No Absolution For The Betrayer

I was doom-scrolling in the back of an Uber, exhausted from overtime, when the algorithm decided to ruin my life.

It was a thread on a relationship advice forum, the title screaming in bold:

[My husbands sexual appetite is insatiable. I physically cant keep up. Help.]

A top comment, with thousands of upvotes, shattered my worldview in two sentences:

[Outsource it. Find him a mistresssomeone clean, fresh out of college. Those wide-eyed, naive girls are the easiest to manipulate.]

Someone had replied underneath:

[Aren't you afraid hell actually fall in love with her?]

The original posterOPreplied instantly. You could practically hear the smirk through the screen:

[What is there to be afraid of? My puppy is obedient. He doesnt even dare hold her hand without my permission.]

[I decide the position. I decide the frequency. I write the script.]

[And all it takes is one phone call from me. Doesn't matter if he's mid-climax; if I call, he comes home.]

My spine locked. A cold shiver, unrelated to the AC, traced its way down my back. I thought of Cole. I thought of the half-dozen times he had abandoned me in the middle of a date, or even in bed, because of a "work emergency." He never gave an explanation, just a frantic, apologetic look before rushing out the door.

I didn't want to believe it. My thumb hovered over the screen, trembling, but I scrolled down.

[That little girls birthday is today. I told him he wasn't allowed to go. He dropped to his knees and begged.]

The attached photo showed a man kneeling on a hardwood floor, his head bowed in religious devotion, kissing the tip of a womans stiletto heel.

Dangling from a silver chain around his neck, catching the light, was a ring.

Our promise ring.

I opened the photo. Closed it. Zoomed in. Zoomed out.

I did this five times, as if manipulating the pixels could rearrange reality into a misunderstanding. As if I could force it to be a coincidence.

Its just my anxiety, I told myself. Im overthinking.

But a voice in the back of my head, quiet and lethal, whispered: Its all true.

I felt unmoored. I couldn't reconcile the Cole I knewthe man who tracked my cycle, who remembered to pick the cilantro out of my tacos because he knew I hated the taste, who dressed specifically to please my eyewith the submissive creature in that photo.

I closed my eyes, forcing myself to breathe. My mind flashed back to a month ago. The weight of his hands as he slid the matching bands onto our fingers.

"Next year," he had said, his voice thick with emotion, "Im taking you to meet my parents in Vermont. And then well go see yours. I want to ask them properly. I want to be worthy of you."

He had sounded so reverent. So careful.

My hands were shaking so badly I nearly dropped the phone. I kept scrolling, desperate for a discrepancy. A mole. A scar. Anything to prove it wasn't him.

The replies were piling upenvy, disgust, curiosity.

But the OP, whose handle was LadyStarling, replied with the terrifying calm of a woman who holds the leash:

[Why the jealousy? Hate the game, not the player. If you want to blame someone, blame the girl. Shes painfully naive. Its pathetic.]

[Valentines. Christmas. Her birthday. Unless I sign off on it, he doesnt spend a single holiday with her.]

[And the apologies? The 'makeup gifts'? All my cast-offs. Purses Im bored with. Freebies from events. Even those ringsthey were made from the scrap metal of a custom piece I commissioned.]

The further I read, the colder I got. My vision blurred, tears stinging the corners of my eyes.

I wanted to stop, but I couldn't. It was like picking at a scabpainful, but necessary.

Everything she wrote aligned perfectly with the last three years of my life.

Cole never spent holidays with me. We never celebrated our actual birthdays together.

"Fiscal year-end," hed say. "Inventory audits." "Client crisis."

But the next day, there was always a gift. "To make it up to you, Mayer," hed say.

I didnt know if the handbags were used. I didnt know if the necklaces were freebies.

But I knew about the ring.

His ring had a delicate engraving on the inner banda small bird in flight.

Mine was a simple, thin band. Unadorned. It looked like something you could buy at a mall kiosk.

I had asked him once why his had the bird and mine didn't.

"Swallows return home," he had said, kissing my knuckles. "It represents my loyalty. I will always return to you."

Loyalty.

To me? Or to her?

My finger hovered over her username: LadyStarling.

Her avatar was a sketch of a bird.

Coincidence?

No. I couldn't lie to myself anymore.

