Chapter 4 · The Man I Saved Is Now Dead To Me

Chapter 4

I stared at that number, and suddenly something clicked.

Of that $250,000 spent on medical bills, how much of it was mine?

The 20 grand was my own savings.

The 100 grand in loans was from my family.

The 555 grand came from the emergency sale of the apartment my parents had gifted me for my marriage.

Michael and his precious family hadn't spent a single dime.

I kept laughing until the tears were streaming down my face.

The next day, I called Celia.

"Mom, I'm okay. I just wanted to tell you I might get a divorce."

The line went completely silent.

Then she just said, "Come home, sweetheart."

But I didn't go back.

I told her I had things to take care of first.

"What things?" she asked.

I didn't answer. Actually, I had no idea.

I only knew that I wasn't signing a single damn paper until I figured out exactly why Michael wanted me gone.

He owed me an explanation.

That whole entire family owed me an explanation.

I went into full detective mode.

The first thing I did was pull Michael's cell phone records from the past few years.

We were on a family plan, and since I was the primary account holder, pulling the logs was painfully easy.

In the three months leading up to his accident, one specific number appeared sixty-three times, with every single call lasting over ten minutes.

I didn't recognize the number.

I dialed it.

"Hello?"

It was a woman on the other end.

Her voice was young and melodic, carrying a hint of a languid drawl.

I didn't say anything.

"Hello? Michael? Why are you calling from a weird number?"

Michael?

I hung up immediately.

My hands were shaking uncontrollably.

I took a deep breath and opened his iMessage on my iPad, synced to his cloud.

I already knew his passcode because he had always used his own birthday as the combination.

After digging through his messages, I found nothing but routine exchanges in professional and family groups until I spotted a contact saved as "Archived Docs."

I tapped it.

The chat history was completely wiped clean.

But iPhones have a feature. If you check the contact info, you can view shared photos and attachments.

I clicked it, and there was a picture.

A girl in a breezy white sundress stood on a beach, smiling over her shoulder.

The caption read: [I took this on the beach! Do you like it?]

The timestamp was from two months ago.

Two months ago, Michael told me he was flying out for a week-long business trip.

I had waited at home, planning a nice dinner for when he got back.

When he walked through the door, he handed me a box of saltwater taffy, claiming a coworker bought it.

Indeed, he was soaking up the sun on a beach with another woman.

I kept digging through the attachments.

The message history had been wiped clean, leaving no replies beneath the beach photo.

But there were still other things in the attachments, including a screenshot for two adjacent cinema seats and a restaurant bill for a couple's set menu.

Among these digital remains was a video thumbnail that I simply could not bring myself to play, fearing what it might reveal.

I stared at the screen, my fingers turning ice-cold.

Michael and I had been married for three years.

I never had a reason to doubt the long hours he claimed to spend at the office or the endless string of corporate trips he took. For three years, I accepted every excuse about work and social obligations as the truth.

It was all a lie.

I didn't sleep a wink that night.

I sat in my dingy rental, screenshotting and saving every single piece of evidence.

At 3:00 AM, I fired off a text to that number: [I'm Michael's wife. We need to talk.]

At noon the next day, she replied: [Fine. Name the time and place.]

We met at a trendy downtown café.

She was definitely younger than me, maybe twenty-five. With light makeup, a simple vintage tee, and perfectly fitted jeans, she was undeniably pretty.

"So, you're the wife?" she said, kicking things off with a subtly smug smirk.

"I am Michael's wife," I said flatly.

"I know," she smiled. "He talks about you."

"Oh? What does he say?" I asked.

She tilted her head, pretending to think.

"He said you're a nice person but just way too boring."

Chapter 4

I stared at that number, and suddenly something clicked.

Of that $250,000 spent on medical bills, how much of it was mine?

The 20 grand was my own savings.

The 100 grand in loans was from my family.

The 555 grand came from the emergency sale of the apartment my parents had gifted me for my marriage.

Michael and his precious family hadn't spent a single dime.

I kept laughing until the tears were streaming down my face.

The next day, I called Celia.

"Mom, I'm okay. I just wanted to tell you I might get a divorce."

The line went completely silent.

Then she just said, "Come home, sweetheart."

But I didn't go back.

I told her I had things to take care of first.

"What things?" she asked.

I didn't answer. Actually, I had no idea.

I only knew that I wasn't signing a single damn paper until I figured out exactly why Michael wanted me gone.

He owed me an explanation.

That whole entire family owed me an explanation.

I went into full detective mode.

The first thing I did was pull Michael's cell phone records from the past few years.

We were on a family plan, and since I was the primary account holder, pulling the logs was painfully easy.

In the three months leading up to his accident, one specific number appeared sixty-three times, with every single call lasting over ten minutes.

I didn't recognize the number.

I dialed it.

"Hello?"

It was a woman on the other end.

Her voice was young and melodic, carrying a hint of a languid drawl.

I didn't say anything.

"Hello? Michael? Why are you calling from a weird number?"

Michael?

I hung up immediately.

My hands were shaking uncontrollably.

I took a deep breath and opened his iMessage on my iPad, synced to his cloud.

I already knew his passcode because he had always used his own birthday as the combination.

After digging through his messages, I found nothing but routine exchanges in professional and family groups until I spotted a contact saved as "Archived Docs."

I tapped it.

The chat history was completely wiped clean.

But iPhones have a feature. If you check the contact info, you can view shared photos and attachments.

I clicked it, and there was a picture.

A girl in a breezy white sundress stood on a beach, smiling over her shoulder.

The caption read: [I took this on the beach! Do you like it?]

The timestamp was from two months ago.

Two months ago, Michael told me he was flying out for a week-long business trip.

I had waited at home, planning a nice dinner for when he got back.

When he walked through the door, he handed me a box of saltwater taffy, claiming a coworker bought it.

Indeed, he was soaking up the sun on a beach with another woman.

I kept digging through the attachments.

The message history had been wiped clean, leaving no replies beneath the beach photo.

But there were still other things in the attachments, including a screenshot for two adjacent cinema seats and a restaurant bill for a couple's set menu.

Among these digital remains was a video thumbnail that I simply could not bring myself to play, fearing what it might reveal.

I stared at the screen, my fingers turning ice-cold.

Michael and I had been married for three years.

It was all a lie.

I didn't sleep a wink that night.

I sat in my dingy rental, screenshotting and saving every single piece of evidence.

At 3:00 AM, I fired off a text to that number: [I'm Michael's wife. We need to talk.]

At noon the next day, she replied: [Fine. Name the time and place.]

We met at a trendy downtown café.

She was definitely younger than me, maybe twenty-five. With light makeup, a simple vintage tee, and perfectly fitted jeans, she was undeniably pretty.

"So, you're the wife?" she said, kicking things off with a subtly smug smirk.

"I am Michael's wife," I said flatly.

"I know," she smiled. "He talks about you."

"Oh? What does he say?" I asked.

She tilted her head, pretending to think.

"He said you're a nice person but just way too boring."