Just before bed, a sponsored post popped up on my feed. The algorithm had flagged it as something my husband had "liked." The title read: A Love That Marriage Cannot Contain: My Knight Will Always Ride for Me. The article was a travel blog, chronicling the author's trip through the Sahara with her boyfriend. The blogger called herself "Wildcat." But not a single photo in the post showed her boyfriend's face. My husband, Caden, is a cop. He doesn't read this kind of sentimental drivel. And a week ago, he missed the birth of our child because he was away on a "training exercise." The location? Africa. A coincidence? To be sure, I called him. "Where are you?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. His tone was clipped, impatient. "Still in the Sahara for drills. Can you stop being so paranoid? I'm hanging up." I froze. Just before the line went dead, I heard it—a soft, distinctly female giggle in the background. … I forwarded Wildcat's blog to my grandfather's personal assistant and then dove into her archives, reading every post she'd ever written. There weren't many, but they all chronicled her adventures with her boyfriend. And in every single one, his face was conspicuously absent. The titles were strange, too. They had nothing to do with travel. A Love That Marriage Cannot Contain. Only the Unloved Choose Marriage. What Drab Housewife Can Compete with a Wildcat in the Sun? My Knight Doesn't Want a Pregnant Lady. A free-spirited couple, committed to love but not to marriage? My gut told me this was no coincidence. When I checked my social media feed again, the "liked by a friend" feature had been disabled for Caden's account. I could no longer see his activity. The knot in my stomach tightened. Just then, a message came through from my grandfather's assistant. "Ma'am, the blogger 'Wildcat' is a young woman from the mountains you once sponsored. Her birth name was Cassie Miller. She later changed it and became a travel blogger, spending most of her time abroad." Suddenly, a memory surfaced. It was right after we got married. Caden, who was usually so reserved, came up behind me and started massaging my shoulders. He told me he'd been on assignment in a remote mountain region and had seen girls who couldn't afford to go to school. He asked if I would sponsor their education. It was such a rare moment of tenderness from him. I was so touched, I agreed without a second thought. My fists clenched. A sickening suspicion began to form. Just then, Wildcat's blog updated again. "Hey guys! Next stop is the ancient site of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon! My boyfriend is so worried about me, he's insisting on coming along to protect his girl! Tee hee!" "Way better than giving birth alone in a loveless marriage, amirite? A real knight by my side is all I need!" A wave of relief washed over me. Caden had said the training exercise was only a week long. He should be home in a day or two. I felt a pang of guilt for doubting him. This was all just a series of bizarre coincidences. He was distant, yes, but that was just his nature. And he had, in his own quiet way, told me he loved me before. Feeling reassured, I sent him a few pictures of our newborn baby. He hadn't even seen him yet. But hours passed, and there was no reply. I was just drifting off to sleep when the unique notification tone I'd set for his messages chimed. I snatched up my phone. It was a cold, terse update. [Not coming home tomorrow. The squad's been deployed to the Middle East for a counter-terrorism drill.] The blood drained from my face. The Hanging Gardens of Babylon are in the Middle East. I stared at the screen for a long moment, then immediately tried to video call him. It didn't even ring for a full second before he rejected it. [What are you doing?! You're interrupting my training!] His text was sharp, accusatory. A bitter laugh escaped my lips. He had time to type out a lecture, but not one second to answer my call? And what kind of training exercise lets you keep your phone on you? Was I interrupting his training? Or was I interrupting something else entirely? I called again. Rejected. And again. Rejected. Finally, another message came through, laced with fury. [Grace, did giving birth scramble your brain?!] [Do you have any idea how seriously you are compromising my mission right now?!] [So I'm coming back a few days late, what's the big deal?! You're getting more and more pathetic!] I was stunned. He was calling me, his wife who had just given birth to his child, "pathetic"? Still, a foolish part of me clung to hope. [Honey, I'm really not feeling well. Can you please just ask for leave and come home?] [Don't you guys get paternity leave?] [My C-section incision is healing so slowly. The pain at night is so bad I have to take a handful of painkillers just to sleep.] [The baby is so fussy, and your mom won't let me hire a nanny. I can't handle this alone.] His response was another barrage of blame. [And you think I can handle it any better?!] [You're a mother now, a woman in your thirties. Stop being so damn dramatic!] [Every woman goes through this! What makes you so special? So fragile? You're not a teenager anymore!] His words struck me dumb. I couldn't believe a husband, a new father, could be so callous. I was about to type a furious reply when I saw it: a red exclamation mark. He had blocked me. From the bassinet beside the bed, the baby, sensing my distress, began to wail. I forced myself up, ignoring the searing pain in my abdomen, and went to soothe him. Looking at his tiny, red, crumpled face, a cold realization dawned on me. Since the moment I went into labor, Caden had not once asked how I was, or how the baby was. Was it really just his "cold nature"? Or was it something else entirely? Utter, absolute indifference. After rocking the baby back to sleep, I opened Wildcat's blog again, torturing myself by scrolling through her past posts. When I reached the very beginning, I covered my face with my hands as silent, hot tears streamed through my fingers. The dates of every single one of her trips, her "romantic getaways," corresponded perfectly with every single one of Caden's "business trips" and "training exercises." It was true. He was cheating on me. When the tears finally ran dry, a cold, hard calm settled over me. I called my assistant and booked the first flight to the Middle East. Without a word to his mother, I dropped the baby off with the trusted nannies at my family's estate. The next day, I was standing on the sun-scorched earth of an ancient land. I had to see it with my own eyes. Only then would I let my heart truly die. I used Wildcat's latest post to find her location, staking out a spot near the