It was three in the morning. Dominic's phone screen flashed an unread message.He was showering, the sound of water drowning out everything.I hesitated for a moment, then picked it up.The passcode was still my birthday.But opening the photo album, I found thousands of photos crammed into the favorites folder, every single one of another woman.Under the Eiffel Tower, Sienna wore a red dress, her smile bright.A private dinner for two on the top floor of the Eiffel Tower, candlelight illuminating their intertwined fingers.There was even a photo from a tattoo parlor.Dominic stood bare-chested in the mirror, the tattoo artist’s needle piercing his chest, directly over the heart.Where my name used to be: Elena Moretti, in elegant script, surrounded by rose vines.The year we got married, he’d gotten it done while drunk. He showed it to me afterward, beaming."Elena, this is proof I love you."I cried from the pain, but he held my hand, laughing like a child, "Knowing your name will a
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