But as I opened the box, my heart skipped a beat. There, scrawled across the inside lid of the box with a black Sharpie, was a message that read, “He is not who you think. Check your door camera.”
The pizza suddenly seemed unappetizing as a cold wave of dread washed over me. My hands trembled as I set the box down, the cheerful buzz of the apartment now swallowed by a looming silence. What was I about to find on that camera?
My fingers fumbled as I activated the tablet controlling our door camera. The ominous message from the pizza box had set my nerves on edge, making every moment until the app opened feel endless. I scrolled through the camera’s recorded history, each swipe intensifying the suspense.
Then, it appeared.
There was Jake, my Jake, welcoming a woman at our doorstep. She wasn’t just any woman—she was laughing, handing him a bottle of wine. My heart plummeted. I kept scrolling. On different days, different women appeared, one even bringing a stack of movies.
Every time I was away, it seemed, Jake had company. Different women, each visit documented clearly by the camera he had installed, ironically, for our safety.
Frozen, the tablet slipped from my grip. How could he betray me? When had our shared life turned into this deceit? Tears clouded my vision, each recorded clip a dagger to my heart. The trust I had placed in him, the love I thought we shared—had it all been one-sided?
With every shared laugh, every exchanged bottle of wine, the apartment seemed to contract, the walls pressing in. I had cherished this place, our life together, but now every corner echoed betrayal.
Nausea overwhelmed me, a lump forming in my throat as the harsh reality sank in. This was no mere mistake or misunderstanding; it was a deliberate, ongoing betrayal. Anger surged through me, mingling with my grief.
I needed to confront him, to demand explanations. But first, I had to gather myself, to collect the fragments of my shattered dignity. I couldn’t let him see me broken.
I steeled myself; the love I once felt had been replaced by a biting cold fury. Jake owed me some serious answers.
Upon his return, the apartment was eerily quiet, the tension palpable. He entered with a casual smile, unaware of the tempest inside me.
“Hey, Em. Missed you,” he greeted, shedding his coat.
“We need to talk,” I said, not mirroring his smile.
Jake’s smile waned. “What’s wrong?”
I presented the tablet, frozen on an image of him with one of the women. “Care to explain this?”
He glanced at the screen, then casually shrugged. “Emily, you’re making a big deal out of nothing. They’re just friends.”
“Friends?” I retorted sharply. “Different women, each time I’m gone? Really, Jake?”
He sighed, ruffling his hair. “Look, Em, you’re being paranoid. These women mean nothing.”
“Nothing?” My voice escalated, fury piercing my feigned calm. “How can you say that?”
Jake’s tone grew stern. “I bring a lot to this relationship. You really want to throw this away over some insecurity?”
That was it. His dismissal, his arrogance—it crystallized everything I felt. “It’s not insecurity when I have evidence, Jake. I can’t do this. I won’t marry someone who thinks so little of me.”
Jake’s face tightened, the arrogance slipping into shock. “You’re serious? Over some nonsense?”
“Yes,” I said, firm and clear. “I’m done. We’re done.”
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