A Birkin For Every Lie

There are ninety-nine Hermès Birkins sitting in my walk-in closet.

To the world, it' s a collection worth millions. To me, it' s a tally of ninety-nine times my husband, Harris, betrayed me.

Each bag was a silent apology I accepted to keep our hollow marriage alive.

But the hundredth betrayal wasn't fixed with crocodile leather.

On the anniversary of my mother's death, I tracked Harris to my family' s private cemetery.

He wasn't alone. Jessica, his "first love," was there, standing over the empty plot reserved for my living father, right next to my mother' s grave.

They were digging a hole.

Jessica smirked, holding a velvet box containing her dead cat and a plaque that read To Arvel, my eternal companion.

"It' s just a cat, Cecily," she laughed, tossing her hair.

"Don't be so dramatic. Your father won't mind the company. Besides, it shows who Harris really listens to."

For years, I accepted the bags and the lies. But desecrating my family's sacred ground?

The submissive wife died in that moment.

I walked toward them, clutching the evidence that would destroy Jessica' s life and shatter Harris' s world.

"Dig it up," I commanded, my voice colder than the grave.

"Or I will bury you both right here."

Chapter 1

Cecily McNeil POV:

The ninety-ninth Hermès Birkin sat on my vanity, a silent, exquisite testament to a lie. Its pristine leather, the scent of money and exclusivity, was meant to be a balm, a quiet apology for a wound too deep for any price tag. But all I felt was the familiar hollow ache, a cavern in my chest where emotion used to be. My fingers traced the cold clasp, the weight of it heavy, yet utterly without meaning. It was an echo of betrayal, each bag a brick in the wall he had built between us, solidifying the emptiness.

The bedroom door swung open. Harris Shepherd stood there, a vision of polished charm and effortless wealth. His smile, usually a weapon, fell flat in the heavy air of my silence. He wore the expensive suit of a man who owned half the city, but in my eyes, he was just a boy, perpetually trying to buy back a piece of himself he' d already lost.

"Cecily? What are you doing up?" His voice was smooth, too smooth. It barely brushed the surface of the quiet rage simmering beneath my skin. He glanced at the bag on the vanity, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before it was gone.

I didn't answer right away. I just stared at the bag, then at him. He knew what it meant. We both did. This was his currency, his way of saying, "I messed up again. Here's a distraction." And for years, I'd accepted it. Each time, a new bag, a new cut, a wider chasm.

He walked further into the room, his expensive shoes silent on the plush carpet. "You look pale. Didn't you sleep?" His brow furrowed, a practiced show of concern. It was a performance I' d seen countless times.

Sleep was a luxury I hadn't afforded myself in days. My head throbbed, a dull drumbeat against my temples. My stomach churned, a constant knot of nausea that had become my unwelcome companion. It wasn't just the lack of sleep; it was the burden of knowing. The weight of his latest transgression. The one he thought a new Birkin could erase.

I turned away from him, walking to the window. The city lights twinkled, indifferent to my private torment. "I ate some of that artisanal dark chocolate last night. It upset my stomach." It was a lie, a small, pathetic shield against the truth I wasn't ready to unleash. I had been craving something, anything, sweet enough to momentarily dull the bitter taste of reality.

He stepped closer, his hand reaching for my shoulder. "Cecily, you know I worry about your health. Dr. Evans said you need to watch your sugar intake. And that dark chocolate is full of it." His touch was light, almost tender, but I flinched away. His concern felt like another form of control, another chain. He knew I craved comfort, and he always found a way to deny it, even while offering the most extravagant material goods.

He withdrew his hand, a slight frown creasing his face. "I brought you something. A little something to make up for my... unexpected delay yesterday." He motioned towards the vanity. The Birkin. The ninety-ninth bag. He didn't even try to hide it anymore. The act was just part of the ritual now.

I looked at the bag again. A limited-edition Hermès Kelly, in a rare Himalayan Nilo crocodile. I knew the value, the waiting list, the exclusivity. It was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, a testament to unreachable luxury. And it meant absolutely nothing to me. Just another item in a growing collection of substitutes for love, for respect, for loyalty.

"You're angry," he stated, not asked. He moved to stand directly in front of me, forcing me to meet his gaze. His eyes held a practiced sincerity, but it was just a surface sheen. "Tell me what's wrong. I know I was supposed to be back sooner. Business trip ran over."

His words, a carefully constructed lie. Each syllable a brick in the wall. "Business trip?" My voice was flat, devoid of inflection. "Or was it a pre-wedding anniversary celebration, Harris?"

His face went stiff. The easy charm evaporated, replaced by a momentary flash of panic. He recovered quickly, a new mask sliding into place. "What are you talking about, Cecily? Our anniversary isn't until next month."

"Not ours," I said, my voice dangerously soft. "My mother's. It was the third anniversary of her passing, Harris. The day you promised, pre-wedding, you would always honor her memory with me."

A flicker of genuine confusion, then dawning realization. His eyes widened slightly. "Oh, Cecily, God, I completely forgot. I'm so sorry. Work has been insane. You know how it is." He moved to embrace me, but I stepped back, the invisible wall between us growing higher.

