e McC

of our child. He just vanished, believing my words were a desperate, impulsive outburst from a "del

but radiant, Elias looking like her devoted protector. They traveled, they dined, they attended galas. Each post was a carefully curated image of

rchitectural designs, pouring all my energy into new, challenging projects. I even put in a request for a long-

compiled data: financial records, shell company registrations, and suspicious land deals associated with Esteban Walters. Nothing illegal on the surface, but enough to raise red flags for

to a cold, hard resolve. There was no room for anything else.

e few trinkets he had left behind. They felt heavy, tainted. As I sifted through a forgotten drawer of his, a small, unassuming USB drive caugh

nt. A faint tremor went through me, but it wasn't fear. It was a pric

plug it i

A postcard from his "business trip" to Paris, the one where he had mysteriously lost his phone for three days. These were the relics of a relationship built on superficiality and

. It was the realization of how deeply I had allowed myself to be gaslit, how much I had doubted my own perceptio

he tape ripping a harsh, satisfying end to that chapter. I wrote Elias Short's name on the package, then the address of his corporate

empty room. "Enjoy your carefully c

s crisp, clean, a stark contrast to the lingering smoke of the past few days. I handed the package to the cl

lly been lifted. My lungs expanded fully, easily. The world seemed sharper,

The path ahead was uncertain, but it was my path. And for the first t