I clicked on her profile.

It was curated, minimalist, expensive. No daily clutter. Just posts about her and her "insatiable" husband.

The latest post was from two hours ago.

[Year six. He proposed. Fireworks, hydrangeas, the exact ring I wanted. And, of course, the man I wanted.]

The photo showed her back to the camera, holding a massive bouquet, locked in an embrace with a man.

You could only see the back of the man's head.

But I knew the slope of those shoulders. I knew the way his hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck.

It was Cole.

I had spent three years staring at that back while he slept away from me.

I ignored a tear that splashed onto the screen and kept scrolling.

[Three days until our six-year anniversary. He replaced our bands. He engraved our names inside. She doesn't suspect a thing.]

Photo: A mans hand, wearing the new ring.

I remembered the day Cole gave me the rings.

He had kissed the metal band on my finger. "From this moment on, Mayer. You and me. Unwavering."

Unwavering.

Me and him?

Or him and her?

[The day after her birthday. I went with him to pick out the apology gift. Pearl earrings. They came free with my brooch.]

I remembered that day perfectly.

He had handed me the velvet box, kissing my forehead.

"I'm so sorry, baby. The partners called an emergency meeting. I had to fly to Chicago."

"Don't worry," hed said, looking me in the eye. "It won't happen a second time."

It wouldn't happen a second time.

Because it was already the third time.

I wiped the screen with my thumb, smearing the moisture. I scrolled back three years. To the very first post.

[His drive is too much. I need a break. I picked out a subordinate from his firm. A sweet, stupid girl from the Midwest. I told her I was setting her up with a great guy. Funny thing is, she actually believed me.]

A notification banner dropped down: LadyStarling just posted.

I tapped it.

[Sending him home now. Hell walk through the door at exactly 12:00 AM. His first sentence will be: 'I'm sorry, work got crazy, I didn't mean to be late.' his second move will be to kiss her forehead. Then he'll give her the brooch I decided I didn't like.]

A horrific realization bloomed in my chest.

The subway hadn't even reached my stop, but I lurched forward, covering my mouth as I dry-heaved.

A girl sitting next to me, noticing my distress, leaned in. "Miss? Are you okay?"

I looked up. In her clear, concerned eyes, I saw my own reflection.

Wretched. Broken.

Three years. One thousand and ninety-five days.

Thirty-six months.

What I thought was a love story was a curated, scripted lie.

I wasn't a girlfriend.

I was a pressure valve.

To him, I wasn't even a person.

"I'm fine," I whispered, accepting the tissue she offered. I wiped my face.

Then, with a steadying breath, I screenshot every single post. Every comment. Every timestamp.

The subway doors opened.

I had missed my stop.

I crossed the platform to catch the train going back.

It was time to go home.

Cole walked through the door at midnight.

12:00:00.

Not a minute early. Not a second late.

Honestly, I had to hand it to this LadyStarling. She had trained her dog well.

I was sitting in the living room in the dark.

When he flipped the switch, flooding the room with light, he didn't even flinch at the sight of me sitting on the sofa like a statue.

He walked over, his expression the picture of exhausted regret.

"I'm sorry, Mayer. Work got crazy. I didn't mean to be late."

Then, he leaned down and kissed my forehead.

Finally, he handed me a small gift bag.

Every word. Every movement. Identical to the post.

He was a robot executing a line of code.

I took the bag. Inside was a brooch.

It wasn't new. The clasp had a microscopic scratch I recognized from one of LadyStarlings high-res photos.

A chill radiated from my bones outward. I looked up at Cole. My voice trembled, betraying me.

"Was it really work?"

Cole frowned, a micro-expression of confusion, as if the script had encountered an error. He didn't know how to process a deviation from the routine.

After a beat, he recovered. "Of course. I wouldn't lie to you."

Wouldn't lie to me?

He hadn't done anything but lie to me since the moment we met.

He knelta comfortable position for him, apparentlyand kissed my earlobe.

"Mayer, trust me, okay? If you don't trust me, it would kill me."

Kill you?

How?

Would you die in BlytheLadyStarlingsbed?

Once, I thought Coles sweet nothings were poetry. Now, they sounded like a death sentence.

I bit my lip, tasting iron, and said nothing.

