Part 1
The first morning at my new job, I saw a picture of my husband on another woman's desk.
The office buzzed with the usual Monday sounds: the tapping of keyboards, the pinging of phones, the whirring of coffee makers, and people pretending to be more awake than they actually were. TechSphere occupied two gleaming floors of a building on Madison Avenue, with glass walls, clean lines, and an ostentatious simplicity.
My employee ID badge was still warm, fresh off the printer, when I stopped by my new coworker's desk.
That's when I saw the photo.
It was framed in silver next to a small plant and a pink diary. A man in a navy polo shirt smiled at the camera, his face slightly turned.
I knew that smile.
He had slept beside her for seven years.
Remaining calm, I pointed to the photograph.
“Who is that?”
My co-worker, Maya Jenkins, was instantly encouraged.
“That’s the man I’m going to marry,” she said.
The room was moving around me. Someone laughed near the elevators. The espresso machine whistled. Sunlight streamed through the windows.
But my world had stopped.
The man in the photo was Michael Davis.
My husband.
The night before, he was in our kitchen hugging me and telling me he was proud of me and that my new company was lucky to have me. I believed him. I thanked him for his support.
Apparently, he had been showing that same version of himself to someone else for years.
Maya raised her hand to show me her ring.
“He proposed to me last month,” she said. “We’ve been together for three years.”
Part 2
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