Part 1
On my first morning at my new job, I saw my husband’s photo on another woman’s desk.
The office was buzzing with the typical Monday noises: keyboard typing, phone vibration, the whistling of coffee makers and people pretending to be more awake than they really were. TechSphere occupied two glittering floors in a Madison Avenue building, with glass walls, clean lines and simple and luxurious elegance.
My employee credential was still hot when I stopped by my new partner’s desk.
That’s when I saw the picture.
It was in a silver frame next to a small plant and a pink agenda. A man with a navy blue polo would smile at the camera, his face slightly turned.
I recognized that smile.
I had slept next to her for seven years.
With a serene expression, I pointed to the photo.
Who is it?
My partner, Maya Jenkins, instantly lit up.
“That’s the man I’m going to marry,” he said.
The room was still going around me. Someone laughed near the elevators. The espresso machine washed. The sunlight went into flood through the windows.
But my world had stopped.
The man in the photo was Michael Davis.
My husband.
The night before, I had been in our kitchen hugging me, telling me that I was proud of myself and that my new company was lucky to have me. I believed him. I had been grateful for your support.
Apparently, he had been showing that same version of himself to another person for years.
Maya raised her hand to show me the ring.
“He asked me to marry last month,” he said. We’ve been together for three years.
