Chapter 3

Alexander kept his word.

Three days later, my father's company was back up and running.

The project restarted, the investors returned, and the penalty payments were put on hold.

My phone chimed.

A text from Alexander: [Coming over tonight. What do you want for dinner?]

I didn't reply.

He was used to it by now.

For the past half-month, he texted me every day. I replied to maybe one in ten.

When he came to the apartment, I let him in, but I never let him stay the night.

He never lost his temper.

Before leaving, he would always say:

"Get some rest. Call me if you need anything."

Like a considerate boyfriend.

Like nothing had ever happened.

Then, one day, my phone blew up.

It started with a flood of Instagram DMs and follow requests. The messages were identical in their vitriol:

"Die, homewrecker."

"Stop playing the victim."

"Hope karma gets you for sleeping with a married man."

Then, someone tagged me publicly on X.

I clicked the notification. It was a post from a gossip account, featuring a photo of me.

The headline read:

[EXPOSED: Art Curator Harasses Married Tech Exec, Weaponizes Pregnancy to Force Divorce]

The post claimed I knew Alexander was married but refused to let go, weaponizing my pregnancy to destroy his marriage.

It claimed Victoria was so stressed she had been hospitalized.

It stated that the apartment I lived in was purchased by Alexander using marital funds, and that Victoria, as the legal wife, had every right to take it back.

The post even included photos of the exterior of my building and my front door, implying the property was a joint marital asset.

The comments were a cesspool of hatred.

My hands started shaking.

I scrolled down. They had doxxed my father's company address too.

Someone wrote: "This company is trash. Anyone doing business with them is an idiot."

My stomach lurched. I ran to the bathroom and dry-heaved over the toilet.

I knew exactly who did this. Victoria.

When the nausea passed, I sat on the cold tile floor.

My legs were numb, but my mind was suddenly crystal clear.

I walked back to the living room and opened my phone's camera roll.

September 2014. Outside the university library. Alexander had his arm around me, grinning from ear to ear.

The day we made it official.

April 2015. My birthday. He bought me a cake. The background was our first crappy shared apartment.

Summer 2016. Lake Tahoe. Him giving me a piggyback ride on the boardwalk.

New Year's Eve 2017. Dinner at my parents' house.

2018. His college graduation. Me adjusting his cap while he threw up a peace sign at the camera.

2019. Moving into the new apartment. A candid shot of his back while he cooked pasta in our kitchen.

Every single photo had a timestamp.

Every single photo proved that we had been together for six years before 2022.

Alexander and Victoria got their marriage license in March 2022.

I selected nine of the most undeniable photos and arranged them in a grid.

I captioned it with one sentence:

[Check the timestamps. You decide who the homewrecker is.]

I hit post and tossed my phone onto the couch.

When I picked it up again, the post had been retweeted tens of thousands of times.

The narrative in the comments had violently shifted.

"Wait, based on these timestamps, they were together for six years before he tied the knot?"

"So Victoria is the actual side piece?"

"The audacity of the other woman playing the victim."

Someone found Victoria's Instagram.

She had posted a photo showing off her wedding ring. The date was April 2022.

The internet lost its mind.

"Aren't YOU the mistress?"

"You stole someone's boyfriend of six years and then tried to cancel her?"

"Wealthy socialite? More like wealthy trash."

Half an hour later, the thread hit the trending page for Chicago users.

By evening, several entertainment outlets had picked up the timeline, elevating it from local drama to national gossip.

My phone rang.

It was my mom.

"Erin! I saw it! Are you okay?" Her voice was frantic and heartbroken.

"I'm fine, Mom." I gripped the phone, my eyes burning.

"Who does this Victoria girl think she is? How dare she bully my daughter?"

I paused.

My mother never spoke harshly about anyone.

"Mom, are you really okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Her voice was strong. "Someone just dropped off flowers at your dad's office. They said they support you."

I held the phone, tears finally spilling over my lashes.

"Erin, I almost misunderstood you. I thought you really..."

She didn't finish the sentence.

"It's okay, Mom."