ruins of the Hanging Gardens. I disguised myself, wrapped in scarves like a thief. My C-section scar throbbed violently, a pain that even the strongest painkillers couldn't completely numb, a searing pain that crawled through me like thorny vines. Then I saw her. The blogger, Wildcat. My heart leaped into my throat. She was tan and tall, radiating a vibrant, youthful energy. She was undeniably beautiful. And the man beside her— He stood straight and proud, his handsome face softened by a gentle, adoring expression. An undeniable pair. Anyone would say they looked perfect together. If only the man hadn't been my husband of ten years. Even the t-shirt he was wearing… I had picked it out for him myself. The world went dark at the edges. There, in front of the ruins of a wonder of the ancient world, my husband was kissing another woman. Wildcat's post from the night before flashed in my mind: The Gods of Babylon will forever bless lovers who kiss before their temple. It was over. Maybe it was because I had prepared myself for the worst, but in that moment of shattering heartbreak, my first instinct was strangely clinical. I raised my phone and took a picture. Evidence. My heart was a gaping wound, but my mind was crystal clear. For the rest of the day, I shadowed them. I watched Wildcat leap onto Caden's back like a playful child. Caden—the man who was so stoic with me he'd never once uttered a word of sweet-talk—was now carrying her with a tender smile I had never seen before. I remembered once, by the river at night, I'd asked him to take a picture of me with the city lights. He'd refused instantly. "My hands are for holding a gun, Grace. Not for doing useless things like that." But now, this same man was patiently taking shot after shot as Wildcat handed him her camera, posing and preening. So, all those third-person photos on her blog... they were taken by my husband, whose hands were "only for holding a gun"? A desolate coldness seeped into my bones. It wasn't that he couldn't. It was that I wasn't worthy of it. I pulled out my phone and dialed his number. His phone rang. I watched him, my expression unreadable. Wildcat leaned over to see the screen, then pouted. I was close enough to hear every word. "Is it that old hag again?" she whined. "Hang up! Or I'll get mad! Your time is my time! You are mine! She already has your marriage, your love can only be mine! Your eyes, your heart, your body—they all belong to me!" Faced with her tantrum, Caden immediately went to soothe her. My call, unsurprisingly, was rejected. The next time I tried, I'd been blocked. The sun was blindingly bright, but I felt a chill deep in my bones. And this woman, this vibrant, sunny creature, was a willing homewrecker. Just then, another message came from my grandfather's assistant. As I read the contents, the full, sickening scope of the deception came into focus. Eight years ago, Caden had an accident during a mission in the mountains. He'd fallen into a ravine. His captain called me immediately. Frantic, I'd rushed to the airport, and on the way, I got into a car crash. While I was in the ICU, fighting for my life, my husband, Caden, was in a remote village, celebrating a makeshift wedding ceremony with Wildcat. She was the one who had found him in the ravine and "saved" him. After a few nights alone together, her parents had used her "ruined reputation" to force Caden to marry her, demanding a hefty sum to make things right. I suddenly remembered Caden asking me for thirty thousand dollars around that time. He'd said it was for the widow of a colleague who had died in the line of duty. I had personally funded his dowry to another woman. And shortly after that, he'd approached me with the idea of sponsoring her education. I was the fool. The clown in their twisted little play. If he was going to betray our marriage, then he could not blame me for being ruthless. I didn't just want a divorce. I wanted to ruin him. I followed them all day, numbly documenting every kiss, every touch, every loving glance. That night, Wildcat's blog updated again. As I suspected, the photos were all taken from Caden's perspective. The title was another dagger to my heart: Marriage is Nothing. True Love is Everything! I finally understood. The nonsensical, unrelated titles were her justification. The pathetic mantra of a mistress trying to paint her affair as something noble. To my surprise, she added a little note at the end of the post. [Hey guys, my amazing boyfriend got me a job offer at a Fortune 500 company! Should I take it?] [Oh, and I mentioned I needed a new car today, and he said he'd buy me a luxury car when we get back home! I'm so spoiled!] The comments were a flood of fawning praise. [I've followed Wildcat forever! Their love is like a fairytale, and her boyfriend is crazy rich! He buys her designer everything!] [Marry him already, girl! Before someone else snatches him up!] Wildcat replied personally to that second comment. [When you have true love, who needs marriage? Marriage is just a safety net for people who aren't really loved!] I laughed out loud, a harsh, grating sound. With Caden's police salary, he couldn't afford a single one of the designer bags she flaunted. But I, worried he might be short on cash, transferred him hundreds of thousands of dollars in "spending money" every month. He had been using my money to fund his "true love." Suddenly, my phone buzzed with that special notification tone. Caden had unblocked me. [Cooled down yet? Had a night to think about it?] [If you pull a stunt like that again, I won't be so forgiving.] [Oh, by the way, the widow of my fallen comrade needs a car. You have that Maybach in the garage, right? Give it to her. It's the least I can do.] [And talk to your father. I have a friend who needs a senior management position at his company. Make sure you take care of her.] The audacity. The sheer, unmitigated gall. When I loved him, I would have given him the world. I extended that generosity to all his friends and family. That kindness had not only given him the courage to be arrogant but had also fed his greed and his nerve. And now, he was shamelessly asking me to provide for his mistress. This was the man I had loved for ten years. I took a few deep breaths, forcing the rage down, and typed out the compliant, agreeable response he wanted to hear. Pleased with my "reasonableness," he chatted for a bit longer, even graciously informing me that he had a celebratory banquet with his squad next week and wouldn't be coming home that night. I simply agreed. After all, the best dishes, and the best dramas, are worth waiting for. I had a very special gift planned for him.
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