Chapter 3 Tell Me Who the Other Woman Is
911 Words
Wyatt kept his word.
Three days later, my father's company was back on track.
The project was moving again, the investors had returned, and the penalty fees were no longer hanging over them.
My phone lit up.
Wyatt: I'm coming by tonight. What do you want to eat?
I did not answer.
He was used to that by then.
For the past two weeks, he had texted me every day, and I answered maybe one message in ten.
When he came to my apartment, I let him in, but I never let him stay the night.
He never got angry.
Before he left, he always said the same thing, "Get some rest. If you need anything, call me."
He sounded like the perfect boyfriend.
He acted as if nothing had happened.
Then one day, my phone blew up.
It started with w******p.
Friend requests after friend requests poured in, and everyone came with the same kind of hateful message.
A: [Die, homewrecker.]
B: [You slut. Stop playing innocent.]
C: [Go rot for chasing someone else's husband.]
Then people started tagging me on Twitter.
I clicked on one of the posts and saw a gossip account had posted a photo of me.
The headline read like this.
EXPOSED: [Art Curator Becomes Married Man's Mistress, Uses Pregnancy to Push Wife Out]
The post claimed I had known Wyatt was married and still refused to walk away. It said I had gotten pregnant on purpose to pressure him into divorcing his wife.
It said his wife had been so devastated that she ended up in the hospital. It even claimed the apartment I lived in had been bought with marital assets.
The comments were full of people tearing me apart.
My hands started shaking.
I kept scrolling.
Someone had posted my father's company address and written a comment.
A: [This company is trash. Anyone who does business with them is a fool.]
My stomach lurched, and I ran to the bathroom and threw up.
I knew his wife, Valeria Stanton, had done it.
When I was done, I sat down on the bathroom floor.
The tile was freezing, cold enough to numb my legs.
But my mind felt clearer than it had all day.
I went back to the living room and opened my camera roll.
In September 2017, there was a photo of Wyatt with his arm around me outside the university library, grinning so hard every tooth showed.
That was the first day I finally said yes to him.
In April 2018, there was a photo from my birthday. He had bought me a cake, and in the background, I could see the first apartment we had ever rented together.
In the summer of 2019, there was a picture of him carrying me on his back as he ran along the boardwalk, both of us laughing.
In early 2020, there was a photo from Christmas dinner at my parents' house.
In 2021, there was a picture from his graduation. I was straightening his cap, and he had one arm around me while flashing a peace sign at the camera.
In 2022, there was a photo from the day we moved into our new place. He was standing in the kitchen making pasta, and I had taken the picture from behind without him noticing.
Every photo had a timestamp.
Every photo proved the same thing. We had already been together for six years before 2023.
However, Wyatt and Valeria were legally married in March 2022.
I picked the nine clearest photos and posted them as a nine-photo collage.
Then I added one line.
Layla: [Tell me who the other woman really is.]
After I posted it, I tossed my phone onto the couch.
When I picked up my phone again, the post had already passed ten thousand reposts.
The tone in the comments had changed.
A: [Wait. If the timeline's right, he didn't get married until after they'd already been together for six years?]
B: [Oh my God. Then Valeria's the one who slept her way into his marriage, right?]
C: [So she played the victim first? That is insane.]
Someone dug up Valeria's old Twitter account.
She had once posted a gushy update with a photo of her wedding ring, and it was dated April 2022.
Her comment section had already turned into a battlefield.
A: [So you're the mistress, then?]
B: [You stole somebody else's boyfriend and then tried to paint yourself as the victim?]
C: [What kind of socialite are you? You're disgusting.]
Half an hour later, "Valeria Is The Mistress" started trending at number one.
My phone rang.
It was my mom.
"Layla! I saw it! Are you okay?" Her voice was tight with panic and heartbreak.
"I'm okay, Mom." I tightened my grip on the phone, but my eyes were already stinging.
"What the hell is wrong with that girl? Who does she think she is, coming after you like this?"
I froze for a second. My mom never cursed.
"Mom, are you really okay?"
"Why wouldn't I be?" she said, her voice stronger now. "A bunch of people even showed up outside your dad's company with flowers. They kept saying they were there to support the real victim."
I stood there with the phone in my hand, tears slipping down my face before I even realized I was crying.
"Layla, I almost believed it. I thought you really..."
She did not finish the sentence.
"It's okay, Mom."
- Writer
