I made Wade's favorite dinner that Tuesday. Steak, medium-rare. Garlic mashed potatoes with real butter, the kind that comes in the expensive foil wrapper. Green beans I'd blanched and sautéed with slivered almonds. I even lit candles.
He ate three helpings. Told me I was amazing. Kissed my forehead on his way to the couch.
By ten-thirty, he was asleep in my bed, one arm flung across my pillow. I stayed up, phone in hand, scrolling Reddit the way you do when your brain won't shut off. Relationship drama. AITA posts. The usual digital junk food.
Then I saw it.
r/relationships. Posted four hours ago. Anonymous throwaway account.
*"How do I keep my plain-looking girlfriend interested until the wedding?"*
I almost scrolled past. But something snagged. I read the first line.
*"She's got a Manhattan apartment in her name and family money. I've been with her a year. She's a 5 on a good day, but 5s are easier to control."*
My throat closed.
The post kept going. He complained about her cooking too much. Buying him things he didn't ask for. How she worked in marketing for a mid-tier firm and drove a Lexus. How she had a golden retriever that shed everywhere.
I have a golden retriever. His name is Benson.
I work in marketing.
I drive a Lexus.
My hands started shaking so hard I almost dropped the phone. I read it again. Then again. The username was throwaway_secured99. The writing was casual. Confident. Like he was asking for restaurant recommendations.
*"My mom says to get her pregnant before the wedding. Lock it down. Then work on getting my name on the deed. Thoughts?"*
I looked at Wade. He was on his back, mouth slightly open, one hand resting on his chest. Peaceful. The same man who'd kissed my forehead twenty minutes ago.
I read the post a fourth time. My stomach turned over.
The comments were worse. Strangers telling him to be careful. To make sure the kid was his. One guy wrote, *"If she's that plain, she probably knows she's lucky. She won't leave."*
I put the phone down. Picked it up. Read it again.
Then I looked at Wade's phone on the nightstand.
I'd never gone through it before. Never needed to. We had each other's passwords for emergencies, but I'd never used mine. That felt like something other couples did. Paranoid couples. Broken couples.
I reached for his phone. My heart slammed against my ribs.
The screen lit up. Passcode required.
I knew it. His birthday backward. But I didn't type it in. Instead, I lifted his hand — slowly, carefully, like I was defusing a bomb — and pressed his thumb to the sensor.
The phone unlocked.
I held my breath. Wade didn't stir.
I opened his messages. Started scrolling. Work emails. Group chats with his college friends. Nothing.
Then I saw it. A thread labeled "Mom."
I tapped it.
The most recent message was from three days ago. From her.
*"Did you talk to her about the apartment yet? You need to start planting seeds now. Once you're married, push for joint ownership. She's emotionally dependent — she won't fight you."*
Wade's response: *"I know. I'm working on it. She bought me the car, didn't she?"*
Mrs. Gomez: *"Good. But don't get cocky. Manage her carefully. She's a sweet but stupid girl. Don't let her see anything that makes her think."*
I scrolled up. Weeks of messages. Plans. Strategies. Timelines.
Mrs. Gomez: *"Get her pregnant before the wedding if you can. It'll make her easier to manage. She won't leave if there's a baby."*
Wade: *"What if she wants to wait?"*
Mrs. Gomez: *"Then you convince her she doesn't."*
I stared at the screen until the words blurred.
Then I kept scrolling.
I found another thread. No contact name. Just a phone number.
I opened it.
The messages were recent. From this morning.
*"Miss you baby."*
*"Can't wait to see you Friday."*
*"Wear the black dress."*
There were photos. A woman in lingerie. A woman's laugh in a voice memo. Selfies taken in dim lighting, her lips parted, eyes half-closed.
I scrolled up. Hundreds of messages. Months of them. Timestamps that ran parallel to our anniversary dinner. Our weekend in the Catskills. The night he proposed.
I found her name in one of the older texts. Blaire.
I looked at Wade again. He shifted slightly, mumbled something in his sleep.
I placed his phone back on the nightstand. Exactly where it had been. Screen down. Charging cable plugged in.
I lay down beside him. Pulled the blanket up to my chin. Stared at the ceiling.
The candles had burned out. The apartment was silent except for Wade's breathing and the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
I didn't cry. I didn't move.
Something inside me was rearranging itself. Piece by piece. Cold and precise and permanent.
I didn't sleep that night.
But I started planning.
