The morning of our third anniversary dawned with a perfect Los Angeles glow, sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of our downtown apartment. I'd been up since five, arranging everything with the precision I'd learned to perfect over the years. The dining table gleamed under the crystal chandelier, set with the Wedgwood china we'd received as wedding gifts but rarely used. Candles stood ready, wine chilled in the refrigerator, and the small velvet box containing the vintage cufflinks I'd sourced from an auction in Geneva sat centered on the table like a promise.
I smoothed my dress—a deep burgundy that Ryker once said brought out the warmth in my eyes—and checked my watch. Six hours until he'd be home. Plenty of time to finish the preparations and make this anniversary memorable.
Our apartment had always been a sanctuary of sorts. Minimalist, elegant, with clean lines and carefully curated art pieces that spoke of quiet wealth without shouting it. I'd chosen everything here, from the Italian leather sofa to the Brazilian hardwood floors, wanting it to feel like ours rather than merely mine. It was important to me that Ryker never felt overshadowed, never suspected the true scale of the Herrera resources I quietly funneled into our life together.
"Everything needs to be perfect," I murmured to myself, straightening a vase of fresh peonies. "Three years deserves perfection."
As I moved through the living room, I noticed Ryker's laptop on his desk, its screen still illuminated. He'd left in a hurry this morning—another late meeting, another promise to make it up to me. I smiled and headed toward it, meaning to close it before dinner. The screen saver hadn't activated yet, and there, on his desktop, sat a folder with a name that made my blood pause: "Devotion."
My fingers hovered over the trackpad. Something in the deliberate naming of it, the way it sat there so innocently among his work files, made my skin prickle with a premonition I couldn't name.
"It's nothing," I whispered to the empty room. "Just work stuff. Or maybe... maybe it's for me? For our anniversary?" But even as I thought it, I knew better. The anniversary gift was already wrapped and waiting on the table.
I clicked on the folder, and it opened with a soft chime that seemed to echo through my chest. Dozens of images filled the screen, arranged by date. My eyes caught on the first one—Ryker's face, younger somehow, pressed close to a woman with glossy dark hair and a familiar smile. Lexi Stephens. I'd seen her on entertainment shows, heard Ryker mention her as an old friend from college. In the photograph, they were laughing, his hand resting on her bare shoulder, her head tilted back in mid-laugh. The timestamp read two years ago. While we were married.
My hand moved to the next image. Then the next. Each one a knife, each one a date stamp that carved away pieces of the life I thought we'd built. There was Ryker and Lexi at a beach resort I'd never seen. Ryker and Lexi in what looked like a hotel suite. Ryker and Lexi celebrating with champagne—the same weekend he'd told me he was at a business conference in San Diego.
But it was the audio file, sitting innocuously among the photographs, that truly destroyed me. My finger clicked it without conscious thought, and suddenly their voices filled our apartment.
"...and then we'll tell her the baby's coming in April," Lexi was saying, her voice bright with malicious delight. "She'll be so distracted with the pregnancy news that she won't notice the paperwork until it's too late."
"You're brilliant, Lex," Ryker's voice replied, warm with affection I'd thought belonged only to me. "The fake ultrasound documents are ready. By the time she realizes what's happening, the villa transfer will be complete, and we'll have access to everything."
"She still has no idea who she's really married to, does she?" Lexi laughed. "Poor little rich girl, playing at being normal. If she knew her own worth..."
"She never will," Ryker cut in. "That's what makes this so easy. She's so desperate to be loved for herself that she's erased herself completely."
I sat perfectly still in Ryker's leather chair, listening to the entire recording. Twelve minutes of my husband and his mistress plotting to steal my inheritance through a fake pregnancy. Twelve minutes that rewrote every moment of our marriage into a lie.
When the recording finally ended, I didn't cry. I didn't scream. Instead, I carefully closed the laptop, returning it to its exact original position. My hands were steady as I reached for my phone.
