Ten years. That’s how long it had been since Marissa betrayed me.
One day, she was my best friend, the next, she was sleeping with my husband.
I still remember the way she looked at me when I found out—half-guilty, half-smug. Like she had won some twisted prize.
I lost everything back then.
My marriage, my home, the life I had built. They got married a year later. I told myself I’d moved on.
I rebuilt my life, found peace in solitude. I hadn’t spoken to her since.
Until last night.
I was getting ready for bed when my phone rang. I almost didn’t answer—who calls at 11 p.m.?
But when I saw the name, my stomach dropped. Marissa.
I should’ve ignored it. But something in me wanted to hear her voice, to know why, after all these years, she was reaching out.
The moment I answered, she was screaming.
Hysterical.
“He’s a monster, Kayla! You have no idea what he’s done!”
My heart pounded. I hadn’t heard that name—his name—in a decade.
But I recognized the fear in her voice. It was raw. Desperate.
“What are you talking about?” I asked, gripping the phone.
She was sobbing now, words tumbling out too fast.
Something about lies. About a hidden life. About how she found something she wasn’t supposed to.
And then—just before the call cut out—she said something that made my blood run cold.
“Kayla…he’s not who you think he is.
And neither am I.”
I sat there for a long time, staring at the phone. The room felt smaller, like the walls were closing in. What did she mean?
Was this some cruel joke? Or was she really trying to tell me something?
I couldn’t sleep. Her voice echoed in my head, frantic and broken.
Against every instinct telling me to let it go, I called her back. It went straight to voicemail. I sent a text: Marissa, what’s going on?
No reply.
The next morning, I woke up exhausted but restless.
I needed answers. So, I did what anyone else would do—I started digging. I opened old boxes of photos and letters, things I hadn’t touched in years.
There wasn’t much. Most of it was from before the betrayal, when life felt simpler. But tucked away in an envelope, I found something strange—a letter addressed to me, written in his handwriting.
It was dated two weeks before Marissa and I discovered their affair.
The words hit me like a punch:
Kayla, if anything happens to me, look under the floorboard in the spare bedroom. Trust no one.
I froze. This wasn’t just cryptic—it was eerie.
Why had I never seen this before? Had he slipped it into my bag without me noticing? Or had someone planted it there after the fact?
My mind raced.
Did Marissa know about this? Was this connected to whatever she’d called me about?
By noon, I was standing outside the house where they lived—the house that used to be mine. It looked different now, freshly painted and landscaped.
A new swing set sat in the backyard. They had kids. Two little boys, according to Facebook.
The thought twisted my gut. I hated them for moving on so easily while I struggled to piece myself back together.
I knocked on the door, unsure of what I’d say. When Marissa opened it, she looked worse than she sounded last night.
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