Connected Speaker, Disconnected Husband

Donna worked faster than the FBI. Half an hour later, my phone buzzed.

A link. And her snark: [Presenting the performance of the year from our fake-sweetheart actress. Evidence chain so airtight I feel guilty charging you full price. Enjoy.]

I tapped it open. Abigail's public account.

Front and center: a close-up of her wrist flaunting the MK bracelet I knew by heart.

Caption: [The moon is coming to you, MR. K.]

My "Baby Moon."

My MK bracelet.

Now paraded around as someone else's prize.

Expressionless, I kept scrolling.

One shot—our study. Abigail cupping her face, smiling like butter wouldn't melt, with my rare Italian architecture books stacked in the background.

Caption: [Soaking up knowledge in MR. K's study, I feel like I'm improving too!]

Next—her holding a pen over a blueprint. Not just any pen—the limited-edition one I gave Matthew for his thirtieth.

Caption: [The pen MR. K gave me is amazing. He said my hands deserve the best.]

Then our favorite restaurant, table lined with my go-to dishes.

Caption: [Our secret spot. He said I'm the only one who makes him feel truly at ease.]

Each post cut deeper, turning memories into blades.

Then came the kicker—three days ago. Abigail, grinning with a printed draft.

Caption: [MR. K stayed up late helping me revise this. He said I'm the most inspired designer he's ever seen and that I'm sure to win the Horizon Spire project. Fighting!]

Horizon Spire.

Dreamforge's crown jewel. Six months of my life. My career's milestone.

I shot off the couch, grabbed my keys, and stormed out.

The office sat empty at this hour. I pressed my fingerprint to the lock and headed straight for Matthew's office.

His computer lit up with our wedding photo as the screensaver. His smile—soft, tender.

It made me sick.

I tapped a key. Password box popped up. My birthday? Wrong. Our anniversary? Wrong again.

I smirked and typed in Abigail's birthday.

[Welcome.]

The desktop was spotless, except for one folder screaming at me. Encrypted. I clicked. Inside—Dreamforge's Horizon Spire plan, finalized. Every line, every detail, six months of my team's blood and sweat.

Beside it sat another folder, marked with just two letters: AB.

I opened it.

The design was basically ours—just tweaked in a few key spots, enough to dodge patents but still scream Dreamforge.

At the bottom: one word. [Abigail.]

He hadn't just cheated. He was handing over my work—our future—like a stepping stool for his side chick.

Bile crawled up my throat. I gripped the cold desk, holding myself upright.

Turns out jealousy and betrayal can warp a guy till he's unrecognizable.