digging.
I tapped the search bar at the top of the iMessage thread. I typed the word *house*. Then *dollars*. Then *down payment*.
The screen jumped back three years to a long block of text. Jasmine had sent a dozen photos of glossy real estate brochures.
I opened the first image. It was a massive, detached villa sitting on the edge of Lake Travis in Austin. It featured a sprawling green lawn, a private infinity pool, and floor-to-ceiling glass windows.
Beneath the photos, Jasmine had written: *Adrian, this school district house is only 1.2 million dollars. If we pay in full, they’ll give us a five percent discount.*
My lungs stopped working.
Adrian had replied with a simple 'OK' emoji, followed by the text: *I’ll have the finance guy wash the money over tomorrow.*
1.2 million dollars. Paid in full.
The words burned into my retinas. Three years ago, Adrian had come to me looking frantic. He said his tech startup was facing a severe cash flow crisis. He begged me to cash out the fifty thousand dollars my late parents had left me—the only safety net I had in the world. I gave it to him without hesitation. I thought I was saving my husband. I was actually buying his mistress a swimming pool.
I kept scrolling. I searched the word *car*.
A photo popped up of a brand-new, white Porsche Cayenne. It had a massive red ribbon tied to the hood. Jasmine was standing in front of the grille, holding Angel in her arms. Adrian stood right beside them, looking at Jasmine with a level of pure, unadulterated devotion I had never seen directed at me.
I looked down at my own hands. My skin was dry, peeling around the cuticles from years of cheap dish soap and hot water. I drove a ten-year-old Ford SUV with a broken air conditioner to drop Cameron at a crumbling public school.
A low, dark chuckle escaped my lips. I wasn't crying anymore. The tears had been burned away by a rage so intense it felt cold.
I needed these photos. I swiped down to open the control center and tapped the AirDrop icon, intending to send the files to my own phone.
I stopped. My finger hovered over the screen. If I connected the two devices, my phone's name would register in this device's AirDrop history log. Adrian was a tech executive. He would check.
I immediately canceled the action. I pulled my cheap, cracked phone from my sweatpants pocket, opened the camera app, and held it over the black iPhone.
*Click.*
I took a picture of the Porsche.
*Click.*
I took a picture of the 1.2 million dollar house contract, zooming in on Jasmine Lin’s name listed as the sole buyer.
*Click. Click. Click.*
Even with my phone on silent, the physical vibration of the shutter felt like a hammer striking an anvil. I photographed the bank transfers, the plane tickets, and the nauseating declarations of love.
My arms ached. I took over fifty photos, building an airtight vault of his financial treason.
Suddenly, a gray box dropped down from the top of the secret phone's screen. *Low Battery: 10% Remaining.*
Panic spiked in my chest. I had been in the bathroom for too long. If Adrian came back and found the door still locked, he would force his way in.
I rapidly swiped up, closing the messages, the photos, and clearing the background app refresh. I pressed the power button, plunging the screen into darkness. I grabbed a dry hand towel and frantically wiped the glass to remove my fingerprints.
I stood up. I shoved the black iPhone deep into the oversized pocket of my sweatpants. I took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing the muscles in my face to relax into the tired, subservient mask I wore every day.
I reached over and hit the toilet flusher. I turned on the faucet, ran wet hands through my messy hair, and unlocked the door.
I pulled it open and stepped out.
Adrian was standing right there.
He had already showered in the guest bath and was dressed in a custom Armani dress shirt. He was adjusting his silk tie in the full-length mirror. He stopped and looked at me through the reflection. His eyes dragged over my pale face and messy clothes with blatant disgust.
"Are you done?" he snapped. "Did you eat that cheap discount meat from the supermarket again? I told you it makes the whole house smell when you're sick."
My right hand was buried in my pocket, my fingernails digging so hard into my palm that I felt the skin break. The physical pain anchored me.
I forced a soft, apologetic smile onto my face.
"Do you want pancakes or toast?"
