Back to Break my Dearests

“You deserve only the best in the world, Abby.”

I smiled without a word.

Taylor’s breath beside me in bed settled into a long, even rhythm in the stillness of the night.

I opened my eyes and grabbed his phone from the nightstand.

…

The phone’s screen illuminated my face in the dark.

I punched my birth date, but it wasn’t the right passcode.

My heart sank.

I entered the date of our anniversary. Yet, I was nowhere close to unlocking his phone.

In the end, I tried Ivy’s birthday on a grim hunch.

The home screen came into view.

A whole new world opened up before my very eyes.

The album was filled with hundreds of close-up photos of them, embracing, kissing, and taking selfies in hotel mirrors.

The timestamps revealed that the first photo was taken over a year ago.

There were hotel confirmations and fine-dining bills, paid for using the joint bank account I had given him access to.

Nothing hit harder than the photo of that prenatal check report.

Ivy’s name was listed in the medical record, and she was six weeks pregnant.

Based on the date, she had conceived right when I was in the hospital from a miscarriage.

Taylor’s handwriting was on the ultrasound. “I hope our baby has your eyes.”

Memories slammed into me all at once.

Only two months ago, I rushed out of the apartment with my eight-week belly to sign an urgent document for Taylor.

I slipped and lost the baby.

At the time, Taylor was away at an important conference in the next city. He hurried back through the night and held me in his arms, crying.

That same night, Ivy shared a post on her social media.

“Under the stars with my favorite person.”

Her GPS tag placed her in the neighboring city.

I bolted into the bathroom, locked the door, and cranked the water faucet.

As the sound of rushing water played in the background, I bit down on the towel and let my tears run, my body wracked with tremors.

The woman in the mirror had bloodshot eyes and a discolored face.

I endured three years of fertility treatments, all to bring a child into this world.

In the end, I lost my chance at motherhood forever because I picked up a package for Taylor while he was busy with another woman.

Wiping away my tears, I took pictures of the evidence and sent it to my inbox.

I erased all traces of my snooping before returning the phone to the nightstand.

Taylor rolled over in bed, blissfully unaware.

I lay back next to him and stared at his profile.

This was the face I once loved to my very core.

The only thing on my mind now was to tear it to pieces.

I wanted them to feel what it was like to fall from grace.

The next day, I set my plan in motion.

With the money from my personal savings, I hired a reputable private investigator.

I quietly took stock of the family asset.

The down payment for the apartment came from my family.

Taylor kept his own earnings, claiming that a man of his stature had to keep up with appearances.

I copied every piece of evidence, stored it in an encrypted cloud, and sent a backup USB to my most trusted friend.

My phone buzzed. It was a voice message from Ivy, and her voice was choked with sobs.

“Abby, I-I might be pregnant. I don’t know what to do. I’m scared…”

I stared at the messages, my fingers trembling with anger.

“Don’t be scared. I’ve got you. I’ll take you to the hospital tomorrow. If you’re expecting, I’ll fight for you,” I texted back.

Meanwhile, Taylor came home and held me in exhaustion.

“Let’s try for another baby, Abby. I’ll take better care of you this time.”

I nestled in his embrace, sniffing the sickly scent on his collar. I never felt sicker.

My phone lit up with a message from the private investigator.

“I’ve secured clear footage of them spending the night at the apartment outside campus. Also, I have found some evidence of Taylor covering Ivy’s rent with the research grant.”

I replied, “Don’t stop keeping tabs on them. I’ll pay more for the rushed job.”