Her Initials on His Mistress's Wrist

Back then, Garrett had comforted me, suggesting the movers might have had sticky fingers, and besides, the watch didn't really suit my style anymore. He told me not to be sad, that he would buy me a new one.

I had even been angry with him for not understanding its sentimental value.

Looking back, it was laughable. The whole thing was a ruse—he’d stolen it himself, then played the part of the consoling husband.

Sienna clearly didn’t grasp the watch's true significance; to her, it was just an expensive trophy. Her gaze darted away, her lips trembling as she struggled to form a response.

Just then, a crisp voice from a gallery staff member cut through the quiet.

"Miss Cruz, Mr. Sterling is waiting for you in the VIP lounge to sign the papers."

As if she’d been pardoned, she muttered a hasty goodbye and all but fled.

Watching her hurried retreat, I smirked. I nonchalantly adjusted my cuffs and exited the gallery.

My next call was to my brother, Julian Montgomery.

Julian was the CEO of Montgomery Enterprises and the primary investor in Garrett's company.

I kept my voice steady. "Julian, have Legal draw up the paperwork to freeze all payments to Garrett's company. And get me the best divorce attorney you can find. Yes, he cheated. He's bankrolling some art student with my money and he stole the watch Dad gave me."

That night, Julian's cybersecurity team sent me an encrypted link.

It gave me access to Garrett’s private cloud server, where I saw the full extent of his betrayal.

The scale of his deceit was staggering.

On October tenth of last year, I was in Colombia for a green bean acquisition. We had planned to watch the city lights of Bogotá from the peak of Monserrate.

Garrett suddenly claimed his flight was canceled. I waited for him at the mountaintop restaurant until it closed, only to return to my hotel and collapse with a fever that raged for three days.

It turned out he was in New York City with Sienna, attending a luxury brand’s exclusive "Lover's Workshop" event.

On November fourth, one of my flagship stores burned down. The stress of it all triggered a miscarriage.

I broke down sobbing in the hospital emergency room, calling Garrett again and again, but every call went straight to voicemail.

It turned out he was at a lavish ski resort in Aspen with Sienna.

On November sixth, just after the miscarriage, I was recovering at home, a complete wreck. He gave me a custom Spotify playlist, claiming he’d spent days curating songs to help me relax.

We had a candlelight dinner that he cooked himself, the melodies playing softly in the background.

Only now did I realize the playlist was a direct rip-off of one Sienna had posted on Instagram a week earlier.

That entire meticulously planned date, from the music to the menu, even the choice of red wine, was nothing but a recreation of his date with her from the day before.

The next day, he left on a supposed business trip to Seattle. In reality, he was taking Sienna to a yacht party.

In the party photos, everyone was beaming. Most of them were our mutual friends, some of whom had even sat at the head table at our wedding.

There they were, raising champagne flutes with my husband and his mistress, having the time of their lives. My "good friends."

With every photo I scrolled past, a new layer of ice formed around my heart.

Just as I was about to close the browser, an encrypted PDF file caught my eye.

My breath hitched. A cold dread washed over me. With a trembling finger, I clicked it open.

It was an ingredient analysis report. The photo on the bottle was a perfect match for the "health supplements" I'd been taking daily—ones Garrett claimed he'd had a specialist formulate just for me.

At the bottom of the report, a warning was printed in bold red letters.

[The active compounds in this medication are known to have significant contraindications for early-stage pregnancy. Prolonged use carries a high risk of miscarriage, permanent infertility, and uterine damage.]

Scrolling further, I found a screenshot of a post from Sienna's private Instagram.

She was showing off the same bottle of pills. The caption read:

[He said that career-obsessed woman doesn't deserve to have his child. He only wants a family with me.]

Someone had commented, teasing her:

[What if she gets pregnant?]

Sienna’s reply:

[Don't worry, Garrett has ways to make sure she can’t get pregnant, or… can’t keep it.]

My ears were ringing. My miscarriage... it hadn't been an accident.

Under the guise of improving my health, Garrett had been swapping my prenatal vitamins with a slow-acting abortifacient.

The cruelest irony was that the reason I hadn't been able to conceive again wasn't, as my doctor had gently suggested, because my body needed more time to heal.

It was because this drug was never meant to be taken for more than three months. I had been on it for a full six.

How was this not murder?

A laugh, sharp and broken, escaped me, even as tears streamed down my face. All the little details I had willfully ignored now crashed over me like a tidal wave.

The faint, unfamiliar perfume clinging to his suits, the hushed late-night calls on the balcony, the glass of water and "supplements" he had handed me so tenderly the night before my miscarriage.

I had been the biggest fool. The grief was so immense, the realization so sharp, that the hatred itself felt numb, almost distant.

I wiped away my tears, my hand forceful. I looked at the woman in the mirror, and her gaze hardened with resolve.