Theater: NovelMaster | Language: English | NEW
Synopsis
While my fiancé was in the fitting room trying on his suit, his phone lit up on the couch.
"Babe, I just put down the deposit for the luxury maternity retreat. When are you finally going to break it off with her?"
I glanced at his smug silhouette behind the curtain, picked up the phone, and typed back:
"Tonight. The house is under her name, so go ahead and call the movers for me."
Five days until our engagement party.
Ethan was inside the bridal boutique's fitting room trying on his tailored tuxedo while I sat on the plush sofa scrolling through my phone.
The tailor popped out to say the waist needed taking in and pulled him back in to measure.
His phone was resting on the cushion right next to me, screen facing up.
A notification banner popped up.
The contact was saved as "Baby," paired with a profile picture of a girl smiling behind a cute cat filter.
"Babe, I just put down the deposit for the luxury maternity retreat. When are you finally going to break it off with her?"
I stared at the screen for five long seconds.
Then another five.
Just to make sure my eyes weren't playing tricks on me.
"Maternity retreat." Those words stung like needles piercing straight into my retinas.
I didn't make a sound.
Ethan stepped out of the fitting room, spinning in front of the full-length mirror. "How do I look?"
"Great."
"Should we lock this one in, then?"
"Definitely," I said with a sweet smile. "You only get engaged once in a lifetime. We should have the absolute best."
While he walked over to the counter to swipe his card, I picked up his phone and opened the chat.
I scrolled up.
The chat history was scrubbed clean, leaving only that single, lonely message.
His social feed interactions, however, were wide open.
He had liked every single post from that girl. One from three days ago read: "So excited for our date tomorrow~"
The location tag was a luxury boutique hotel uptown.
I took a screenshot and sent it to myself.
Then, I opened his Notes app.
The latest note read: "The condo is in her name. Find a way to make her move out voluntarily. Or convince her to sign over the deed to me under the excuse of consolidating joint assets after marriage."
The timestamp was last Wednesday.
The exact night he claimed he was working late at the office until 11:00 PM.
Turns out, he wasn't working. He was working on scamming me out of my real estate.
I screenshotted the note, too.
After wiping all traces of my browsing history, I set the phone back down in its exact position.
"Let's go, babe. I'm taking you out for high-end sushi," Ethan said, sliding an arm around my waist after paying.
"Sounds wonderful."
The omakase place he booked cost around two hundred dollars a person. In the past, I would have winced at the bill.
Today, I didn't care at all.
After all, it was going on his card.
Throughout dinner, my mind spun with questions.
Who was this "Baby"?
When did it start?
How far along was she?
And how exactly did he plan to get me to "move out voluntarily"?
Ethan placed a slice of fresh salmon sashimi on my plate. "What's on your mind?"
"Just thinking about the party," I said, offering a gentle smile. "How many tables do you think we should book?"
"Ten tables should do it. No need to overdo it."
"Sounds good."
I chewed in silence, hatching a plan of my own.
After dinner, I ducked into the restroom and texted my best friend, Rachel.
"Rachel, I need you to run a background check on someone."
"Who?"
"A contact on Ethan's phone. Name is saved as 'Baby,' profile picture is a girl with a cat filter."
"Wait, you suspect him of cheating again?"
"No suspicion. It's confirmed."
Rachel replied instantly: "I freaking knew it! The way he was glued to his phone during our double date last week was so sketchy!"
"Just help me dig up her info first."
"On it. My husband has a buddy working in telecom. I'll have answers by tomorrow afternoon."
The next afternoon, Rachel sent over a full file.
"Vanessa Brooks, 25. An administrative coordinator at Ethan's company. Hired four months ago."
Attached was a photo.
Long flowing hair, doe eyes, a sharp jawline—a textbook Instagram influencer face.
Her public feed was set to the last three days. Her latest post from yesterday read: "With someone by my side, even the toughest days feel sweet."
