I set the phone down and don't look at it again.
I should put the phone down. Go to bed. Stop looking for answers I have no business finding.
Instead, I open Instagram.
Kristen Thomas. I type her name into the search bar, already knowing what I'll find. Her profile picture is a shot of Lily holding a stuffed rabbit, face half-hidden by the toy. Private account. 17 posts. 89 followers.
Of course it's private. Everything about this woman screams stay away, don't look, nothing to see here.
I click anyway. This account is private. Follow this account to see their photos and videos.
Not happening. Requesting to follow would require explaining why her boss wants access to her personal life. Even I'm not that socially incompetent.
But there's another option.
Jack Walker.
The name tastes bitter even in my head. I type it in, and his profile loads immediately. Public. Of course it's public. Men like him need an audience.
The first thing I notice is his face. Square jaw, practiced smile, the kind of teeth that cost money to straighten. He looks like a real estate agent or a used car salesman. Someone whose job is making you trust him before he screws you over. Brown hair styled with too much product. Blue eyes that crinkle at the corners like he's everyone's best friend.
I've met a hundred men like him. They sit across from me at business meetings and shake my hand too hard. They make jokes that aren't funny and laugh at their own punchlines. They think charm is a substitute for substance.
His bio reads: Living my best life. NYC transplant. Work hard, play harder.
I want to break his fingers.
The feeling comes out of nowhere, violent and hot, and I grip the phone tighter to keep from throwing it.
Get it together.
I scroll down.
His feed is exactly what I expected. Pictures of Manhattan skylines. Expensive dinners. A blonde woman in several recent shots. He's tagged her: @AmandaLoves2Travel. She looks young. Twenty-two, maybe. Fake tan, fake lashes, fake smile.
But it's the older posts that make my jaw clench.
Kristen.
She appears about eight months back, before the separation. Before she fled to that shithole apartment with the broken elevator. In these photos, she's a different woman entirely.
Her hair is always pulled back. Tight ponytails, sleek buns, not a strand out of place. In every single picture, she's styled within an inch of her life—makeup heavier than I've seen her wear, lips painted red, eyes lined dark. She looks perfect.
And completely fucking fake.
Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. I've seen her real smile. The one she gave Lily at dinner and the one that transformed her whole face when she was singing with that feather duster. This isn't that. This is performance. This is a woman wearing a mask so tight it's cutting off her air supply.
I keep scrolling, and my grip on the phone becomes dangerous.
The clothes.
Jesus Christ, the clothes.
Kristen—the woman who wears oversized sweaters and jeans that hide every curve—is squeezed into dresses that leave nothing to imagination. Tight fabric hugging her hips. Necklines that plunge low enough to show the swell of her breasts. Heels that make her legs look endless. In one photo, she's wearing something red and short that clings to an ass I had no idea existed under those shapeless work clothes until today that I had a view on that.
She's fucking gorgeous. That's not news. I noticed it the first time I saw her, even in that cheap catering uniform. But this?—
This is weaponized beauty. This is a woman put on display like a trophy.
