Chapter 1

I put the designer bag my boyfriend gave me up for sale on eBay. His younger sister, Zoe, saw it immediately.

She tagged me in the family group chat: "@Gwen, are you seriously selling a gift my brother bought you?"

"If you're broke, just ask me. Don't break my brother’s heart like this."

I didn’t reply. Her messages kept buzzing in.

"A bag worth thousands of dollars, and it's still not good enough for you? I swear, girls these days have no shame."

The bag was pre-owned. When I first unzipped it, I found a photo inside—a photo of my boyfriend with another woman.

I had planned to handle this quietly and end things with dignity.

I never intended to make a scene in front of his family.

Yet here Zoe was, relentless, trying to dig up every detail.

She pushed further in the chat: "Gwen, Derek saved up three months of his salary to buy you that bag. Is this how you treat his love?"

I picked up my phone and typed just one sentence.

"I don't use second-hand things."

Then, I tagged Derek.

I locked my phone.

The picture slipped out from the inner pocket of the bag again.

In the photo, a woman rested her head gently on his shoulder, both of them beaming with effortless intimacy.

The background was a cozy café, snowflakes pasted onto the floor-to-ceiling windows. It had been taken last winter.

A date was scribbled on the back: the third weekend of December.

That was the weekend Derek told me he had to work late at the office.

The leather on the corners of the bag was worn pale, fine scratches ran across the surface, and the gold hardware on the strap had long lost its shine.

It was an old, discarded item belonging to someone else.

Yet Derek put it in a luxury box, tied it with a satin ribbon, and handed it to me on our five-year anniversary.

Why did he give it to me? Was it pity? A twisted test?

Or did he not even bother to check inside before shoving it into my hands?

Within twenty seconds, Zoe fired off a string of question marks.

"What does that mean? What do you mean 'second-hand'?"

"Derek bought that brand new! How could it be used?"

"Gwen, can you stop speaking in riddles?"

Derek's aunt chimed in:

"Gwen, dear, watch your mouth. Derek is a decent, loyal boy. Don't you dare slander him."

Another aunt joined: "Exactly. If there’s an issue, say it to his face. What's with the passive-aggressive attitude in the family chat?"

Zoe texted again: "Gwen, you must be misunderstanding something. You know what kind of guy Derek is! Why would he give you something used?"

"Didn't you check the price tag? That'll prove it's brand new!"

There were no tags.

The bag didn't have tags when it was handed to me.

There was only this photo.

Zoe grew bolder by the second:

"Gwen, if you want to break up, just say it. Don't make up sick lies to frame my brother."

"Calling his gift 'second-hand'—are you just trying to drag his name through the mud?"

"Our whole family knows how well Derek treats you. If you need cash, I'll lend it to you. Just stop stomping on his heart."

Derek’s mother, Brenda, sent a voice note.

I tapped it. Her voice was steady, coated in that sickeningly calm tone of hers:

"Gwen, whatever it is, let’s talk like adults. Don't air dirty laundry in the group chat."

"You know how good Derek has been to you. Saying things like this will only break his heart."

"There’s probably a misunderstanding about the bag. Don't jump to conclusions. Wait for Derek to come home and talk to him."

"Making a scene here... where does that leave his dignity?"

Dignity.

Did he think about my dignity when he cheated on me?

Did he think about my dignity when he gifted me his mistress's used purse for our five-year anniversary?

The relatives started chiming in one after another, accusing me of making mountains out of molehills.

They called me ungrateful. They said Derek treated me like a princess and wondered what more a girl could possibly want.

Zoe tagged me again:

"Gwen, if you really think that bag is used, show us the proof."

"Otherwise, you're just picking a fight out of thin air."

Proof.

I snapped a picture of the photograph.

I snapped close-ups of the scratched leather and the chipped metal clasps.

Select all.

Send.

The group went dead silent.

It stayed silent for a long time.

After a few minutes, Zoe finally typed:

"Someone probably gave it to him and he didn't know. Derek would never cheat."

"Gwen, don't lose your mind over a single picture."

"Photoshop is everywhere these days. Who knows if this is even real?"