In the third year of my marriage to Beck, I accidentally unlocked the hidden folder on his phone. There, staring back at me from the screen, were intimate photos of him and another woman in bed. My hands shook as I tapped through the photo library and then opened his notes app. What I found wasn’t just a fleeting mistake; it was a meticulous, years-long archive of his life with his ex-girlfriend, Talia. There were even photos of them holding a baby girl, smiling warmly, looking every bit like a happy, picture-perfect family. But before we married, Beck had looked me in the eye and promised he had deleted every trace of his past. He had held my hands and sworn he would never betray me. I shook him awake, my chest tight with a sudden, suffocating panic. He blinked against the light, his expression shifting from confusion to a brief flash of guilt, before settling into a weary sigh. “Since you’ve seen it, I suppose there’s no point in hiding it anymore,” he said, sitting up. “Talia doesn’t believe in marriage. We broke up before she realized she was pregnant, and I couldn’t just abandon my own daughter.” He looked at me, completely devoid of remorse. “I’ve given you a stable, respectable marriage, and I get to be responsible for them. Isn’t this a win-win? Why do you have to make a scene?” … “A scene?” I threw the phone onto the mattress between us. My voice was dangerously quiet, but my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I picked up the phone again and began reading his notes aloud, each word tasting like ash in my mouth. ‘September 5th — Mia’s first day of preschool. She was so excited, saying she finally has a dad to walk her to school. I feel so guilty for not being there more.’ I looked up at him. “September 5th, Beck. The day after Labor Day. My father was in the ICU. I called you twenty times. You didn’t answer until midnight, claiming you were locked in a critical board meeting.” I swiped to the next entry. ‘July 18th — Took Mia and Talia to the Hamptons for a beach weekend. The kid was so happy, and Talia finally looked relaxed. I’m so glad I can give Mia a normal childhood.’ My voice cracked. “July 18th was our anniversary. I cooked a three-course dinner and waited up until dawn. You texted me saying you had to work late and promised you’d make it up to me.” Before I could read the next one, Beck snatched the phone from my hand, his face darkening. “Look at the bigger picture, Naomi,” he said, his tone patronizing. “We’ve been married three years and have no children. Your health has always been fragile, and I didn’t want you to go through the physical toll of pregnancy. Now, you get to be a mother without any of the pain. You should be grateful.” I stared at him, my lips trembling, utterly speechless. The air in the bedroom felt heavy, pressing down on my chest until I could barely breathe. He stood up, grabbing his coat from the chair. “Enough. Mia is my daughter, and Talia is a fragile single mother. Can’t you show a little compassion? I came home to rest, not to deal with your hysterics.” He walked toward the door, his voice echoing back down the hallway. “I’m going over to Talia’s. Let me know when you’ve calmed down and are ready to act like an adult.” He left in such a rush that he forgot his personal phone on the nightstand. I sat on the edge of the bed and scrolled through the hidden album. There were thousands of photos. They spanned five years—capturing the baby in her crib, her first wobbly steps, and eventually her carrying a tiny backpack. He had been there for all of it. He had built a parallel life while I was left in the dark. My eyes burned as I tapped on another note. ‘September 6th — Mia’s fever is spiking after her first day of school. Stayed up all night holding her. Talia was crying, too. My heart breaks for them.’ On that exact night, September 6th, I had been admitted to the emergency room with severe gastroenteritis, vomiting until I was dehydrated. I had begged him to come home. His reply had been a single, cold text: “I’m working late. Don’t be dramatic.” The next morning, as I lay in the hospital bed, a local news notification had popped up on my phone. It was a photo from a children’s charity gala. Beck was there, holding a little girl’s hand, his arm draped protectively around Talia’s waist. They looked radiant. I stared at the screen, a hollow laugh escaping my throat. Just an hour ago, I had received a follow-up email from my doctor. My stomach lining was severely inflamed, and I needed to be admitted for immediate treatment. Perhaps, up until last night, a foolish part of me still hoped that even if the love had faded, there was at