After three years with Anthony, I believed we were finally moving forward. When he told me to wear something fancy for a night at the theater, my heart fluttered with hope. I imagined proposals, promises — something real. At thirty-six, I wanted more than casual visits and unanswered texts. I wanted a future. And for a moment, I thought he did too.

The night arrived. I stood outside the theater, nerves buzzing, dressed in a gown that whispered of dreams. Anthony arrived — suited, quiet, unusually serious. Then he said, “Come. I want you to meet someone.” A woman appeared — elegant, graceful, radiant. “Lora, this is Elizabeth. My wife.” The words slammed into me like a freight train. Wife. I was the secret, the escape, the lie.

I sat through the show next to them, barely breathing. My heart broke in silence while Anthony whispered to the woman he chose. I left the theater numb, but I didn’t cry. I planned.

Two weeks later, at a gallery opening, my plan unfolded. Photos of Anthony and me — smiling, laughing, loving — filled the room. A video played on loop. Guests whispered, some wept. And then they arrived. Elizabeth’s eyes scanned the captions. Her voice was calm but cold. “Is this true?”

I nodded. “He loves theater. And lies. I thought you deserved the full script.” She turned to Anthony. “How could you?” He stammered. She walked away.

And I stood there, not in revenge, but in truth. The lights shone on me, finally the lead in my own story.