Silently Falling

On our fifth anniversary, I found my husband's secret USB drive. The password wasn't our wedding date or my birthday. It was his first love's.

Inside was a digital shrine to another woman, a meticulous archive of a life he'd lived before me. I searched for my name. Zero results. In five years of marriage, I was just a placeholder.

Then he brought her back. He hired her at our firm and gave her my passion project, the one I'd poured my soul into for two years.

At the company gala, he publicly announced her as the new lead. When she staged an accident and he instantly rushed to her side, snarling at me, I finally saw the truth.

He didn't just neglect me; he expected me to silently endure his public devotion to another woman.

He thought I would break. He was wrong.

I picked up my untouched glass of champagne, walked right up to him in front of all his colleagues, and emptied it over his head.

Chapter 1

Kacey Morton POV:

The password to my husband' s secret life, the one I stumbled upon on our fifth wedding anniversary, was his first love's birthday.

0814.

August fourteenth. Isabelle Humphrey.

I found the drive by accident, a sleek, black stick tucked away in the back of his desk drawer, a place I was only looking because I needed a pen. It was unlabeled, innocuous. But something about the way it was hidden, nestled beneath a stack of old, forgotten business cards, made a cold knot tighten in my stomach.

I plugged it into my laptop. A password prompt appeared immediately. For a moment, I almost closed it, a wave of guilt washing over me. This was Blake' s private space.

But then five years of quiet hurts, of canceled dates, of lonely nights spent waiting for a man who was always emotionally miles away, coalesced into a single, sharp point of resolve.

I tried our anniversary. Access denied.

I tried his birthday. Access denied.

I tried my birthday. Access denied.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, my mind a blank. Then, a ghost of a memory surfaced. A drunken college reunion of his I' d attended years ago. One of his friends, slurring his words, had clapped Blake on the back and sloshed beer on my dress. "Can you believe this guy?" he' d bellowed. "Still remembers Izzy's birthday after all these years! August fourteenth, right, buddy?" Blake hadn't answered, his jaw tight, his eyes dark.

My hands were trembling as I typed. 0. 8. 1. 4.

Enter.

The drive unlocked.

My breath hitched. The folder was labeled simply: "The Archives." It contained thousands of files. Photos, videos, scanned letters, even screenshots of old social media posts. A digital shrine.

It was a meticulous documentation of a love story. Blake and a girl with vibrant, auburn hair, laughing on a sun-drenched beach. Blake, looking younger and impossibly happy, presenting her with a single, perfect rose. A video of them dancing in a cramped dorm room, his arms wrapped around her as if he' d never let go. Her name was everywhere. Isabelle. Izzy. My love.

There were pictures of them cooking together in a tiny kitchen, flour dusting their noses. He looked… joyful. Genuinely, uncomplicatedly joyful in a way I had never seen. Blake Baird, the man who considered our state-of-the-art kitchen a purely aesthetic space, had once made pasta from scratch for a girl.

I scrolled, my heart sinking lower with each click. I found a scanned, handwritten note from him to her. "Izzy, I' d build you a castle in the clouds if you' d let me." It was a silly, youthful promise, but the sincerity of it felt like a punch to my gut. He had never written me a note. Not once.