least some respect left between us. But he had gone straight from our home to play the doting father in public, treating his legal wife like an invisible nuisance. I stood up, walked into his home office, and began searching his desk. For three years, I believed I had a clear picture of our finances. But as I tore through the drawers and the small safe, I realized the deeds to our properties and our major investment portfolios had all been moved. He had been quietly shielding his assets from me for a long time. My stomach dropped. I logged into our joint bank portal on my laptop and pulled up the statements for the past six months. The transaction history was damning. Every major withdrawal was a direct transfer to Talia Pierce—or directly to a private preschool and pediatric clinics. The amounts ranged from ten thousand to nearly eighty thousand dollars. Meanwhile, when my father was fighting for his life in the ICU, Beck hadn’t offered a single dollar toward his care. He was funding his mistress and his child with our marital assets, while I had been pinching pennies, skipping new clothes, and draining my own modest savings to keep my father alive. With trembling fingers, I took clear, high-resolution photos of every single statement on the screen. The front door clicked open. Beck was back. He didn’t look tired. He had the relaxed, easy air of a man who had spent a comfortable night in a warm bed. When he walked into the office and saw the papers scattered across the desk, he merely frowned. “You really have no boundaries, do you? I’ll have Mrs. Gable come and clean this up later.” I looked up at him, my expression cold. “Tens of thousands of dollars transferred out of our accounts to support your mistress. You really are a piece of work, Beck.” He tossed his coat onto the sofa, his tone dismissive. “Talia has had a hard time raising a child on her own. What’s wrong with me helping her out? Mia’s tuition is expensive, and as her father, it’s my responsibility. I’ve never let you go without. You live in a beautiful home, so why are you obsessing over a few bills?” “Those ‘few bills’ belong to our joint estate,” I said, my voice cutting through the quiet room. “You transferred them without my knowledge or consent. Do you honestly think that’s legal?” Beck let out a soft, mocking laugh. “Naomi, don’t start acting like one of those petty, small-minded women who only care about money. You have the status of being Mrs. Marshall. You should know that tearing this family apart won’t benefit you. You should be thanking me for the lifestyle you enjoy.” A tear finally escaped my eye, hot and bitter. When Talia left him years ago because he was flat broke, I was the one who stayed. I was the one who went to corporate dinners, drinking until my stomach bled just to help him secure his first major investors. We had lived in a drafty, one-bedroom apartment, sharing packets of instant ramen. I had supported him through every sleepless night until his company finally took off. And now, he was asking me why I wasn’t grateful. I didn’t argue. Instead, I unlocked my phone and tapped on an audio file I had transferred from his device the night before. Talia’s voice filled the quiet office. “Beck, when are you going to tell Naomi? I’m tired of hiding. My friends keep asking when they can finally congratulate us. Mia wants her dad to show up at her school events.” Then came Beck’s voice, smooth and reassuring. “The timing isn’t right yet. She’s stubborn. If she makes a scene, it could hurt the company’s valuation and damage your reputation. Don’t worry. I’ll keep taking care of Mia, and I’m not leaving you. Once things settle down, I’ll ask for a divorce, pay her off, and we can finally be together.” Beck froze. The color drained from his face as he stared at me. After a long, heavy silence, he spoke, his voice dropping to a low, placating register. “Naomi… Talia’s mental health hasn’t been stable lately. I was just saying what she needed to hear to keep her calm. I never actually intended to divorce you.” He took a step closer. “I promise you, once Mia is a little older, I’ll phase them out of my life entirely.” I let out a soft, humorless laugh. He always had a logical excuse, always prioritizing everyone else’s comfort over my survival. “Phase them out?” I asked. “Do you honestly think I’m that stupid, Beck?” He frowned, clearly frustrated by my lack of compliance. He reached out to grab my hand, using the gentle, persuasive tone he always used when he wanted me to back down. “Sweetheart, you’re my wife. What I feel for them is just obligation. You’re the one I love. Mia is young, and Talia is struggling. I