Chapter 4

I opened his chat list and started scrolling.

Nothing looked suspicious at first. Just work group chats on WhatsApp, a few college friends, and some old threads from days ago.

But I wasn't convinced. I checked his photo gallery, his Safari history—still nothing.

Was I wrong?

Was he really just being cheap about the wedding?

But then I remembered his shiftiness, his defensive body language, and the way he shoved me.

I opened his Amazon app.

Three orders were currently pending delivery.

The shipping address was not our apartment.

I stared at the address, burning it into my memory. It was an apartment complex on the other side of town. A place I had never heard of.

I tapped on the order details.

First order: One week ago.

A designer silk dress, size Small, $350.

I wore a medium.

Second order: Five days ago.

A high-end skincare set from Sephora, $280.

Not the brand I used.

Third order: Three days ago—the exact day he canceled our wedding.

A bottle of luxury perfume, $150.

Not my scent.

I set the iPad down on the desk. My hands were shaking so violently I could barely control them.

I tapped on his past order history and scrolled back further.

Two months ago: A box of gourmet Swiss chocolates.

One month ago: A pair of gold hoop earrings.

Two weeks ago: A bouquet of red roses, delivered to that exact same address.

The recipient’s name was listed on the shipping label: *Olivia Styles*.

I stared at the name "Olivia" over and over, confirming I had absolutely no idea who this woman was.

Next, I opened his bank statements, his Uber history, and his food delivery apps.

The more I scrolled, the harder I shook.

A reservation for a Michelin-star restaurant for two, last Thursday.

That night, he told me he had to work late at the office. He didn't get home until 9:30 PM, claiming he was exhausted and had grabbed a soggy sandwich from the cafeteria.

Two movie tickets, two Sundays ago.

He told me he had an urgent team meeting. He left in the afternoon and didn't return until late.

I had spent that entire Sunday alone, watching Netflix and waiting for him to come home for dinner.

His Uber history showed trips to that apartment complex at least twice a week.

The most recent ride was three days ago.

I closed the iPad.

My phone buzzed. It was a text from my mom: *Your dad and I are downstairs. Coming up now.*

I stood up, but my knees felt like jelly. I had to lean against the wall for a moment to steady myself.

I walked to the living room, unlocked the front door, and sat back down on the couch.

Heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway. My mom burst through the door first, with my dad following closely behind.

The second my mom saw my face, her expression softened into deep worry. She rushed over, cupping my face in her hands.

"Where did he hit you? Are you hurt?"

"He didn't hit me, Mom. He just shoved me."

"Where?"

"My back. Against the wall."

My mom immediately reached to pull up my shirt to check for bruises, but I gently stopped her. "Mom, I'm fine. Really, I'm okay."

"Where is Ethan?"

"He left."

"Where did he go?"

"I don't know."

My mom sat down beside me, while my dad stood by the coffee table, his face grave.

"Maya," my dad said, his voice calm but incredibly heavy. "Tell me exactly what's going on."

I looked at my dad.

I told them everything, from the hotel's phone call to Ethan’s sudden excuses about the budget, to his refusal to show me his phone, and finally, how he shoved me out of the way and walked out.

I didn't mention the iPad yet.

By the time I finished, my mom's face was flushed with anger.

"This wedding is off," she declared.

"He has the nerve to lay a hand on you before you’re even married? What happens after? Who does Ethan think he is? Our daughter is way too good for him!"

"There is nothing to discuss. If he can cancel a wedding behind your back today, God knows what else he’ll do tomorrow. You cannot marry this man."