Hitched or Ditched?

Just two days before our engagement, my fiance, Theodore Scott, kneels to adjust the hem of my dress, his fingers suddenly brushing lightly against my ankle.

"Isabella, I've never seen you wear heels. You have such beautiful feet."

I adjust the waistline of my gown in the mirror and answer casually, "I'm not used to them. My legs hurt when I walk in heels."

"Just try them. High heels would look perfect with your mermaid dress."

His palm glides up along my leg, stopping at the back of my knee. He murmurs, "Red-bottom stilettos—each step would sway so gracefully, and the way they'd peek out when you walk… You'd look breathtaking in them."

I look up and catch his focused, burning gaze in the mirror. "Since when do you know about these things?"

Theodore Scott's smile froze, and his eyes quickly shifted away from me. "I saw it in a fashion magazine."

I didn't say anything.

He leaned closer, his fingers gently gripping my chin. "What's wrong? Don't you believe me?"

His fingertips were warm, but his eyes flickered for just a moment.

"Of course I do." I smiled and tapped his chest with my fingertip. "I just didn't expect the great lawyer to be researching this stuff."

He leaned down and kissed my forehead. "For you, I'd be willing to learn anything."

"I'll go get you some water." He turned and left the room, even forgetting to take his phone.

I hesitated for a moment, then entered the passcode and unlocked it. This was the first time I'd checked his phone in all these years, and the password was still my birthday—it hadn't changed.

The chat history, photos, and call logs were all clean. I let out a breath, laughing at myself for being paranoid. Yet, when my fingers hovered over the Instagram message search bar, I gave in and typed "red-bottom heels".

An unfamiliar account popped up with a blank profile picture, named "Celeste Starr". It showed as blocked and couldn't be re-followed.

Quietly, I memorized the account details and searched again with my own alternate account. A profile with a blurry side-face photo appeared, and I sent a follow request.

The other person quickly accepted and sent a message. "Are you a fan?"

My heart suddenly tightened, and a cold dread washed over me. "Yeah, I saw you in a magazine and got your contact through a friend."

She didn't seem to think much of it and quickly replied, "Thank you for following! Who was it? But no worries. Welcome!"

"It was Mr. Smith. You know him." I vaguely made up a name, my palms breaking out in a cold sweat.

The other person sent a cute emoji. "Oh, that makes sense! Thanks for the love."

After a few more casual exchanges, I opened her page. The latest posts were retouched selfies and event shots.

The lady in the photos had striking, bold features and an incredible figure. The backgrounds were mostly high-end restaurants, backstage at fashion