I became a detective in my own relationship.
Every morning, I woke up beside Anders and kissed him goodbye with a smile that felt like a mask I'd learned to wear perfectly. Every evening, I welcomed him home and asked about his day, listening to his lies with the attentiveness of someone taking notes for a trial.
Because that's what I was doing. Building a case.
I started with his laptop, left carelessly open while he showered. The browser history told me everything I needed to know—hotel searches, restaurant reservations I'd never been invited to, jewelry stores I'd never received gifts from. I photographed each screen with steady hands, my heart a stone in my chest.
His phone was harder. He'd started keeping it closer, but Anders was a creature of habit. He still left it charging in the kitchen while he took his morning run. Three minutes was all I needed to forward incriminating text threads to my own email. Rylie's messages were a masterclass in manipulation—coy, adoring, increasingly demanding.
"Miss you already," she'd written at 11 PM last Thursday. The same Thursday Anders had told me he was working late on a grant proposal.
"Can't stop thinking about last night," from two weeks ago, timestamped an hour after he'd made love to me in our bed.
I saved everything. Screenshots. Photos. Dates and times meticulously logged in a password-protected document. The evidence mounted like a wall between us, invisible to him, suffocating to me.
The worst part wasn't the discovery. It was the performance.
"How was your day?" I'd ask over dinner, watching him chew the pasta I'd made, the same recipe his mother had taught me.
"Exhausting," he'd say, reaching for my hand across the table. "But coming home to you makes it all worthwhile."
I wanted to laugh. Or scream. Instead, I squeezed his fingers and smiled.
The faculty dinner party arrived like a test I hadn't studied for. Anders' department hosted them quarterly—tedious affairs where I played the role of the supportive girlfriend, nodding along to academic debates I found numbingly dull. But this time, Rylie would be there.
I dressed carefully that evening. A midnight blue dress that Anders loved, paired with the pearl earrings his mother had given me last Christmas. If I was going to watch him with her, I'd do it looking like the woman he was supposed to choose.
The university's faculty club smelled of old wood and expensive wine. Anders guided me through the crowd with his hand on my lower back, introducing me to colleagues with obvious pride. "This is Ocean," he'd say, and I'd extend my hand, play my part.
Then I saw her.
Rylie stood near the bar, wearing a red dress that screamed for attention. When she spotted Anders, her face lit up with an intimacy that made my stomach clench. She approached us with a practiced casualness, champagne flute in hand.
"Professor Perkins," she cooed, and something about the way she said his title felt obscene. "I didn't know you'd be here tonight."
Liar. She'd known exactly where he'd be.
"Rylie," Anders replied, his tone professionally warm but his eyes—his eyes held something else entirely. "Have you met Ocean?"
She turned to me with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Of course. It's lovely to see you again."
We'd never met. Another lie to add to my collection.
I watched them throughout the evening. Watched how she'd materialize at his elbow during conversations, her laugh too loud at his jokes, her hand finding reasons to touch his arm, his shoulder, once, brazenly, his chest. Anders maintained appropriate distance in public, but I could see the tension in his jaw, the way his gaze would find her across the room.
At one point, she whispered something in his ear. He smiled—not his public smile, but the private one I thought belonged to me.
I excused myself to the restroom and stood over the sink, gripping the marble counter until my knuckles turned white. When I looked up, the woman in the mirror was a stranger. Composed. Elegant. Completely hollow.
Two days later, I was scrolling through Rylie's Instagram—a habit that had become as compulsive as it was masochistic—when I saw it. A photo of a candlelit dinner, two wine glasses, and a man's hand reaching across the table. The caption read: "Perfect evenings with imperfect people."
But it wasn't the caption that gutted me.
It was the watch on his wrist. The vintage Omega Seamaster I'd spent three months' salary on for Anders' last birthday. The one he'd kissed me for, saying it was too much, too generous, too perfect.
He was wearing my gift while romancing her.
I set my phone down with infinite care, as if it might shatter. Or maybe I was the one shattering, piece by piece, evidence by evidence, lie by lie.
That night, Anders came home with takeout from my favorite Thai place. "Thought you could use a treat," he said, kissing my forehead.
I looked at his wrist. The watch gleamed under our kitchen lights.
"That's thoughtful," I said. "Really thoughtful."
And I smiled.
