That was when I noticed the spare phone on the nightstand, the one he always kept close but never let me touch. I had never tried to unlock it in the four years we had been married.
Tonight, I did.
It took only one guess, sure enough, it was Jacqueline’s birthday. The first thing I saw was his pinned chat: [Lovely Jacqueline.]
I clicked on it.
The messages were endless. Sweet, thoughtful. Full of warmth and care, more than I had ever received from him.
She sent him pictures, and he responded with the kind of affection I used to wish for. Every single one of her photos was saved.
An entire album. A thousand pictures labeled as: [LOML.]
Love of My Life, huh? I already knew, deep down. But seeing it spelled out so clearly still hit me like a punch to the chest. Tears burned in my eyes, slipping down my cheeks before I could stop them.
Then I checked his private drive. Thirteen years’ worth of memories, all about Jacqueline. Even her menstrual cycle was marked in red. A "special reminder."
And yet, when we were newly married, when I curled up in pain from years of untreated injuries, Scott had just glanced at me, stone-faced, and muttered, "Why are you being so dramatic?"
Then he’d walked away.
It took me until today to finally get it. It wasn’t that Scott couldn’t love someone. He just couldn’t love me.
Then I saw a message that made my stomach drop. The date was our wedding day. [If marrying her makes you happy, then I’m willing to sacrifice.]
His words were simple, but the meaning hit like a punch.
The perfect love story, except I was the sacrifice. And all the love belonged to Jacqueline. Fine. If that was how it was, I would play my part.
The next morning, I woke up to a sharp pain in my back as a cold needle pierced my skin. Tears slipped down my cheeks before I could stop them.
I barely had the strength to lift my head, but when I did, I met Scott’s worried gaze. "Abigail, I know this is hard on you, but it’s all for our child. You don’t blame me, right? Once the baby is born, I’ll make sure they know how incredible their mother was."
His voice was so soft, so sincere. As if every word he said was the truth. But I knew better.
I didn’t bother arguing. I just nodded. Scott smiled, clearly relieved. He called for the nanny to bring over the special soup she had prepared, then carefully blew on each spoonful before feeding me, as if he was afraid it might burn me.