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On my thirtieth birthday, my fiancé, James Carter, and my closest friend, Olivia Grant, vanished together. I waited at the riverside restaurant until the staff began stacking chairs, still telling myself the two of them were setting up some romantic surprise for me. A little after midnight, a video of an island engagement party surfaced in my feed. The footage showed James sliding a ring onto another woman's finger. The person who stood at the bride's side and passed her the bouquet was Olivia, the friend I had trusted for ten years. I dialed them both like a woman coming undone. One phone had already been switched off, and the other rejected every call I made. When I got home, I found the laptop James had left behind in the study. His password was still my birthday. A group chat that had never once included me sat pinned at the top of his WhatsApp.