can’t just walk away. I know this is hard on you, and I’ve tried to make up for it. Don’t ruin what we have by being greedy.” I violently shoved his hand away. “Make up for it? You used the money that could have saved my father to fund your secret family!” I pulled up the recent hospital invoices on my phone and thrust the screen in front of his face. “My dad was in the ICU, and the daily bills were astronomical! I called you begging for help, but your phone was off. I had to swallow my pride and borrow from every distant relative just to keep him on life support! And what were you doing? You were wire-transferring eighty thousand dollars to Talia for her apartment down payment!” Beck flinched, his eyes darting away. He swallowed hard. “If you needed money, you should have just told me directly. There was no need to go behind my back to borrow from others. Besides, I didn’t realize your dad’s situation was that critical. I thought it was just routine monitoring…” “You didn’t know?” I screamed, my voice cracking under the weight of three years of suppressed pain. “I sent you the medical updates every single day! I sent you the physician’s reports! I begged you at three in the morning to come to the hospital! You didn’t ‘not know,’ Beck. You just didn’t care!” “Alright, that’s enough!” Beck snapped, his patience finally wearing thin. He pulled a black titanium credit card from his wallet and slammed it onto the desk. “This is getting ridiculous. It was an oversight on my part, okay? But I can fix it. I’ll cover all of your father’s medical bills moving forward. Just stop screaming, and promise me you won’t go looking for Talia.” I looked at the black card sitting on the mahogany desk. The room fell into a dead, chilling silence. I didn’t want to cry anymore, but the tears kept coming, silent and cold. Beck watched me, momentarily stunned by my silence. I turned on my heel, walked into the master bedroom, and pulled my suitcase out of the closet. He followed me, grabbing the clothes out of my hands. “Naomi, stop acting like a child!” He threw my favorite sweater onto the floor. I stood frozen, looking down at the worn wool. It was a simple, gray thrifted sweater I had bought two years ago. On our first wedding anniversary, before his company went public, I had refused to spend money on myself, choosing instead to use my savings to buy him a luxury watch to help him look the part in front of investors. He had held me so tight that night, his eyes shining. “I don’t have much right now, Naomi. But I swear, once the company succeeds, I will make sure you have everything you’ve ever wanted. If I ever betray you, may I lose everything.” I had believed him. But looking down at that cheap sweater now, the illusion shattered. Last night, while scrolling through Talia’s social media, I had seen her posts from the last five years. Her gifts were never cheap. On our first anniversary, while I wore a thrifted sweater, he had bought Talia a designer handbag. On our second anniversary, he gave me a simple, unadorned gold ring. Talia received a three-carat diamond ring. On our third anniversary, I received nothing. Talia received a townhouse. This marriage had been a prison of my own making. My phone buzzed. It was an email from my regional director, sent late Friday night, offering me a transfer to our European headquarters. I realized then that it was time to cut my losses. Suddenly, Beck’s phone rang. The screen lit up with the name “Talia”. He immediately turned away, answering it in a soft, hushed voice. When he hung up, he looked back at me, his expression stern and commanding. “Stay here. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone. Mia has a high fever, and I need to go check on her.” The cold, dismissive authority in his voice made my heart go completely numb. The moment his car pulled out of the driveway, I packed my bags, ordered a rideshare, and left the house. Sitting in the backseat, I stared at my phone and booked the earliest flight out of the country. I called my director, my voice steady and clear. “Mr. Jenkins, I’m calling about the London transfer. I accept. I can be on a flight tonight if you can expedite the paperwork.” “Consider it done, Naomi,” he replied. “We’d be thrilled to have you.” I hung up, pulled the SIM card from my phone, and tossed it into the trash can at the airport terminal. As the plane climbed into the night sky, watching the city lights shrink into tiny, glittering dust motes below, I felt a physical weight lift from my chest. “Goodbye, Beck. The next time you hear from me, it will be through my lawyer.”
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