I never thought I'd be the kind of woman who went through her husband's phone. Five years of marriage, and I'd never once felt the urge. Trust was supposed to be our foundation—the thing that made us different from all those other couples who slowly poisoned themselves with suspicion and paranoia. But there it was on our anniversary night, glowing on the kitchen counter like a beacon. Unlocked. Screen still bright with notifications. Ryan had rushed out twenty minutes ago, muttering something about a work emergency that couldn't wait. He'd kissed my forehead, promised he'd be back within an hour, and left me standing in our dining room wearing the red dress he'd once said made me look like a dream. The candles I'd lit were still burning. The ribeye steaks I'd spent two hours preparing were getting cold. I should have just put the food away. Gone upstairs. Changed into my pajamas and accepted that this was how our fifth anniversary would end—with me alone, again, while Ryan handled yet another crisis at the office. Instead, I picked up his phone. The first thing I saw was a text preview from "L" that made my stomach drop. "Can't wait until you're finally free of her. Six more months was always too long." My hands started shaking before my brain could fully process the words. I told myself it was a work thing. A misunderstanding. Maybe "her" referred to a difficult client, and "L" was a colleague, and I was being paranoid and ridiculous. But I opened the message thread anyway. The chat history went back six months. Hundreds of messages. Thousands of words that rewrote my entire existence. I sank into a kitchen chair, Ryan's phone clutched in my trembling hands, and read every single one. "Maya's so naive it's almost sad," my sister Lauren had written three months ago. "She actually thinks you fell for her at that charity gala. Like you weren't there specifically hunting for a Chen daughter to marry." Ryan's response: "She made it easy. You know I would have waited for you, but your dad was getting suspicious about why I kept hanging around. Maya was convenient—same last name, similar enough features that I could pretend she was you in the dark. And she was so desperate to be loved that she never questioned anything." I stopped breathing. Similar enough features. Desperate to be loved. The words blurred as tears finally came, hot and silent down my cheeks. I kept reading because apparently I was a masochist. Lauren: "Do you ever feel guilty? She worships you." Ryan: "Sometimes. Then I remember the twenty million dollar inheritance that required me to be married to a Chen for five years, and the guilt disappears pretty quickly. Besides, you're the one I've always wanted. Maya was just... the practice wife." The practice wife. I made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. There were photos too. Recent ones. Lauren and Ryan together at hotels I didn't recognize, in cities he'd claimed to visit for business. Her hand on his chest. His lips on her neck. Both of them smiling like they'd gotten away with the crime of the century. Which, I supposed, they had. The most recent message was from this morning. Lauren: "Six more months and I'm back from London for good. Then we can finally be together the way we should have been from the start. Think Maya will cry when you ask for the divorce?" Ryan: "Probably. But she'll get over it. She's resilient—one of the few things I actually admire about her. Besides, we'll give her a generous settlement. Enough to ease the conscience." Lauren: "You're too kind to your practice wife. I would have just left her with nothing." Ryan: "She served her purpose. That deserves something." I set the phone down carefully, precisely, in the exact spot where Ryan had left it. My reflection stared back at me from the darkened window above the sink. Same face I'd had this morning when I woke up believing I was loved. Same face I'd had when I married Ryan five years ago, thinking I'd finally found someone who saw me—really saw me—instead of just seeing my sister's shadow. The practice wife. Similar enough features. Easy to manipulate. The candles had burned down to stubs. The steaks were definitely ruined now. My anniversary dress suddenly felt like a costume, like I'd been playing a role in a show where everyone knew the script except me. I heard Ryan's key in the lock. "Maya? Baby, I'm so sorry about that. Crisis averted though, and I'm all yours for the rest of the night." His voice was warm, affectionate, perfectly calibrated. He'd had five years to practice that tone. "Those steaks smell amazing. Think they're still salvageable?" He walked into the kitchen, and his face lit up when he saw me—that smile I'd fallen in love with, that I'd thought was genuine, that I now knew was just another lie. "There's my beautiful wife," he said, crossing to me. He cupped my face in his hands and kissed me softly. "Happy anniversary. I love you." I looked into his eyes and felt something inside me crystallize into ice. "I love you too," I heard myself say. And I smiled.