My swollen breasts ached so sharply I couldn’t sleep. Scrolling aimlessly on my phone, I saw a trending post: "My ex has been married for five years, but his paycheck still comes to me." "He tells his frumpy wife he makes seven grand a month," the post read. "But he only gives her fifteen hundred for groceries—the other thirty thousand pays my mortgage." "Doesn’t his wife complain?" someone asked in the comments. "About what? The fool thinks he’s saving for a bigger house. Last month, right after she gave birth, I told him my pipes were clogged and I was scared. He dropped everything—wife, newborn—and rushed over at midnight." "Some men marry for family," she concluded, "but the moonlight in his heart will always be his first love." The poster even shared a photo: the back of a man fixing a kitchen pipe. I recognized him instantly. The shirt he wore was the one I’d saved on groceries for three months to buy my husband, Alex. That night, Alex had claimed an office emergency. Even my mother-in-law had scolded me: "A man’s career matters. Don’t be needy." So this was his "career"—driving a few miles to fix his ex-wife’s sink. I turned off the screen, a cold smile on my lips. If you’re both so proud of this, I’ll be happy to help. This time, I’ll make sure even that fifteen hundred for groceries becomes a luxury you can’t afford. 1. It was three in the morning. The phone’s cold light cast a ghostly glow on my face in the dark bedroom. I tapped on the photo of the man fixing the pipe, zooming in, then in again. The mole on the back of his neck—I could find it with my eyes closed. It was Alex. My Alex. The loving husband who was always telling me with a long face how business was bad, begging me to be understanding. Wincing from the throbbing pain in my chest, I took my phone to the balcony. The night air was cool, clearing my head with a brutal clarity. I opened the thread again and began taking screenshots of every single reply from the poster, “MidnightMoon.” Each one felt like a slap across my face. “My ex says his wife is super gullible. Believes anything he tells her.” “She was recovering from childbirth and didn't have enough milk, wanted to buy imported formula. He told her they couldn't afford it and to drink pig's feet soup instead. Then he turned around and bought me a twenty-thousand-dollar handbag.” “Haha, come on. Men always want someone young and beautiful, right? The one at home got fat as a pig after the baby. It’s disgusting to even look at her.” I looked down at my own body, changed by pregnancy and breastfeeding, at the stretch marks that snaked across my stomach. So this was it. I had risked my life to give him a child, and in his eyes, I was just… disgusting. Tears threatened to fall, but I forced them back. When I went back to the bedroom, a text from Alex came through. He wouldn't be home tonight. Work emergency. It was followed by a wire transfer. Fifteen hundred dollars. The memo read: “Honey, this month’s household money. They docked my performance bonus, so this is all I’ve got. I’m so sorry.” I stared at the glaring number, and the last bit of warmth in my heart froze over. This, in his eyes, was the total value of me and our child for an entire month. But for Zoe, it was thirty thousand. And that didn't even include the bags, the car, and the endless "holiday gifts." I accepted the transfer and replied with a “hugs” emoji. “It’s okay, honey. I’ll make it work. Just don’t work too hard.” I lay back in bed, but sleep was impossible. For five whole years. I had pinched every penny, never buying new clothes, haggling over dimes at the market. And all along, he was taking the money we were supposedly saving for our child’s future and paying off another woman’s mortgage. I stared at the ceiling, motionless, until the first light of dawn broke through the window. At six, my mother-in-law was already nagging me to get into the kitchen. “Clara, try to make something different for breakfast. Not just oatmeal and pickles again. Mrs. White next door says that’s not a balanced diet.” My hand tightened around the spatula. “Mom, Alex only got paid fifteen hundred this month. He said the company’s not doing well and he might get a pay cut.” “And with the baby, we have to be extra careful with our spending.” Her face fell instantly, but she quickly recovered, putting on her usual long-suffering expression. “Oh, times are tough. Clara, you’re a sensible girl. You have to stretch every dollar. We don’t have much to fall back on.” I nodded obediently. “I know, Mom. I will.” After breakfast, she left, satisfied, to go gossip with the other old ladies downstairs about how filial her son was and how obedient his wife was. I went back to our room and opened my laptop. I searched for the username “MidnightMoon” on every major social media platform. Soon enough, I found matching accounts on Instagram and Twitter. The profile picture was the same: a mirror selfie showing half a face and a long, elegant neck. The Twitter feed was a treasure trove. “Today’s afternoon tea, courtesy of a certain someone.” The picture was of desserts from a five-star hotel. “New battle armor. Can’t wait to wear it for him tonight.” The picture was of a sexy, silk nightgown. “Even though we’re divorced, he still comes whenever I call. It’s true what they say: the one who is truly loved can get away with anything.” I scrolled through post after post, a bitter taste rising in my throat. Using the locations tagged in her posts, I quickly pinpointed where she lived: The Sterling Residences. It was one of the city’s most exclusive high-rises, just three subway stops from Alex’s office. No wonder he was always "working late." I created a burner account and followed Zoe, beginning my silent surveillance. Just as I was about to close the page, she posted something new. “This is what security feels like.” The picture was of a car key. A Porsche. The background was a pair of hands I knew all too well. Alex’s hands. My eyes locked onto the wedding ring on his finger. It was the one we bought when we got married. It wasn't expensive, but we’d had a promise of eternal love engraved on the inside. How ironic. I saved the picture, then took off my own ring and threw it into the back of a drawer. Alex, since you’re so generous, I can’t be stingy either. This little gift you’ve given me… I promise I’ll return the favor, with interest. 