Never Forgive, Never Forget His Betrayal

I was seven years into a perfect relationship, engaged to the man who helped me overcome my fear of commitment. I was even secretly pregnant with our first child.

A pet-sitting gig led me straight into the heart of his betrayal-a luxury apartment he shared with his mistress of a year. She had hired me personally to discover it all.

She then framed me for stealing the family ring he had promised me. At the police station, my fiancé rushed in not to defend me, but to shield her.

When I confronted him, he shoved me. Hard.

I hit the floor and lost our baby.

In the hospital, he had the audacity to beg for forgiveness, promising we could just "try again."

I saw the guilt in his eyes and used it. I made him sign over every asset we owned as penance. The moment the money was mine, I vanished. He thought he was buying my forgiveness.

He was funding my revenge.

Chapter 1

Addison POV:

My phone buzzed with the pet-sitting app notification, pulling me into a betrayal that would unravel my seven-year relationship with Damien Travis, a man I was set to marry, and expose the calculating deceit of his mistress, Candace Smith.

I was Addison Lawson, a freelance graphic designer, always meticulous and organized. The notification confirmed a new gig: dog-sitting in a luxury apartment building downtown. The pay was good, and the client, a woman named Candace Smith, had a profile picture featuring a fluffy white poodle that looked suspiciously like the one Damien' s cousin owned. I dismissed the thought, chalking it up to a common breed. My life felt stable, almost idyllic. Damien, a successful divorce attorney, was charismatic and supportive. He had helped me overcome my deep-seated fear of commitment, a fear born from my parents' messy divorce. We had just agreed to get married a few weeks prior, and I was even pregnant, though we hadn't told anyone yet. The future felt solid, unbreakable.

I arrived at the address, a sleek high-rise with floor-to-ceiling windows. The concierge directed me to unit 27B. The door was unlocked, as Candace had instructed. I stepped inside. The apartment was impeccably furnished, modern and minimalist, yet something felt unsettlingly familiar. A faint scent of his cologne, the specific brand Damien always wore, lingered in the air. My stomach tightened. I ignored it, blaming morning sickness.

I moved through the living room, heading towards the kitchen to check for the dog's food. On the pristine white quartz counter, a small, personalized coffee mug sat drying beside the sink. It was exactly like the one I'd bought Damien for his last birthday. A knot formed in my chest. Then, I saw it: a framed photo on the side table. It was Damien. Not a professional headshot, but a candid picture of him laughing, his arm draped casually around a woman I didn't recognize. Her blonde hair was styled perfectly, and she wore a soft, knowing smile. Candace Smith. The client. My head swam.

My breath hitched. My hands trembled. This wasn't just a resemblance; it was him. Damien. Here. In an apartment belonging to my client, a woman I had never met, but whose face was now burned into my memory. Her arm around his. The intimate pose. The coffee mug. The cologne. Every detail screamed betrayal. A sharp, icy pain pierced through my chest, slicing through the warmth of my recent joy, through the delicate hope of our impending marriage and our unborn child. It wasn't just a betrayal; it was a deep, calculated humiliation.

My phone buzzed again. A text from Candace. "Hey Addison! Just checking in. Did you make it to the apartment okay? Bruno is usually in the living room. He loves his squeaky squirrel toy."

I stared at the message, the words blurring through unshed tears. My fingers felt clumsy as I typed back, forcing a neutral tone. "Yes, I'm here. Everything is fine."

Another message popped up instantly. "Great! Just make sure he has fresh water. And he's a picky eater, so only give him the expensive salmon kibble, not the cheap stuff. Damien says he won't touch anything else."

Damien says. The words hit me like a physical blow. A bitter, acidic taste filled my mouth. Candace's casual mention of his name, her almost flippant command regarding the dog's food, twisted the knife deeper. She knew. She had to know. This wasn't some accidental revelation. This was deliberate. A public execution of my sanity.

