Because my husband, Blake, is a cheater.

And my sister, Harper, is the “❤️” in his phone.

Yeah. That Harper.

Blake and I have been together for eight years. Married for three. He’s charming in that annoying way where strangers tell you, “You’re so lucky,” and you nod like, Sure, totally.

When I told him I was pregnant, he cried.

Real tears.

He hugged me so tight I could barely breathe and said, “We did it, Row. We’re going to be parents.”

I believed him.

I shouldn’t have, but I did.

We planned a big gender reveal because our families are the type to turn everything into an event. Backyard party, both families, friends, food, decorations. The whole thing.

Pink-and-blue ribbons.

Cupcakes.

And a giant white reveal box in the middle of the yard.

Harper insisted on handling the gender part because she was the only one who knew.

“I want to be involved,” she said. “I’m the aunt.”

She smiled. “I would never.”

Two days before the party, I was on the couch, exhausted in that first-pregnancy way where you can fall asleep mid-sentence. Blake was in the shower, humming like he didn’t have a conscience.

A phone buzzed on the coffee table.

I grabbed it without thinking. Same phone model, same kind of case. I assumed it was mine.

A message popped up from a contact saved as “❤️.”

“I can’t wait to see you again. Same time tomorrow, darling 😘.”

My body went cold. Like instant ice.

I stared at it, trying to force my brain to come up with a harmless explanation.

Wrong number. Spam. A buddy messing with him.

Flirting.

Plans.

Photos.

And Blake saying things like:

“Delete this.” “She doesn’t suspect anything.” “She’s distracted with the pregnancy.” “Tomorrow. Same place.”

Then I saw a photo that made my blood turn to lava.

A woman’s neck. Collarbone. And a gold crescent-moon necklace.

I bought that necklace.

For Harper.

My sister.

I sat there with Blake’s phone in my hand, mouth dry, heart beating like it was trying to escape.

The shower turned off.

I heard him walking toward the living room.

I put the phone back exactly where it was and forced my face into “sleepy wife” mode.

Blake came out with a towel around his waist, smiling.

He kissed my forehead.

I looked him dead in the face and said, “Tired.”

He rubbed my belly. “Hang in there, little peanut. Dad’s got you.”

I swear I almost laughed. It wanted to bubble out like something feral.

Instead I said, “Can you make me tea?”

“Of course,” he said, warm and easy. “Anything for you.”

Except loyalty.

That night, he fell asleep in seconds.

I lay there staring at the ceiling, one hand on my stomach, and I made a decision.

I wasn’t going to confront him privately.

Because privately, Blake would cry.

Someone would say, “It just happened,” like cheating is a slip on a banana peel.

And I’d end up being told I was “overreacting” because I’m pregnant.

No.

If I was going to be betrayed, I was going to be betrayed in daylight.

The next morning, Blake left for “work,” kissed me, and said, “Love you, babe.”

As soon as his car pulled away, I grabbed his phone again.

I screenshotted everything.

Every message. Every plan. Every “darling.” Every “delete this.”

Then I called Harper.

I kept my voice light. Almost cheerful.

“Hey,” I said. “Just checking. The reveal box is ready for Saturday, right?”

Harper didn’t even hesitate. “Yep! All set. You’re going to freak out.”

I smiled so hard my cheeks hurt.

“You always take care of me,” I said.

A tiny pause.

“Of course,” she said. “I’m your sister.”

After I hung up, I cried once. Ugly and fast, like my body needed to dump the poison.

Then I wiped my face and got practical.

I called a party supply shop across town.

A woman answered, chipper. “Hi! How can I help?”

“I need a reveal box filled with balloons,” I said. “Not pink or blue.”

“Okay,” she said. “What colors?”

“Black.”