Cole stood up and ruffled my hair, dismissive and affectionate.

"I promise, no next time. Don't overthink it, okay?"

Just then, his phone pinged. A specific, sharp chime.

He froze. "I need a shower," he muttered, turning away too quickly.

He left his ring on the kitchen islanda habit he had when washing dishes or showering.

The bathroom door clicked shut.

I walked over to the island. I picked up the ring.

Inside, the engraving was clear.

C & B.

Cole and Blythe.

I assumed her name was Blythe. It fit the profile. Old money, sharp edges.

The shower was running, but over the noise of the water, I heard the murmur of a voice.

He wasn't showering.

He was checking in.

The water stopped sooner than usual. Cole emerged, his hair completely dry.

He walked over to me, pulling me into a hug that felt like a shroud.

"I'm so sorry, Mayer. Theres an issue with the schematics. The partners need me back at the office now to fix the proposal."

He pulled away before I could answer, grabbing his keys, not even looking back.

"Cole," I called out.

He paused at the entryway, one hand on the doorknob.

"Do you have to go right now?"

Maybe it was the tone of my voiceflat, deadbut his shoulders stiffened.

He recovered quickly, though. He didn't turn around.

"Mayer, don't make this hard for me, okay?"

"I know I missed your birthday dinner, and I know you're upset. But I can't control the workload."

"Go to sleep. I'll bring you those pistachio cronuts you love in the morning, okay?"

I stood frozen in the center of the living room.

I have a severe nut allergy.

I don't eat pistachios. I never have.

The person who loves pistachios is LadyStarling.

The last brick of the fantasy I had built crumbled.

The door clicked shut.

He was gone. He couldn't wait to leave.

I stood in the silence for a long time. Then, I grabbed my coat.

Cole didn't take his car. He called a Lyft.

I hailed a cab and told the driver to follow the grey sedan.

We drove across the city, ending up in a neighborhood I couldn't afford.

He got out in front of The Hawthorne.

I paid the driver and watched.

Cole punched in the gate code without hesitation. Muscle memory.

He was texting as he walked, head down, unaware of the ghost trailing him.

I slipped through the gate before it closed behind him.

I followed him into the lobby of Building 2. I watched the elevator numbers climb.

It stopped at the 7th floor.

The Hawthorne, Building 2, Floor 7. The name on the directory listed in the vestibule for 7A was B. Montgomery.

Blythe Montgomery.

My boss.

My mentor.

The woman who introduced me to Cole.

The answer was so obvious it was insulting.

I didn't need any more proof.

I touched my hand to my chest.

Strange. Knowing for sure didn't make it hurt more.

It actually made the pain recede, replaced by a cold, heavy numbness.

I closed my eyes, turned around, and walked away.

I didn't sleep.

I sat on my sofa as the sun bleached the sky from charcoal to gray.

When the clock hit 7:00 AM, I sent a text to a contact I hadn't spoken to in years. A rival firm.

[Five hundred grand. I'll give you the raw files for the Elysium Project.]

The reply was instantaneous.

[Surprising. I thought you said you'd never betray your mentor?]

I ignored the jab. [Do you want them or not?]

[Deal.]

Cole didn't come back that morning.

I showered, dressed, and went to work.

I sat at my desk for thirty minutes before Blythe Montgomery breezed in.

She placed a paper bag on my desk, her smile warm, conspiratorial.

"Ran into your boyfriend in the lobby. He asked me to bring this up to you."

The logo on the bag was from Le Rve. The bakery where I usually ran errands to buy pistachio cronuts for Blythe.

I didn't take the bag. I just looked at her.

Blythes smile didn't falter, pristine and practiced.

"What's wrong? Trouble in paradise?"

I lowered my gaze, staring at the grain of my desk.

"I think Cole is cheating on me."

"He told me he was at the office last night. But I tracked his phone. He was at The Hawthorne."

I looked up, catching her eyes.

"Blythe, I've been to your place to drop off files. Did you see him?"

Her pause lasted exactly two seconds. Just long enough to calculate.

"I went to bed early last night, Mayer."

"But don't worry. If Cole is stepping out on you, Ill handle him. I won't let anyone treat you like that."

She squeezed my shoulder, her voice dripping with maternal concern.