My gaze fell upon a small, velvet box tucked half-hidden under a pile of magazines on the coffee table. It was open slightly, revealing the glint of a diamond ring inside. It wasn't my engagement ring, the one Damien had given me just weeks before. This one was different, a more intricate setting, a larger stone. This ring was clearly new, sparkling under the soft lamp light, a silent, glittering testament to a promise made elsewhere.

My mind raced. Seven years. A pregnancy. An engagement. All of it crumbling around me. Candace had chosen a strange way to orchestrate this discovery. Why hire me? Why not just confront me directly? This was meticulously planned, designed to inflict maximum pain and public humiliation.

I could not hold back the question. My fingers flew across the keyboard. "Candace, is Damien Travis your boyfriend?"

The reply was immediate, devoid of any pretense or hesitation. "Of course, he is. We've been together for a year now. He says he's finally leaving his long-term girlfriend for me. He promised he's going to propose soon. Why do you ask?"

The phone slipped from my grasp, clattering onto the plush rug. The air left my lungs in a ragged gasp. A year. A year of lies. A year of shared dinners, quiet nights, future plans, all while he built another life with another woman. He had promised to propose. The words echoed, mocking me. My own engagement ring suddenly felt heavy, suffocating.

"Oh, and you know what's funny?" Candace's next message popped up, oblivious to the destruction she had wrought. "He also says his girlfriend has this weird hang-up about commitment because of her parents' divorce. Can you believe it? Some people just can't get over themselves."

A choked sob tore from my throat. Tears streamed down my face, hot and stinging, blurring my vision. My parents' divorce. My deepest fear. The very thing Damien had spent years reassuring me about, the vulnerability he had sworn to protect, was now a casual joke, a flaw discussed with his mistress.

I forced myself to pick up the phone. My voice was hoarse, thick with tears, but I typed out a reply, each word a shard of glass in my throat. "I'm his long-term girlfriend. I'm pregnant. And he just proposed to me."

There was a long pause on Candace's end. I imagined her surprise, her carefully constructed facade momentarily cracking. A tiny, bitter flicker of satisfaction sparked within the devastation.

Then, a new message. "Wait, what? Are you serious? You're Addison?" Her tone shifted, a hint of confusion, then alarm.

I wiped my face with the back of my hand, the wetness stinging my skin. The moment of weakness passed, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. I had to focus. I had to play this.

"Yes," I typed, forcing a steady hand. "And I'm here to pet-sit Bruno."

"Bruno is usually very calm," Candace messaged, trying to regain control. "He's a white poodle, right? A miniature poodle? You'll find his food in the pantry."

I glanced at the fluffy white poodle padding towards me, its tail wagging tentatively. It was indeed a miniature poodle, a fluffy ball of white fur and big, dark eyes. "Yes, the white poodle," I replied, my voice flat. "He seems friendly."

"He's a sensitive boy," Candace wrote. "Damien says he needs special care because of his allergies. We have to be really careful about what he eats."

The mention of Damien again, tied to the dog's care, the dog I now realized was their dog, solidified the depth of the deception. My own dog, a rescue mutt named Buster, had been a compromise. Damien had always wanted a pedigree dog, a show dog. He had insisted on a small, hypoallergenic breed, citing his "allergies." I had given in, as I often did, settling for Buster, a loving but scruffy terrier mix, thinking I was accommodating his secret discomfort.

Now, a crushing realization. Damien didn' t have allergies. He just preferred the expensive, pristine image of a purebred animal. He just didn't want my dog. He wanted this dog, with her. I had changed my life, my home, my routines, all to accommodate a lie. I had given up the dream of a big, boisterous family dog for a man who secretly kept another dog in another apartment with another woman. The sacrifice, the years of small compromises-they were all for nothing. They were for him to build a perfect, secret life.

Another wave of nausea hit me, this one sharper, more potent than morning sickness. It was the bile of betrayal, rising in my throat. I couldn't breathe. My hands clenched, nails digging into my palms.