Chapter 3

Alexander kept his word.

Three days later, my father's company was back up and running.

The project restarted, the investors returned, and the penalty payments were put on hold.

My phone chimed.

A text from Alexander: [Coming over tonight. What do you want for dinner?]

I didn't reply.

He was used to it by now.

For the past half-month, he texted me every day. I replied to maybe one in ten.

When he came to the apartment, I let him in, but I never let him stay the night.

He never lost his temper.

Before leaving, he would always say:

"Get some rest. Call me if you need anything."

Like a considerate boyfriend.

Like nothing had ever happened.

Then, one day, my phone blew up.

It started with a flood of Instagram DMs and follow requests. The messages were identical in their vitriol:

"Die, homewrecker."

"Stop playing the victim."

"Hope karma gets you for sleeping with a married man."

Then, someone tagged me publicly on X.

I clicked the notification. It was a post from a gossip account, featuring a photo of me.

The headline read:

[EXPOSED: Art Curator Harasses Married Tech Exec, Weaponizes Pregnancy to Force Divorce]

The post claimed I knew Alexander was married but refused to let go, weaponizing my pregnancy to destroy his marriage.

It claimed Victoria was so stressed she had been hospitalized.

It stated that the apartment I lived in was purchased by Alexander using marital funds, and that Victoria, as the legal wife, had every right to take it back.

The post even included photos of the exterior of my building and my front door, implying the property was a joint marital asset.

The comments were a cesspool of hatred.

My hands started shaking.

I scrolled down. They had doxxed my father's company address too.

Someone wrote: "This company is trash. Anyone doing business with them is an idiot."

My stomach lurched. I ran to the bathroom and dry-heaved over the toilet.

I knew exactly who did this. Victoria.

When the nausea passed, I sat on the cold tile floor.

My legs were numb, but my mind was suddenly crystal clear.

I walked back to the living room and opened my phone's camera roll.

September 2014. Outside the university library. Alexander had his arm around me, grinning from ear to ear.

The day we made it official.

April 2015. My birthday. He bought me a cake. The background was our first crappy shared apartment.

Summer 2016. Lake Tahoe. Him giving me a piggyback ride on the boardwalk.

New Year's Eve 2017. Dinner at my parents' house.

2018. His college graduation. Me adjusting his cap while he threw up a peace sign at the camera.

2019. Moving into the new apartment. A candid shot of his back while he cooked pasta in our kitchen.

Every single photo had a timestamp.

Every single photo proved that we had been together for six years before 2022.

Alexander and Victoria got their marriage license in March 2022.

I selected nine of the most undeniable photos and arranged them in a grid.

I captioned it with one sentence:

[Check the timestamps. You decide who the homewrecker is.]

I hit post and tossed my phone onto the couch.

When I picked it up again, the post had been retweeted tens of thousands of times.

The narrative in the comments had violently shifted.

"Wait, based on these timestamps, they were together for six years before he tied the knot?"

"So Victoria is the actual side piece?"

"The audacity of the other woman playing the victim."

Someone found Victoria's Instagram.

She had posted a photo showing off her wedding ring. The date was April 2022.

The internet lost its mind.

"Aren't YOU the mistress?"

"You stole someone's boyfriend of six years and then tried to cancel her?"

"Wealthy socialite? More like wealthy trash."

Half an hour later, the thread hit the trending page for Chicago users.

By evening, several entertainment outlets had picked up the timeline, elevating it from local drama to national gossip.

My phone rang.

It was my mom.

"Erin! I saw it! Are you okay?" Her voice was frantic and heartbroken.

"I'm fine, Mom." I gripped the phone, my eyes burning.

"Who does this Victoria girl think she is? How dare she bully my daughter?"

I paused.

My mother never spoke harshly about anyone.

"Mom, are you really okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Her voice was strong. "Someone just dropped off flowers at your dad's office. They said they support you."

I held the phone, tears finally spilling over my lashes.

"Erin, I almost misunderstood you. I thought you really..."

She didn't finish the sentence.

"It's okay, Mom."