Chapter 2

I noticed something was off with Martinez on the seventh day postpartum.

That day, my episiotomy wound still hurt. I lay in bed, unable to even turn over without difficulty.

He was on the balcony taking a call, his voice lowered.

"Babe, just wait a little longer. Once she gets through these few weeks of postpartum recovery, I'll take you out."

"Her? She's gained twenty pounds now. She's like a pig. I feel sick just looking at her."

I closed my eyes, pretending I hadn't heard.

Pretending I hadn't heard my own husband describe me that way to someone else.

On the tenth day postpartum, my phone rang.

Unknown number, iMessage.

I opened the first one—a photo of Martinez kissing a woman in a car.

The second showed them sitting in the Western restaurant I often went to, eating my favorite steak.

The third showed them lying in the wedding bed I'd personally chosen. The woman was wearing my silk nightgown.

Below was a line of text: "Your husband says I look way better in it than you do."

I stared at the screen. My fingers trembled, but my mind was unusually calm.

I saved the photos into an encrypted folder.

On the thirteenth day postpartum, another unknown number sent me a message.

This time it was a video.

In the video, Martinez and a woman were embracing in a VIP private room.

The woman smiled at the camera: "Look how much your husband dotes on me. He says your body's all out of shape after giving birth, and he never plans to touch you again."

I saved the video and transferred it to the encrypted folder.

There was already a lot stored there.

Screenshot chat logs, credit card statements, hotel check-in records, dashcam audio recordings.

Everything was organized clearly, marked with dates and locations.