"I have to go now," I typed abruptly, without waiting for a response. "I'll take care of Bruno." I hit 'send' and immediately blocked Candace's number.

I had a job to do, a performance to give. Bruno, the innocent white poodle, looked up at me with trusting eyes. I forced a smile, stroking his head. His fur was soft. I had to focus. My mind, usually prone to panic, clicked into a cold, calculating gear.

Candace had wanted me to find out this way. She had wanted to humiliate me, to make me a witness to her 'victory'. She thought I was weak, emotional. She thought I would break. She had no idea who she was dealing with. This wasn't just about Damien anymore. This was about her. And I would make her regret every single meticulously planned detail. I would use her own game against her. I would gather every piece of evidence, every whisper, every photo. This apartment was a goldmine. And I was about to start digging.

The game had begun, and Candace had just declared herself my opponent. She had also handed me the shovel.

Addison POV:

I moved through the apartment like a ghost, the fluffy white poodle, Bruno, trotting at my heels. He seemed utterly unaware of the storm brewing around him. His presence, however, was a constant, irritating reminder of Damien's duplicity. This was their dog. Not mine, not ours.

My task was simple: feed Bruno, give him water, and walk him. But my purpose was far more complex. I opened every drawer, every cabinet, every closet. I was no longer a pet-sitter; I was an investigator. The apartment, once a symbol of betrayal, transformed into a vault of evidence.

On the nightstand in the master bedroom, a stack of books confirmed my suspicions. Damien' s favorite authors. His reading glasses. A half-eaten bag of his preferred dark chocolate. Each item was a tiny spike in my heart, yet propelled my resolve. I meticulously photographed everything: receipts for dinners at restaurants Damien claimed were "too expensive" for us, concert tickets for bands he said he "wasn't into," even a framed photo of Damien and Candace on a ski trip, a trip he had told me was a 'solo business retreat.' My vision blurred with tears, but my hands remained steady, snapping pictures, documenting every lie.

Then I found a small, worn photo album. Inside, pictures of Damien and Candace at our favorite beach, the very spot where Damien had proposed to me. They were smiling, holding hands, building sandcastles. My stomach twisted with nausea. They had stolen my memories, tainted my sacred places. They had even taken a selfie in front of the little lighthouse where he had knelt, asking me to be his wife. My history, our history, was being systematically erased and replaced by hers.

Their social integration went deeper. I found invitations to office parties, family gatherings, even a Christmas card from Damien's own aunt, addressed to "Damien and Candace." His aunt, who had always been so warm to me, had clearly accepted Candace into the family fold without a second thought. I felt a cold dread settle in my bones. I wasn't just being replaced; I had already been replaced. My entire social circle, my emotional scaffolding, was compromised.

As I sifted through a pile of legal documents on a desk in the study, a small jewelry box caught my eye. It was made of dark mahogany, intricately carved. I opened it. Inside, nestled on a bed of velvet, lay a delicate silver locket. It was engraved with a single date: the date of our seven-year anniversary. My seven-year anniversary with Damien. And inside, two miniature photos: one of Damien, one of Candace.

This was it. The final, undeniable proof. A direct slap in the face. My anniversary, celebrated with her, marked with a gift that acknowledged their shared time. There was no more denying, no more questioning. The truth was brutal, absolute.

I wanted to scream, to smash everything in sight. But a strange calm settled over me. The pain was so profound it transcended anger. It became a cold, hard ember, burning steadily. I needed to see him. I needed to see him, face to face, to confirm that the man I loved, the man I was pregnant with a child for, truly was this monster. I needed his words, his lies, one last time, to solidify my resolve.

