My fiancé and I were picking wedding bands when his phone lit up:
“See you tonight, babe 💋” from someone named Lisa.
I laughed and said, “Is that your mom?”
He went pale.
I played it off like a joke… until I checked our shared tablet and saw the messages synced.
Hundreds of them.
Dates. Photos. Inside jokes.
She called him “my king.”
He told her he’d “get through the wedding stuff soon.”
I stared at the screen so long my coffee went cold.
He’d been seeing her for nearly a year.
She wasn’t a random fling—she had a key to his apartment.
I read one message where she said, “I can’t wait for this fake fiancée thing to be over.”
I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
My hands were shaking, but I didn’t cry.
Not yet.
I screenshotted everything.
Sent it to myself.
Then I asked him that night, “So… how long have you known Lisa?”
He stuttered. Lied. Said she was just a friend.
I opened the tablet and slid it to him.
His face dropped.
He didn’t speak for a full minute.
Then he said, “I didn’t want to hurt you.”
I said, “Then why did you propose?”
He told me it was what everyone expected.
That we were good on paper.
That he wasn’t in love with me, just comfortable.
I packed my things that night.
He begged me not to go.
Said he’d end it with her.
But I was already gone.
Not just from the apartment. From the illusion.
I cancelled everything—the venue, the photographer, the florist.
They all asked, “Do you want to reschedule?”
I said no.
I used the honeymoon ticket and went alone.
Ate gelato in Rome.
Took selfies in Paris.
Slept without crying.
I didn’t text him once.
But he did.
Said Lisa left him.
Said he missed me.
But I never replied.
Because I finally remembered who I was—before him.
And that woman?
She’s never going back.