The photo featured two iced coffees—one labeled "Vane" and the other "Ethan."
The location was the plaza right outside Ethan's office building.
Rachel had managed to view older posts through a burner account.
Two weeks ago: "He promised to take me home to meet his parents as soon as this busy season wraps up."
One month ago: "Finally found you. So glad I held on."
Three months ago: "New job, new chapter, new person."
The timeline was crystal clear.
She hadn't even been at the company for a month before they hooked up.
And Ethan had already fed her the classic line: "I'll take you home to meet my parents once things quiet down."
I couldn't help but wonder—what was I to him?
Three years together, two years living under the same roof, and five days away from our engagement party.
I had visited his hometown, spent holidays with his parents, and met every single one of his friends.
Yet here he was, telling another girl he'd bring her home "after this busy stretch."
After this busy stretch?
Meaning right after our engagement party, right?That night, Ethan claimed he had to work late again and didn't stroll through the door until after nine.
He headed straight for the bathroom and took a forty-minute shower.
Normally, his showers took fifteen minutes tops.
When he finally emerged, a cloud of cologne followed him into the room.
Since when did late-night office overtime require fresh cologne?
I didn't call him out. I simply asked, "Hungry? I heated up some soup for you."
"Not hungry, already grabbed a bite," he muttered, collapsing onto the bed to scroll through his feed. Before long, his eyes shut and he drifted off.
His phone was still resting loosely in his palm.
I slipped it out from his fingers. The screen wasn't even locked.
I opened SnapChat, and the chat with "Baby" was right at the top.
The latest message was from him: "Tried on my suit today. Looks amazing, doesn't it? I'll wear it for you the day of the party."
She had replied: "Isn't she standing right there? You dare text me in front of her?"
"She went to the bathroom."
"Snap me a mirror pic of the suit, then."
And he actually had.
A mirror selfie taken right inside the fitting room.
Beneath the photo, he added: "Let me wrap up this engagement party, and I'll handle her. Don't stress, just secure your room at the maternity care retreat first."
"What about the house? Are you sure she won't keep it?"
"She loves me blindly. She believes whatever I tell her. Don't worry, the house will be ours."
Reading the screen, my hands didn't shake.
Not even a tremor.
Honestly, I almost laughed.
Three years.
I had given him three years of my life.
I stood by him as he climbed from an entry-level desk jockey to department manager. I covered half the rent, took care of most of the chores, packed him meals during late nights, and picked him up whenever he got drunk at corporate dinners.
And in the end, I was just a nuisance to be "handled."
And he expected to walk away with my condo, too.
I recorded a video of the screen, snapped several photos with my own phone, and slipped his device back into his hand.
I lay down and stared up at the ceiling.
Sleep wouldn't come.
Beside me, Ethan was snoring lightly, sleeping like a baby.
The next morning, I went to work as if nothing was wrong.
Everyone in the office knew about my upcoming engagement, and several coworkers stopped by to offer congratulations.
I smiled, thanked them, and kept refining my plan.
A month ago, Ethan told me his department was rushing a critical project and he'd be slammed.
I had believed him.
Looking back, he was just busy catering to his pregnant sidepiece.
Oh, right. Pregnant.
Vanessa was pregnant and already placing deposits at a maternity center.
Ethan was going to be a father.
Just not with me.
Over our three years together, he always insisted, "My career isn't stable yet. Let's wait on having kids."
I agreed, telling him we could wait until he felt ready.
Turns out, he had no problem getting someone else pregnant in the meantime.
Unstable career?
The very "career" he boasted about was practically built on my back.
Last year, when he competed for the director role, I stayed up for three consecutive nights rewriting his promotion presentation.
The day he stepped on stage, I had memorized his script better than he had.
When he landed the role, he treated his team to drinks.
That night, stumbling home drunk, he wrapped his arms around me and slurred, "Babe, what would I ever do without you?"
Back then, I thought it was sweet.
Now I realized how accurate it was.
