I Left After I Found My Husband’s Bastard

I stumbled across an encrypted folder on my husband's phone, filled with photos of a little girl I'd never seen before.

From newborn to first steps, sorted by month—two full years' worth.

But the child in those photos wasn't our daughter.

When I confronted him, he said she was a girl named Rosie from the children's home I sponsored. The director sent growth updates, and he'd been saving them for me.

I never imagined that my warm, thoughtful husband would use my charity to spin a lie.

Because every single photo was geotagged to the apartment complex next to his office.

And the children's home was on the other side of the city.

I didn't call him out right then.

Because I wanted to know whose child she really was.

"When did you start going through my phone?"

Dylan snatched it from my hand, locked the screen. His tone wasn't harsh exactly, but it carried the displeasure of someone whose boundaries had been crossed.

I stared at his knuckles, white around the phone.

Five years of marriage, and he'd never once locked his screen in front of me.

"I wasn't going through it. Lily wanted to watch cartoons, and I opened the cloud album."

"What's in that encrypted folder?"

"Didn't I just tell you?" He shoved the phone into his pocket, walked to the kitchen, and poured himself a glass of water. "Rosie's growth photos. The director at the children's home sends them every month."

"I thought they were taking up too much space on your phone, so I backed them up to my cloud."

"And encrypted them?"

"There are photos of someone else's kid in there. What if the phone got lost? Basic privacy, don't you think?"

"Then let me ask you—how old is Rosie now?"

"Two and a half, I guess? You'd know better than me. You're the sponsor."

He stood with his back to me, drinking water, his tone so casual it almost didn't sound like a lie.

But I knew Dylan too well.

He was a regional manager at Sterling Realty, and ten years in sales had given him a tongue that never slipped.

The calmer he sounded, the more he had to hide.

"Then why is every single photo geotagged to the apartment complex next to your office?"

His hand holding the glass paused. Just for a second.

Then he turned around, brow furrowed, wearing an expression of pure disbelief. "You checked the geotags? Claire, are you interrogating a prisoner?"

"I didn't want to check, but the location data was right there. I didn't put it there."

"Then ask the director. She took the photos—how would I know where she was?"

"Fine. Give me the director's number right now. I'll ask her myself."

Dylan finished the last sip, set down the glass, and walked over to me.

He placed both hands on my shoulders, looked down at me, and his tone shifted from impatient to tender. "Honey, have you been under too much stress at