2. When Alex came home that evening, he looked as exhausted as ever. “Clara, I’m dead. I was in meetings all day, barely had time to eat.” He collapsed onto the sofa, waiting for me to serve him. I brought him a glass of water and sat down beside him. “Honey, the baby’s one-month milestone is coming up. I was thinking we should get him a life insurance policy.” Alex’s brow furrowed. “Insurance? Doesn’t he have basic health coverage? We don’t have extra money for that right now.” I had expected this. “It won’t cost us anything now. My friend from college works at an insurance company, and they have a promotion. If we register our information, we can get a free accident policy for him. It’s completely free.” The word “free” smoothed the wrinkles from his forehead. “Oh. Well, in that case, fine. What do they need?” “Photos of the front and back of your ID, and your bank card number, just for registration.” Without a hint of suspicion, he pulled his ID and his debit card—the one his salary was paid into—from his wallet. “Hurry up and take the pictures. I need to go shower.” He tossed them on the coffee table and went into the bathroom with his phone. The moment the water started running, I snatched the cards and took photos. Then, I opened the official tax portal app on my phone. I used his ID number and phone number to attempt a login. It required a verification code. I walked to the bathroom door and knocked lightly. “Honey, the insurance company just sent a verification code to confirm your identity. Did your phone buzz?” His annoyed voice came from inside. “It’s in my pants pocket. Just grab it and look, but don’t go snooping.” “Got it.” I pulled his phone from his pants, which were hanging on the back of the door. I entered the code. Login successful. My finger swiped across the screen, tapping on “Income and Tax Details.” I had prepared myself, but when I saw the number, my heart still skipped a beat. Monthly Income: $20,000. Annual Bonus: $100,000. And that wasn't including his other allowances or retirement contributions. His take-home pay alone was over half a million a year. And for five years, the amount he brought home was a steadfast, unchanging fifteen hundred dollars a month. Where did the rest go? The answer was painfully obvious. My hands were ice-cold. I quickly took screenshots, saving his income details for every single year, sent them to myself, and then deleted the chat history. After all that, I put the phone back in his pocket. The shower was still running. I stared at the dense columns of numbers on my phone, and the hatred in my eyes felt like it could burn a hole through the screen. Half a million a year. That was two and a half million dollars over five years. Money that should have been used to improve our lives, to educate our child. Instead, it had all been transformed into Zoe’s condo, her car, and her luxury goods. I immediately called a friend who was a lawyer. “This is a classic case of fraudulent transfer of marital assets,” she told me. “You can get it back. The hard part is proving the money went to a third party. Income statements aren't enough. You need the transaction records.” Alex was cunning. I never got to touch his phone, and he surely deleted his records regularly. Bank statements could only be obtained in person, with his ID. I didn't have his authorization. I couldn't get them. Unless… An idea sparked. Zoe’s obsession with showing off. If she loved posting her life online so much, I would let her post to her heart's content. 3. For the next few days, I was the perfect, gentle wife. I didn’t complain about the measly fifteen hundred dollars. I even went out of my way to cook Alex’s favorite meals. He lapped it up, and his guard slowly came down. “Honey, you’ve been so sweet lately. Is there something you want from me?” he asked casually over dinner, chewing on a pork rib. His mother cut in from the side. “That’s how a woman should be after having a child. Settle down. This is how a proper wife acts.” I smiled and put another piece of meat on Alex’s plate. “Actually, honey, I did want to talk to you about something.” Alex paused. “What is it? If it’s about money, the answer is no. I’m broke.” “It’s not about money,” I said, watching his expression carefully. “I was just thinking, this apartment is too small. It’ll be cramped when the baby gets older. Maybe we could look for a bigger place? My parents said they could help with a down payment.” The moment I said “bigger place,” his face changed. “What are you talking about? What’s wrong with this place? Your parents help with the down payment, but who pays the mortgage? Me! Do you have any idea how much pressure I’m under?” He slammed his chopsticks on the table, his voice rising. “Clara, don’t be so materialistic. Stop