Without me, he truly was a nobody.
Yet with me, he took everything for granted.The engagement party was set for Saturday at the Marriott downtown.
Ethan had reserved twelve tables, inviting his corporate executives, colleagues, and extended family from both sides.
Three days prior, I personally messaged every single guest, urging them to arrive on time.
Rachel asked me, "What are you planning?"
"You'll see when the time comes."
"You're not going to cause a scene at your own party, are you?"
"Me? Cause a scene?" I laughed lightly. "I'm just hosting a nice dinner for everyone."
Rachel didn't buy it, but she knew better than to push.
She knew that once I made up my mind, wild horses couldn't drag a secret out of me.
The night before the party, Ethan miraculously stayed home.
He stayed in and even volunteered to cook dinner.
Sweet and sour pork ribs, sautéed vegetables, and tomato egg drop soup.
In three whole years, the times he had cooked could be counted on one hand.
"Babe, tomorrow is our big day," he said, placing a rib onto my plate. "Nervous?"
"A little."
"Don't be. It's just a ceremony," he said, taking my hand. "Once the party is done, we'll sign the marriage license. You'll officially be Mrs. Miller."
I forced a smile.
Mrs. Miller.
What a lovely title.
Too bad it was never meant for me.
It was reserved for the woman carrying his child.
I looked down at my food and asked quietly, "Ethan, have you ever had any regrets?"
He froze for a second. "Regrets about what?"
"Regrets about being with me."
"What are you talking about?" He frowned. "Why would I ever regret being with you?"
"Good to know."
He had no clue what I meant, and I had no intention of elaborating.
While he did the dishes, I sat on the couch checking my phone.
Rachel messaged: "What do you need me to bring tomorrow?"
"Bring a portable charger to keep my phone running. I need to record everything."
"Record? Record what?"
"A hell of a show."
The day of the engagement, I woke up at 6:00 AM.
Rachel had hired a top-tier makeup artist for me.
I requested a full, radiant bridal look.
Rachel watched from the side, chewing her lip. "Spill. What are you doing?"
"I'm going to collect what he owes me in front of everyone."
"Owes you what?"
"The down payment for my condo came from my mother. He borrowed thirty thousand dollars from me claiming he was launching a startup, but gambled it away on day trading. And my car—it's under my name, but he's been driving it for two years."
Rachel's jaw dropped. "So you're..."
"I'm debt collecting," I said, applying bold red lipstick in the mirror. "And while I'm at it, I'm letting everyone see what kind of scum they're celebrating today."
The makeup artist's hand twitched. "Wait, honey... are you sure you want full bridal makeup for this?"
"Yes. Make it stunning. I want the last image he has of me to haunt him for the rest of his miserable life."
At 9:30 AM, I arrived at the hotel.
Ethan was greeting guests at the entrance, sharply dressed in his tailored suit, his hair neatly styled.
Seeing me step out of the car, he hurried over. "You look gorgeous today."
"Thank you."
He reached to put an arm around me, but I stepped aside, dodging his touch.
"What's wrong?"
"Too many people around. Let's keep it classy."
He didn't suspect a thing and turned back to mingle with guests.
I walked into the grand ballroom and found Rachel.
"Got the files?"
Rachel pulled a thick manila folder from her designer tote. "Everything you asked for is inside."
I opened it to inspect the contents.
Bank transfer records, chat screenshots, social media photos, and an ultrasound report—the last of which Rachel's friend had pulled from the hospital database. The patient's name read "Vanessa Brooks," and gestational age was "12 weeks."
Three months.
Ethan had first brought up getting engaged three months ago.
The timeline aligned perfectly.
While discussing our future wedding, he was actively knocking up another woman.
I divided the evidence into three neat copies.
One for Ethan's mother, one for his company executives, and one for myself.
Rachel whispered, "When are you making your move?"
"Patience. Let him finish his performance first."
Chapters (3)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Watch & Promotions
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