I remembered standing alone at her graveside, the cold wind whipping my hair, the weight of grief a tangible thing. The emptiness beside me, where his hand should have been. I' d told myself he was on a vital business trip, closing a deal that would secure our future. I' d accepted the lie, because accepting the truth would have shattered what little peace I had left.

But then, the truth had found me. A casual comment from a mutual acquaintance, an Instagram story that popped up on my feed-a shared meal at a quaint little restaurant, a familiar laugh, a hand brushing another hand. Jessica Casey. His "first love." Not a business trip, but a romantic getaway, a lavish gesture to placate his past. While I stood in the desolate quiet of a cemetery, mourning the woman who gave me everything, he was laughing, celebrating, making promises to another woman.

The discovery had been like a punch to the gut, stealing my breath. It wasn't just his infidelity; it was the desecration of a sacred memory. My mother. The woman who had loved me fiercely, who had instilled in me everything I held dear. And he had chosen to betray her memory, to lie about it, to offer a bloody handbag as atonement.

"You forgot," I echoed, the words tasting like ash. "Just like you always forget. But then, you always remember to buy a new bag, don't you?"

He looked genuinely distressed now, the mask finally cracking. "Cecily, please. I'm truly sorry. Let me make it up to you. Anything. Another trip, a weekend away, a private jet to Paris? Name it." He gestured vaguely, as if money could simply wipe away the past.

It was the pattern. Always the pattern. Betrayal, followed by a fleeting apology, followed by an expensive gift. Ninety-nine such gifts, gathered in my closet like a museum of emotional neglect. Each one a monument to a hollow marriage. And I was tired. So tired of pretending, tired of patching up wounds that never truly healed. The superficiality of it all was suffocating. This entire relationship, a gilded cage, beautiful on the outside, utterly empty within.

My stomach growled, a sharp, unwelcome reminder of my hunger. It cut through the tension, a mundane need in a moment of profound crisis.

"I need food," I said, my voice hoarse.

His face softened with relief. He mistook it for a concession, a sign I was ready to be placated. "Of course. Let me order something for you. Something light. You haven't eaten properly in days." He reached for his phone, which he'd placed on the bedside table.

He picked it up, glancing at the screen. A new notification flashed. He quickly tucked it into his pocket, a move too swift, too practiced. "I'll go down to the kitchen. Chef can whip something up." He turned to leave, leaving his phone behind on the table, just for a moment.

My heart hammered. This was it. The opportunity. While he was gone, I could finally confirm what I already knew. My fingers trembled as I reached for the device. His phone, a treasure trove of his secrets.

The screen lit up. A message from Jessica. "Thinking of you, babe. Our little secret place was perfect." My breath hitched. Babe. Our little secret place. It confirmed every ugly suspicion. This wasn' t just a one-off. This was a sustained affair.

I navigated to her Instagram. A flurry of perfectly curated posts: brunch dates, art gallery openings I'd mentioned wanting to see, and then, the most damning of all-a photo of her smiling, holding a small item, a familiar backdrop in the background. It was the same background as the restaurant where I'd seen the initial Instagram story. My eyes blurred, a wave of nausea washing over me. The betrayal was so blatant, so carelessly displayed.

Then I saw it, a comment on one of her posts. A reply to a friend admiring her new handbag. Jessica's reply: "Oh, this old thing? Harris gave it to me ages ago. So much nicer than that hideous Birkin he got Cecily last week, don't you think? He says he feels bad for her, but honestly, she has no taste."

The words hit me like a physical blow, stripping away any last vestiges of dignity I might have clung to. Not only was he cheating, but they were laughing at me, at the very "atonement" he offered. My stomach lurched, bile rising in my throat. He felt bad for me? He thought I had no taste? The sheer audacity, the contempt, was breathtaking.

I scrolled through his likes. He liked every single one of her posts. Every single one. His wife, the mother of his... well, the woman he married, was an afterthought, while his mistress was his public adoration.

Just then, his phone vibrated again. Another message from Jessica. "Can't wait for our surprise tomorrow, darling. It's going to be so special."

Surprise tomorrow. Darling. I swallowed the bitter taste in my mouth. A cold resolve settled over me. No more. I couldn't do this anymore. I quickly downloaded a discreet monitoring application I'd heard about, the kind private investigators used. It would give me access to everything-calls, texts, location. Then, with practiced ease, I deleted the download history and placed the phone back exactly where it had been.

He returned a moment later, a plate of toast and fruit in his hand. He glanced at his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen, but didn't open it. "Found you some simple toast. And some herbal tea. That should help your stomach."

"Thank you," I said, my voice calm, almost serene. "You know, Harris, if your business trip is so demanding, perhaps you should extend it. Take a few extra days. Really clear your head." I watched his face carefully.

His eyes lit up with relief. "You know what, Cecily? That's a wonderful idea. I think I will. I have a few properties in Miami that need my personal attention. Just a few days, then I'll be back, and we can properly talk." He walked over, leaned down, and kissed my forehead. His lips felt cold, distant. "Rest now. I'll see you in a few days."

He walked out, leaving me alone with the quiet hum of the room, the untouched bag, and the chilling knowledge of what was to come. The digital strings were now in my hands. The game was about to change.