A photo in the snow, taken by someone else. The location tag: her hometown.

I zoomed in. There, reflected in her eyes, was Derek, holding the phone.

Finally not spending New Year's alone.

Heat flooded my eyes. The hand holding my phone wouldn't stop shaking.

Something blazed inside my chest, clawing its way up, burning so fiercely it hurt.

Derek and I had been together for ten years. Ten years of building everything side by side. From being so broke we squeezed into a hundred-square-foot rental eating instant noodles, to owning our own company—I thought that after weathering every storm together, we would never be torn apart.

But reality delivered its cruelest blow yet.

All through the New Year holiday, Adela's social media feed kept updating.

Taking him to meet my mom and dad.

Gifts for Grandma and Grandpa.

The photos showed health supplements, fruit baskets, premium cigarettes, fine liquor, and cash. I did a rough count—around $300,000.

Colleagues flooded the comments, asking if she was engaged.

Adela replied with a playful emoji.

The diamond ring he bought me.

The photo showed two hands clasped tightly together.

...

Eight full days of posts. I read every single one, down to the last word.

Those eight days stretched like eight years, and the grief seeped into every corner of my being.

Derek had vanished without a trace—off playing the perfect boyfriend in someone else's world.

By the eighth day, when work resumed, Derek still hadn't come to see me.

Instead, he went to the office and handed out red envelopes to everyone.

The BIGGEST return-to-work red envelope ever!

Adela's red envelope contained $26,000.

I froze.

I called Derek immediately.

"You gave Adela a red envelope that big for the return-to-work bonus? Have you lost your mind?"

"What are the other employees supposed to think? Derek, if you want out of this marriage, just say the word. I'm not someone who can't live without you."

Derek said nothing.

After a long silence, Adela's timid voice drifted through the line.

"Viola..."

"That red envelope was my bonus for landing the Southport project. It wasn't a return-to-work gift..."

I didn't buy it.

Bonuses were paid quarterly. The Northridge contract had been signed before the holiday—if anything, it wouldn't be disbursed until March.

And since when were bonuses given in cash?

"Put Derek on the phone. I need to speak with him."

I cut her off, my voice sharp as a blade.