Page 159 of My Husband’s New Fiancée

A post from Bianca. Posted five days ago.

The father of my child abandons me at the altar and disappears without a word while I’m throwing up my guts and barely able to eat. Who knows if he isn’t off on vacation with some homewrecking bitch?

Dante must have read it at the same moment I did.

His hand finds mine.

He lifts it to his lips and presses a slow kiss against my skin.

A quiet gesture. Tender. As if he’s trying to remind me, over and over again, that there’s only me.

Under the post, the comments keep pouring in. Hundreds of reactions. Thousands of shares.

Strangers take sides with the blind certainty of people who know nothing and don’t care enough to learn the truth.

They defend Bianca, attack Dante, invent theories about his disappearance and the existence of another woman.

I slowly set my phone down on my lap.

I hate this.

This constant exposure. This public courtroom where our private lives become entertainment for people who don’t possess a single fragment of the truth.

But we’re not the ones who chose this battlefield.

I watch Paris drift past beyond the window and think about the child who’s going to be born. About what they’ll read one day when they’re old enough to type their mother’s name into a search engine.

These posts. These comments. These wars fought in their name without anyone ever asking what they want.

Does Bianca even think about that?

Does she realize she’s building a legacy of conflict and manipulation for her child? A story they’ll have to carry without ever choosing it?

Probably not.

Or maybe she does.

And simply doesn’t care.

That second possibility is the one that chills me. Because deep down… I think it’s the right one.

*

We’ve barely dropped our bags and settled around the kitchen island when Dante’s phone rings.

Bianca.

He answers and places the phone between us, speaker activated.

“Bianca.”

His voice is neutral. Impersonal. The voice of a CEO handling a problem.

“Where were you?”

The question explodes out of her, loaded with reproach.

“On vacation.”