Bruno nudged my hand, whimpering softly. He needed to be walked. I grabbed his leash, my movements automatic. I took him to the small dog park attached to the building, hoping to catch a glimpse of Damien, to see him enter or leave. I sat on a bench, heart pounding, scanning every face, every car. The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues, but Damien never appeared. My initial frustration gave way to a dull ache of disappointment. My carefully constructed plan for a dramatic confrontation was thwarted.

Finally, defeated, I returned to the apartment, dropping Bruno' s leash. I would head back to our shared apartment. The anticipation of confrontation now weighed heavily on me, a suffocating mantle.

I entered our apartment building, the familiar lobby, the smell of old coffee from Mrs. Henderson's morning brew, the slight creak of the elevator. Each step felt heavy. I fumbled with my keys, the metal cold against my skin. As I pushed open the door, I found Damien sitting on the couch, watching a basketball game, his feet propped up on the coffee table. He looked relaxed, completely at ease, as if he hadn't just shattered my entire world.

A wave of nausea, sharp and violent, hit me. My stomach convulsed. I pressed a hand to my mouth, fighting the urge to throw up. My body was screaming, reacting to the sheer hypocrisy of the man before me.

He looked up, a smile spreading across his face. "Addison! Hey, sweetie. You're home early. How was the pet-sitting gig?" His voice was smooth, laced with a practiced affection that now sounded utterly sickening.

I managed a tight, unresponsive nod, the words stuck in my throat.

He noticed my pale face. "Rough day, huh? You look a little green. Morning sickness acting up?" He stood, moving towards me, his hand reaching for my forehead.

I recoiled instinctively, a flash of revulsion warring with the need to maintain my composure. "Just tired," I mumbled, stepping back.

"Come here, let me get you some water." He guided me to the couch, his arm around my waist, a gesture that now felt like a viper coiling around me. "You're probably just exhausted. Being pregnant is hard work." His touch felt like a lie, every word a performance.

He brought me a glass of water, his eyes concerned. "You've been so stressed lately, Addie. Are you sure you're feeling okay? Your color is off."

I swallowed, the water tasting like ash. "I'm fine, Damien," I said, trying to keep my voice even.

He sat beside me, pulling me into a hug. His scent, the same cologne I' d smelled in Candace's apartment, filled my nostrils. I stiffened, barely able to tolerate his touch. "It's okay, sweetheart," he murmured, gently stroking my hair. "We'll get through this. You, me, and our little one. Everything's going to be perfect."

Perfect. The word hung in the air, hollow and cruel. He kissed my brow, his lips brushing against my skin, sending shivers of disgust through me. "I promise you, Addie, I'm here for you. Always. We're going to build the most beautiful life together."

His words, meant to soothe, only amplified the roaring pain inside me. He was painting a future with me, while already living another with her. He was talking about our child, a life he had already compromised, already endangered.

My mind drifted back to my parents' divorce, the raw, ugly memories I had fought so hard to bury. Their screaming matches, the slammed doors, the cold silence. My mother's tears, my father's distant, angry eyes. The fear of commitment had been a shield, built brick by painful brick.

Damien had spent years dismantling that shield. He had been so patient, so understanding. He had listened to my fears, promising he would never be like my father. He promised stability, unwavering loyalty, a safe harbor. "I won't ever leave you, Addie. I'm not him," he had sworn countless times, his eyes sincere, his hand holding mine. He had been my anchor, pulling me out of the deep-seated fear that love was inherently conditional, inherently fleeting.

I remembered the day he finally convinced me. We were sitting by the old oak tree in the park, the one where we often had picnics. He had held my hand, talking about our future, painting a picture of a life filled with laughter, stability, and enduring love. "I know you're scared, Addie," he had said, his voice soft, "but I'm not going anywhere. I'm in this for good. Forever." His words had resonated deep within me, dissolving years of guardedness. It was a leap of faith, a terrifying but exhilarating jump into the unknown, trusting him with my most vulnerable self.

Now, that leap felt like a plunge into a bottomless pit. His current betrayal was far worse than my parents' messy divorce. At least they had been honest about their unhappiness eventually. Damien's deception was a slow, agonizing poison, administered with a smile.

