The Buyer Who Knew Too Much

My hands froze over the keyboard.

It was just a secondhand marketplace. The message on the screen was from the buyer. He had already paid, and I had already shipped the item. The deal was done.

What I sold was my girlfriend's DSLR camera.

However, it seemed like what he wanted… was not just the camera.

Messages kept popping up.

"Hey, Chloe Hastings, what's wrong? Mad at me?"

"Don't tell me you're getting too into the roleplay again. This cold attitude suits you. Still not replying?"

"I picked the first outfit. Same pose as before. How much? Name your price."

"If you don't reply, I'll just go with the usual–five hundred."

A few more photos came through.

Suggestive poses. Flirtatious expressions. It was exaggerated, but still familiar.

My girlfriend–the one I lived with.

The name matched. The face matched.

My blood ran hot.

I'm just a delivery driver. Nothing special.

The one thing I have ever been proud of… is having a beautiful girlfriend.

We went to the same high school. She was the kind everyone noticed–pretty, soft-spoken, with a great figure.

It took me three years to stop being the backup and become her actual boyfriend.

She spent a lot–food, shopping, makeup, designer bags. And then there was photography.

So I worked. From morning until night.

Bad weather, holidays–it did not matter. I took every order I could.

I made enough to get by. Barely enough to support both of us.

Lately, work had slowed. Money was tight.

That's why she gave me her DSLR, said it was outdated, told me to sell it for extra cash.

When I held that camera, I actually felt lucky. I thought I had a girlfriend who cared.

I did not expect this.

I had been cheated on.

The anger rose fast. I decided to play along, lure the guy out… and deal with him.

So I sent back a simple 'OK.'

The reply came instantly.

"Tomorrow night, 10 p.m. Triumph Hotel, Room 701."

That time…

Just yesterday, I told her about a new food street nearby. Discounts started at ten. Business would be good.

They picked that exact time.

If I had not seen the messages… I would have been out working, completely unaware.

I shut the laptop. My stomach turned.

Footsteps came from the door. She was back.

She leaned into me, soft and sweet.

"Jake Reynolds, do you like my new nails?"

Her voice was sweet enough to melt anything. Normally, I would not have been able to resist pulling her into the bedroom.

However, now, looking at her manicure, my anger only grew.

I was out there working myself to the bone–supporting everything, paying for everything, including all her expensive habits.

Photography alone burned through money. That DSLR had cost a fortune.

And she was cheating on me. Using that same camera to take those kinds of photos.

I could not hold it in anymore.

I shoved her away. She fell to the floor.

"Say it. Who's the guy waiting for you at Triumph Hotel?"

She froze. Then, unbelievably, she got angry.

"Jake, are you crazy? What Triumph Hotel? I've never even heard of it!"

Some people don't admit anything until they're cornered.

I opened the laptop, logged into her account, pulled up the latest transaction, and dragged her over.

"The guy is already setting it up. Look at it yourself."

I expected tears. Apologies.

Instead, she slammed her hands on the table, her voice sharp.

"Jake, I think you've been getting too comfortable. Your brain's not working. What are you even talking about?"

I looked closer.

My heart dropped.

All those messages… All those photos…

Gone.

Completely wiped.