Chapter 3
937 Words
My phone buzzed nonstop for thirty full minutes the second the article was released.
My assistant Amy messaged me right away.
Amy: Selena, the post's blown up and has already topped a million views.
I shot back a short reply.
Whitney: I know.
Amy: The comment section's flooded with people tearing into Mike, and some users are digging around to leak his personal info.
Whitney: Put a stop to that.
Amy: Why?
I didn't send a reply.
The timing wasn't right yet.
Mike came home after work that evening wearing a dark, stormy expression. He tossed his briefcase onto the sofa the moment he stepped through the door.
"What've you been doing stuck indoors all day?"
"I just cook meals and do the laundry," I said evenly.
He shot me with a sharp glare. "Someone sent an anonymous email to my office today, spilling our private family business."
My mind stirred, yet I kept my features completely calm. "What exactly did it say?"
"Just a mess of pointless gossip." He refused to elaborate and grabbed his phone. "Never mind. You wouldn't know a thing about this anyway."
That email hadn't come from me, but I knew exactly who'd sent it. It was Amy. She'd been helping me piece together every detail of my plan step by step.
A week slipped by.
One afternoon, I was sorting out the wardrobe and decided to fold Mike's clothes. Tucked all the way at the bottom of his dresser drawer sat a red gift box.
It was the box that held my jade bangle. I opened it. Empty.
The bangle was a family heirloom from my mother.
She'd told me it was passed down from my grandmother, meant for my daughter someday.
On my wedding day, my mother slipped it onto my wrist herself. "Whitney," she said, "may you be happy."
Mike said it looked beautiful on me, so I wore it every day.
When I got pregnant, my wrists swelled. I took it off and left it on the nightstand.
Then it was gone.
I asked Mike once, "Where's my bangle?"
"I put it away for you," he said.
I didn't ask again.
Now, staring at the empty box, I knew.
I carried it to the living room. Mike was watching TV.
"What's this?"
He glanced over. His face shifted. "You went through my stuff?"
"What is this?"
He went quiet.
I opened the lid and pushed the empty box toward him. "This is the box for my mother's bangle. Why was it in your drawer? And where's the bangle?"
Mike shut off the TV. He looked at me. "Sara said it was pretty, so I gave it to her."
"You gave it to her?"
"You never wear it." He stood up. "It was just sitting there. She liked it, so I gave it to her. What's the big deal?"
I held his gaze.
He didn't look away. If anything, he looked irritated. "Can you not do this right now? It's a bangle. I'll buy you a new one."
"It was my mother's. It's been in my family since my grandmother."
"Yeah, but you weren't wearing it." He grabbed his phone, scrolled a couple of times. "Fine. I'll tell her to give it back."
He didn't call. He sent a text.
Sara never returned it.
I came across her social media post, a photo of her wrist with my mother's bangle on it. The caption read:
Got a gift I really love. Thanks to someone who actually gets me.
The photo was obviously posed, with sunlight glinting brightly off the polished stone surface.
And Mike liked the post.
The next day, Mike updated his own social media page.
He uploaded a photo of himself and Sara standing along the coastline. She rested her head on his shoulder while his arm wrapped securely around her waist.
The caption simply read:
My girl.
A mutual acquaintance sent me a screenshot while I was stirring soup on the stovetop.
My phone lit up. I wiped my wet hands dry and pulled up the image.
I stared at it for three full seconds, then flipped the phone face-down onto the table.
The soup bubbled vigorously on the burner. I reached over and cut the heat.
That night when Mike got home, I asked him bluntly. "What was that photo you posted online?"
He froze for a split second, then forced out a hollow laugh. "It's just a casual candid shot of us hanging out together. Don't misread things."
"Your caption says, 'My girl'," I pointed out.
He narrowed his eyes at me. "Do you have to question every single thing I post online?"
I said nothing in reply.
He kicked off his shoes, strode into the bedroom, and slammed the door hard behind him.
I spent that night sleeping on the sofa.
My phone vibrated once more.
Sara: I'm so sorry about the bangle. Mr. Larson said it was a gift meant for me, so I kept it.
I typed just two words to send back.
Whitney: Keep it.
She messaged back instantly.
Sara: Please don't be mad at me. I'll take excellent care of it.
I didn't reply any further.
I pulled up the backend panel for my Selena creator account. By this point, the article had hit five million views. The comment section was flooded with identical comments repeating nonstop.
A: [Leave him. He doesn't deserve you.]
B: [Leave him. He doesn't deserve you.]
I navigated to Mike's social media profile.
He'd already deleted the post that was captioned:
My girl.
But I'd already saved the screenshot long before he erased it.
- Writer
