Cop's Affair, Friend's Death

The microwave chimed, and I pulled out the takeout containers, arranging the steak dinner on our nicest plates—the ones we never used. Five years with Michael, and this was our routine: me at home, him working. I'd stopped expecting roses or fancy restaurants years ago, but still, a tiny part of me had hoped this Valentine's Day might be different.

I glanced at my phone—no new messages since his terse reply three hours ago: *Mandatory night shift. Don't wait up.*

With a sigh, I snapped a quick photo of the meal I'd planned and texted it with: *Happy V-Day?*

The message delivered, but no immediate response. Not even the typing bubbles that would indicate he'd seen it. I wrapped his portion in foil and tucked it into the fridge, where it would join the other meals he missed. The apartment felt too quiet, too empty—a feeling I'd grown accustomed to but never comfortable with.

I curled up on our gray sectional, the one I'd picked out while Michael was working a double homicide last year. He'd barely noticed when it was delivered. Pulling the throw blanket Sarah had given me for Christmas over my legs, I opened Instagram, seeking distraction from the hollow ache in my chest.

The algorithm knew me too well—couples' photos dominated my feed. Candlelit dinners, surprise proposals, heart-shaped desserts. I scrolled past them all with practiced indifference until my thumb froze mid-swipe.

Ashley Rivera's post had appeared in my feed—Michael's young partner from the precinct. The photo showed them at Maple & Ash, that upscale steakhouse downtown he'd always said was "overpriced and pretentious" whenever I hinted at wanting to go. Michael's arm was draped casually around Ashley's shoulders, her red dress striking against his dark suit. They were laughing, champagne flutes clinking. The caption read: "My Valentine ❤️ #ChicagoPD #ProtectAndServe #LuckyGirl"

Posted twenty-seven minutes ago.

My hands trembled as I zoomed in on the image. There was no mistaking Michael's face, the slight crinkle around his eyes when he smiled genuinely—a smile I hadn't seen directed at me in months. Behind them, I could make out the restaurant's distinctive chandeliers, the ones I'd admired in photos online when daydreaming about dining there someday.

This wasn't work. This wasn't a mandatory shift.

I hit his number on speed dial, my heart hammering against my ribs. One ring. Two rings. Three. Then voicemail: "This is Detective Thompson. Leave a message."

I called again. Straight to voicemail this time. He'd declined the call.

Swallowing hard against the knot forming in my throat, I opened my DMs and typed a message to Ashley:

*I see you're with Michael tonight. Funny, he told me he was working. Enjoy your Valentine's Day.*

I watched as the message status changed from "Sent" to "Seen" almost immediately. No reply came. Just the mocking knowledge that she'd read my words and chosen to ignore them—probably showing Michael my message while they laughed over more champagne.

The phone slipped from my fingers onto the couch as the full weight of the betrayal crashed over me. Five years. Five years of rearranged schedules, of understanding when he missed holidays, of defending him to Sarah when she pointed out how he took me for granted. Five years of putting my graphic design dreams on hold while supporting his career. Five years of believing we were building something together.

All for this—to be alone on Valentine's Day while he wined and dined his partner, their relationship brazenly displayed for anyone to see.

I curled forward, arms wrapped around my middle as if I could physically hold myself together while everything inside me crumbled. The tears came hot and fast, blurring the room around me. Through the window, Chicago's lights glittered indifferently, and somewhere in that sea of light was Michael—not working, not protecting anyone—just betraying me in plain sight.

My phone buzzed with a notification. For one pathetic moment, hope flared that it might be Michael with an explanation. Instead, it was another Instagram alert—Ashley had posted a new story. My finger hovered over it, my mind screaming not to look while my heart needed to know just how deep this betrayal went.