Planning My Cheating Ex-Husband's Wedding

Emily Carter POV:

My fingers were cold, trembling slightly as I held his phone. Alex had laughingly added my fingerprint to his Touch ID weeks ago. "Proof of love," he'd called it. "Nothing to hide."

Back then, I'd thought it was romantic. Now I understood: he'd been so confident his secrets were safe. He must have kept Jessica on a different app, or a different phone entirely—one I'd never seen. The phone I was holding was just for show.

The phrase echoed in my mind now, a sick, hollow joke.

My thumb pressed against the home button. The phone unlocked.

The messaging app was right there on his home screen. I tapped it. The conversation with "Jessica" was at the very top, marked as unread.

I opened it. The last message, the one that had just arrived, burned itself onto my brain.

"Last night was incredible, Alex. Definitely worth the wait. Now that the wedding's behind you, when do I finally get you to myself?"

The air left my lungs. The world tilted, the glittering lights of Vegas blurring into a meaningless smear. Time stopped.

I read the words again. And again. Each letter was a shard of glass, twisting in my gut.

"Last night." That was our wedding eve. He'd told me he was with his groomsmen after the bachelor party. A final night of freedom.

My thumb, moving on its own, scrolled up. I saw a history of messages. Flirtatious, intimate, filled with inside jokes and clandestine plans. This wasn't new. This had been going on for a long time.

The sweet taste of champagne rose in my throat, turning to bile. I scrambled off the bed and ran to the main suite's wet bar, gagging over the small sink. Nothing came up but a dry, heaving retch that tore at my insides.

I splashed cold water on my face, gripping the edge of the marble counter. I stared at my reflection. A pale, wild-eyed stranger stared back, her face a mask of horror. Minutes ago, I was the happiest woman alive. The bride in her perfect, custom-made fairy tale.

Now I was just the fool.

The humiliation was a physical force, a crushing weight that made it hard to breathe. I had planned the perfect wedding, down to the last detail, and I was the only one who didn't know it was all a perfectly executed lie.

Rage began to bubble up through the shock, hot and cleansing. I wanted to storm into that bathroom, smash the phone against the marble wall, and watch the truth shatter his handsome, lying face.

But a lifetime of self-reliance held me back. I had clawed my way up from nothing to build my business, my reputation. I didn't solve problems with screaming. I solved them with strategy. Emotional outbursts were a luxury I’d never been able to afford.

I forced a deep, ragged breath into my lungs. Then another. I walked back to the bed, my movements stiff, robotic. I picked up my own phone.

I needed evidence.

With shaking hands, I photographed every screen of their conversation. The damning messages, the dates, the times. When I was done, I checked to make sure the photos had synced to my secure cloud storage, then deleted them from my phone's local gallery.

I picked up Alex’s phone again. I marked Jessica's new message as read, swiping the notification away. I placed the phone back on the pillow, exactly where it had been.

It was a flawless execution. As if nothing had happened.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my back to the bathroom. My body was trembling, a fine, uncontrollable shiver. I stared at the frosted glass door, at the blurry silhouette of the man moving behind it. He wasn't my husband. He was a monster.

Every "I love you," every tender touch, every promise he’d made at the altar today—all of it replayed in my head, twisted into the most vicious mockery.

I thought of his mother, Mrs. Harrison. The way she’d looked at me during the ceremony. I had mistaken it for reserved approval. Now, I re-examined it. Had it been... pity?

A horrifying thought struck me. What if they all knew?

The sound of the shower cut off.

The sudden silence was deafening. My heart hammered against my ribs.

The click of the door handle turning was the loudest sound I’d ever heard.

What do I do? Confront him? Pretend?

Alex walked out, a fluffy white towel knotted around his waist, his dark hair damp. He was smiling, a lazy, satisfied smile. He saw me sitting on the bed.

"What's wrong, baby?" he asked, his voice thick with suggestion. "Couldn't wait for me?"