dreaming about things we can’t have.” I looked down, feigning hurt. “I was just suggesting it. Why are you so angry? Fine, we won’t move.” His mother chimed in to support him. “Exactly, Clara. Alex works himself to death out there every day. Don’t add to his stress. This place might be old, but it’s a home.” Seeing me back down, Alex’s expression softened, but he was still annoyed. “Alright, just eat. And don’t bring up such unrealistic ideas again.” After dinner, Alex went to the study, claiming he had to work. I knew he was video-chatting with Zoe. I went to our bedroom, picked up my phone, and logged into my burner account. I found the viral thread. It was now the number one trending topic, with over ten thousand replies. Zoe was still in the comments, arguing with people, basking in the glow of their envy and hate. I posted a reply: “You’re so full of it. Men are too smart these days to give their entire thirty-grand salary to an ex. Unless you’re his mother. You’re probably just some keyboard warrior living out a fantasy.” It was a classic troll move, but for someone as vain as Zoe, it was the perfect bait. Sure enough, five minutes later, she replied. “LOL, the jealousy is real. Just because you couldn't land a good man doesn't mean every guy is a loser like your husband.” I fanned the flames. “All talk. Where’s the proof? Show us the transaction records. Bet you Photoshopped them. I could make a hundred of those myself.” My comment immediately drew a crowd of onlookers. “Yeah, post the receipts!” “Pics or it didn’t happen.” “I think she’s making it up too. No man is that stupid.” Zoe was clearly enraged. To prove her irresistible charm, to shut me—the hater—up, she actually did it. She posted the screenshots. She’d blacked out some of the names and account numbers, but the dates and amounts were crystal clear. A transfer of $30,000 on the 15th of every month. Another transfer of $5,000 on the 20th. Some even had memos: “For my baby to buy clothes,” “For my baby’s new car.” I saved every single image. Then, using the text notifications from my own banking app, I cross-referenced the transaction times with Alex's salary deposits. A perfect match. Down to the minute. Every single transfer was made immediately after Alex's paycheck hit his account. This was the smoking gun. I left one last comment on her thread: “Wow, you’re amazing. He really is the man of the century. I hope you can keep smiling forever. Just be sure you never have a reason to cry.” She replied with an arrogant emoji. “Don’t worry, I’ll be happy for the rest of my life. As for jealous trolls like you, you can stay rotting in the mud.” I turned off my phone, feeling a profound sense of satisfaction. Next Saturday was our son’s 100-day party. Alex, always concerned with appearances, had booked a high-end hotel and invited dozens of relatives, friends, and colleagues. He wanted to make it a grand affair, to show everyone how perfect his family life was. Oh, it would be a grand affair, alright. It would be the most unforgettable party of his entire life. 4. The day of the 100-day party was bright and sunny. A large archway at the hotel entrance read, “Celebrating 100 Days of Our Beloved Son, Leo.” Alex was at the door, dressed in a sharp suit, his hair slicked back, greeting guests with a beaming smile. Anyone who didn’t know better would think he was the guest of honor. My mother-in-law wore a brand-new, dark red dress, her face crinkled in a permanent smile as she bragged to everyone about her handsome grandson and successful son. I stood to the side, holding our baby, watching their pathetic performance with a sense of bitter amusement. Their outfits must have cost a few thousand, at least. Alex really had spared no expense to keep up appearances. Just then, my phone vibrated. A notification from a "favorite." I glanced at it. Of course, it was Zoe. She had posted a photo on Instagram, her location tagged at the coffee shop right below the hotel. The picture was of a latte with delicate foam art. The caption read: “It’s enough to just watch you be happy from afar. Even if I can’t stand by your side, my heart is always with you.” The absolute nerve, coming here to taunt me in person. And right below her post was a "like" from Alex. For a second, I almost laughed out loud. What a tragic, beautiful love story. But after today, I wondered if this perfect couple would have anything left to smile about. The guests continued to arrive, and soon the banquet hall was full. Relatives from both sides of the family, Alex’s bosses and colleagues—everyone was in high spirits, offering their congratulations. “Clara, you’re so lucky to have such a family-oriented husband.” “Yes, Alex is a good man. So hardworking and reliable.” I smiled and nodded, my eyes growing colder with each fake compliment. My mother-in-law came over and gave me a little shove. “Don’t just stand there like a statue. When it’s time for the toast, you’d better look happy. Don’t you dare pull a long face and embarrass Alex.” I turned to look at her, the old woman who had once criticized my every move and was now an accomplice in her son’s deception. “Mom,” I said suddenly. My voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the din of the hall with startling clarity. “What is it?” she asked impatiently. I stared directly into her eyes and asked, enunciating every word, “The thirty thousand dollars a month Alex gives to Zoe for her mortgage—did you really not know, or were you just pretending not to know?”
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