"You look terrible. Why don't you take the day off?"

I shook my head. "I'm fine."

Blythe went to her private bathroom.

I waited a moment, then walked into her office with a stack of paperwork.

There it was.

On the corner of her mahogany desk, resting on a velvet tray. The ring.

It was her habit. She told me once she always took her rings off before washing her hands; she was terrified theyd slip down the drain.

I picked it up.

Inside the band, the engraving mocked me. C & B.

I snapped a photo.

I walked out.

Ten minutes later, LadyStarling posted again.

[She seems to be getting suspicious. How do I kill the doubt? Hard to find a girl this stupid and useful. Can't let her go yet.]

[Maybe Ill have him recreate my proposal for her. Shes a decent draftsman; her genes aren't bad. I don't want to ruin my body with pregnancy. Maybe I'll let her have a kid for me.]

The words were cold, sharp objects.

I trusted this woman. When I was blacklisted from the industry for a plagiarism scandal I didn't commit, Blythe was the only one who hired me.

I was grateful. I gave her my loyalty.

I gave her my designs, letting her put her name on my work because I thought she saved me.

But she hadn't saved me.

She was just grooming me for the slaughter.

Suddenly, Cole became the perfect boyfriend.

He stopped disappearing at midnight.

He stopped leaving me on the curb for a phone call.

He drove forty minutes to get the specific dim sum I liked.

He bought me gifts that still had the price tags on themnew things.

He hovered.

But I didn't feel loved.

I felt sick.

My stomach felt like it was full of wet wool.

It was a nausea I couldn't vomit up.

LadyStarling updated:

[Recreating my proposal at Point Dume. Everything is exactly what I like, except the ring. Cheap prop for a cheap girl.]

Photo: Hydrangeas (Blythes favorite, not mine) and unlit fireworks.

And, of course, the thin, plain band.

Almost simultaneously, my phone buzzed.

[Mayer, meet me at Point Dume. I have a surprise for you.]

I went. Not for the surprise, but because I needed to end this farce with my own hands.

I found him standing in the center of a circle of hydrangeas, holding a bouquet of pink lisianthusa flower I hated.

I stood ten feet away. I didn't step into the circle.

Cole didn't seem to notice. He looked like an actor hitting his mark. He walked up to me, extending the flowers.

"Mayer, will you make me the happiest man alive? Will you be my only one?"

I didn't reach for the flowers.

Before silence could stretch into awkwardness, his phone rang.

The special ringtone.

His reflexes were Pavlovian. He answered it immediately.

"Yes. Okay. I understand. Don't cry. I'm coming."

He hung up, looking at me with those sad, puppy eyes.

"Mayer, I'm so sorry. It's the firm. Crisis."

"I have to go fix the schematics. I'll call you, okay?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He turned and practically ran, clutching the lisianthus to his chest so they wouldn't get crushed.

He wasn't protecting them because they were for me.

He was protecting them because Blythe had paid for them.

I realized then why Blythe was so confident he would never betray her.

Because he truly loved her.

He loved her enough to humiliate himself. He loved her enough to destroy me just to keep her entertained.

LadyStarling posted:

[Realized I couldn't handle watching him propose to someone else. So I cried a little. He dropped everything and came running.]

I didn't watch him go.

Calmly, I took out my phone. I logged into the companys main social media accountBlythe had given me the passwords ages ago to manage her "brand."

I uploaded the thread I had been compiling for days.

Then, I shut down the phone. I popped the SIM card out, snapped it in half, and tossed it into a trash can.

I walked away.

At that exact moment, on the massive digital billboard across from our office buildinga billboard Blythe rented for client prestigethe scheduled ad loop was interrupted.

Instead of architectural renderings, it began to cycle through screenshots.

The "Dog" post.

The kneeling photo.

The matching rings.

The timestamps proving Blythe Montgomery was LadyStarling.

And one final slide: My original design files for the last three years of "Blythe Montgomery's" award-winning work.

When Cole rushed into Blythes apartment, she was sitting on the sofa, calmly eating a croissant.

For no reason he could name, a wave of exhaustion hit him.

He opened his mouth to speak, but both their phones began to ring.

It was a mutual friend, voice high with panic.

"Check your phones. Mayer knows. She knows everything."