Unbidden, a fresh wave of tears welled up, burning my eyes, spilling down my cheeks. My shoulders shook with silent sobs. The sheer weight of it all, the magnitude of his lies, crushed me.

Damien stiffened, his arm still around me. "Addie? What's wrong? What happened?" His voice was laced with genuine alarm, a performance so convincing it made my stomach churn. He pulled me closer, trying to comfort me. His touch, once a source of solace, now felt like a violation.

I had to pull away. I couldn't let him touch me, not anymore. Not when his hands had held her, not when his lips had kissed her. I needed to breathe, to think, to plan. I needed to confront him, but not yet. Not like this. I needed to be cold, calculated, not a sobbing mess. I took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing myself to regain control. The stage was set, and I was about to play the role of a lifetime.

Addison POV:

I pushed Damien away, a desperate need for space overriding any pretense of affection. My body recoiled from his touch, the warmth of his hand a grotesque lie. I needed to move, to put distance between us before I shattered. I stood up abruptly, my head swimming. The room tilted slightly.

"I need to use the restroom," I mumbled, my voice strained. I practically fled to the bathroom, locking the door behind me.

I leaned over the toilet, dry heaving, the bitter taste of bile rising in my throat. It wasn't morning sickness anymore. It was pure, visceral disgust. My body was purging itself of his lies, rejecting the very air he breathed. As I splashed cold water on my face, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. My eyes were red-rimmed, my face pale and blotchy. But a new emotion was hardening my gaze: a cold, unwavering fury.

I looked at my reflection, really looked. Then I saw it. A faint, reddish mark on my neck, just below my ear. It was small, barely noticeable, but it was there. A love bite. A hickey. From her. A mark of their intimacy, carelessly left, carried into my home, transferred to me through his touch. A tangible, irrefutable stamp of his infidelity.

My stomach lurched again. I wanted to scratch it off, to scrub my skin raw until every trace of her was gone. The image of the locket, the framed photos, the casual mention of his name by Candace – they all clicked into place, forming a horrifying mosaic of deceit.

His recent behavior, usually so subtle, now screamed betrayal. The late nights he'd explained away as "important client meetings." The sudden, inexplicable mood swings, from overly affectionate to strangely distant. The way he sometimes flinched when I leaned too close, as if fearing I might detect someone else's scent. I had dismissed them all as stress from his demanding job, or perhaps my own pregnancy hormones making me paranoid. How utterly naive I had been. He hadn't just been cheating; he had been living a double life, meticulously maintaining two separate realities.

He was a master manipulator, a skilled attorney weaving narratives in court, now using those same talents to dismantle my world. He wasn't just weak; he was a coward, unwilling to face the consequences of his actions, choosing to hurt two women instead of making a single, honest decision.

A persistent knocking started on the bathroom door. "Addie? Are you okay in there? You've been in there a while." Damien's voice, muffled through the wood, sounded genuinely concerned. Another masterful performance.

Then, his phone rang, a loud, jarring buzz that cut through the silence. "Just a second, Addie," he called, his voice now slightly annoyed. I heard him answer, his tone shifting instantly to professional politeness. "Travis here. Yes, I'm listening... What? Right now?"

I pressed my ear against the door, strained to listen. It was a client, clearly in distress. Damien, the successful divorce attorney, was being pulled into a crisis. He spoke in hushed, urgent tones, his lawyer-brain clicking into gear. "I understand, Mrs. Albright. This is critical. But I'm with Addison right now. She's not feeling well."

He was trying to make it sound like I was more important. A fleeting thought crossed my mind, he's still putting on a show for me, even now. This was the man who would sacrifice anything for his career, yet he was pretending to prioritize my 'illness.' It was a hollow gesture, calculated to assuage his guilt, not genuinely care for me.

The client clearly wasn't having it. Her voice, though indistinct, rose in pitch. Damien sighed, a carefully modulated sound of professional resignation. "Alright, alright. I'm on my way. I'll be there in thirty. Just keep calm, and don't say anything until I arrive." He hung up with a decisive click.

More knocking on the door. "Addie, I have to go. Emergency client. Can you believe it? But I'll be back as soon as I can. Are you sure you're okay? I don't like leaving you like this."

I took a deep breath, steeling myself. I had to let him go. I needed him out of here. "I'm fine, Damien," I called back, forcing a lightness into my voice I didn't feel. "Just a bit of a headache. Go. Your client needs you."

"Are you sure?" he pressed, his concern still feigned.

"Yes, I'm sure," I said, a brittle edge to my tone. "I'll be okay."

I heard the rustle of his clothes, the jingle of his keys, the faint click of the front door closing. Then, silence. Utter, blessed silence.

The moment he was gone, the facade crumpled. I slid down the bathroom door, burying my face in my knees, allowing the raw, gut-wrenching sobs to tear through me. My body shook with an agony so profound it felt like every cell was screaming. The hickey on my neck, the evidence in Candace's apartment, his lies, his staged affections-it was all too much.

My mind replayed scenes from our past, a brutal highlight reel of shattered trust. I remembered meeting Damien during our freshman year of college. He was a brilliant pre-law student, always impeccably dressed, articulate and ambitious, destined for greatness. He was the golden boy, charming everyone he met. I, a shy art history major who dabbled in graphic design, was drawn to his vivacity, his unwavering confidence.

We were friends first, a platonic bond forged over late-night study sessions and shared dreams of shaping our respective worlds. He was always there, a steady presence. He' d meticulously proofread my essays, offering insightful critiques, even though art history was far from his sphere of interest. He remembered the small details about me, my favorite coffee, the way I bit my lip when I was concentrating. I had dated others, fleeting college romances, but Damien had always remained a constant, seemingly unwavering friend.

He had always been exceptionally kind, in a way that felt almost too good to be true. He would bring me coffee when I was pulling all-nighters, leave encouraging notes on my desk before big presentations. I had interpreted these gestures as pure friendship, never imagining a deeper affection. I was dating Mark at the time, a sweet but somewhat aimless philosophy student.

Then, one rainy night, after a particularly bad breakup with Mark, Damien showed up at my dorm room with my favorite takeout and a bouquet of wildflowers. He looked at me with an intensity I had never seen before. "Addison," he said, his voice soft but firm, "I can't stand seeing you with anyone else. I've loved you since the day I met you. More than a friend. More than anything."

He had confessed a secret, deep affection, a silent devotion he had held for years. It was overwhelming, romantic, a storybook revelation. He had patiently waited, loved me from afar, he said. He was my rock, my confidante, my protector. He was everything I had unknowingly craved after my parents' volatile relationship.

The memory of his declaration, once a cherished moment, now twisted into a grotesque parody. His "long-held secret love" was now exposed as a carefully constructed illusion, a tool to reel me in. His "patience" felt like a strategic wait, a calculated move.

My phone buzzed again, jarring me out of my grief. I wiped my face, my eyes stinging. It was a message from an unknown number. I hesitated, then opened it.

The message was brief, brutal. "I know you're at Damien's. You stole my diamond ring. The police are on their way. You will pay for this." It was Candace.

A mirthless laugh escaped my lips. She hadn't just hired me to discover the affair; she had set a trap. A theft accusation. A public spectacle. She wanted me not only heartbroken but utterly destroyed, professionally and personally. She was not just a mistress; she was a predator.

But her calculated cruelty had misfired. Instead of breaking me, it solidified something cold and hard inside. She had underestimated me. She thought I was a vulnerable, easily manipulated woman. She thought she had won. She was wrong. This wasn't just about survival anymore. This was about vengeance. And I would make her regret every single step of her elaborate, malicious game.