Updated Feb 25, 2026 • ~4 min read
POV: Gabi
My phone is possessed.
That’s the only explanation.
One second I’m scrolling Instagram. The next, Brandon’s notifications are flooding my screen.
Calendar reminder: “Drinks with Ashley 8pm”
Text from unknown number: “Last night was amazing 😘”
Tinder notification: “You have a new match!”
I stare.
My phone.
Brandon’s notifications.
How?
We have iCloud syncing. We’re on the same family plan.
But his notifications have never shown up on my phone before.
Never.
My heart starts racing.
Don’t panic, Gabi.
There’s an explanation.
I click the Tinder notification.
It opens.
And I see my husband’s profile.
Brandon, 31
Tech entrepreneur. Adventure seeker. Recently single and ready to meet someone real.
Recently single.
RECENTLY SINGLE.
We’ve been married for three years.
I scroll through his photos.
Him at the beach.
Him with a dog we don’t own.
Him at a restaurant I’ve never been to.
Every photo carefully curated to look like a single man living his best life.
No wedding ring visible.
No mention of a wife.
I can’t breathe.
The Tinder message opens automatically.
From “Ashley22”: Can’t wait for tonight! I’ll be the one in the red dress 😘
Brandon’s reply: Already counting down the minutes. You’re going to love this place.
Tonight.
He’s meeting her tonight.
I look at the time.
7:47 PM.
He said he had a work dinner.
Left an hour ago.
I open Find My iPhone.
Brandon’s location: The Walrus and the Carpenter. Oyster bar in Ballard.
Not his office.
Not a work dinner.
My hands are shaking so hard I almost drop the phone.
Bumble notification pops up.
Then Hinge.
Then something called Raya.
How many apps is he on?
I hear the front door.
Footsteps.
“Gabi? I’m home!”
Home.
He’s HOME.
But Find My iPhone said—
I refresh the location.
It updates.
Our apartment.
He wasn’t at the oyster bar.
He’s here.
Which means the date with Ashley—
He canceled.
Or it’s later.
Or—
“Hey baby, what’s for dinner?”
Brandon walks into the living room.
Handsome. Smiling. Perfectly normal.
My husband.
My lying, cheating husband.
“I thought you had a work dinner,” I say carefully.
“Canceled last minute. Greg’s kid is sick.”
Lie.
That’s a lie.
I can see it in his eyes.
“So you came straight home?”
“Yeah. Why?”
He’s so calm.
So convincing.
If I didn’t have the evidence on my phone, I’d believe him.
“No reason. Just surprised.”
He kisses my forehead.
“Missed you. Want to order Thai?”
I nod.
Unable to speak.
He pulls out his phone.
I watch him type.
Opening DoorDash.
Normal.
Mundane.
But I saw the apps.
I saw the messages.
I know.
“I need to shower,” I say suddenly.
“Okay. I’ll order the usual?”
“Sure.”
I grab my phone.
Lock myself in the bathroom.
My reflection stares back at me.
Brown wavy hair pulled into a messy bun.
Hazel eyes wide with panic.
I look the same.
But everything has changed.
I open Brandon’s Bumble.
Scroll through.
Then I see it.
My face.
Not Brandon’s face.
MINE.
The profile photo is me.
My photo from our wedding photographer website.
Professional headshot. Smiling. Beautiful lighting.
But the name is wrong.
Gabriella M., 28
Photographer. Dog lover. Looking for real connection.
That’s my bio.
My job.
My photo.
But it’s not MY profile.
I keep scrolling.
More photos.
All of me.
From my Instagram.
My photography portfolio.
Our vacation last year.
Someone has created a dating profile.
Using MY identity.
MY photos.
MY life.
And that someone is my husband.
Why?
I click through Tinder.
Same thing.
My photos.
Slightly different bio.
But definitely me.
Hinge.
Me again.
He’s on every app.
Pretending to be ME.
My stomach turns.
I think I’m going to be sick.
“Gabi? Food’s ordered! Twenty minutes!”
I flush the toilet.
Run the water.
Splash my face.
Breathe.
Think.
Option one: Confront him now.
Option two: Gather more evidence first.
I need evidence.
Because if I confront him, he’ll delete everything.
He’ll gaslight me.
Tell me I’m seeing things.
I screenshot everything.
Every profile.
Every message.
Every photo of MY face on HIS dating apps.
Then I text my sister.
Me: Marissa. Emergency. Can you come over tomorrow? Alone?
Three dots.
Marissa: Are you okay?
Me: No. But I will be.
Marissa: I’ll be there at noon.
I take a breath.
Fix my hair.
Paste on a smile.
Walk back out to the living room.
Brandon is on the couch.
Scrolling his phone.
Probably swiping.
Probably talking to women.
Using MY FACE.
“Feel better?” he asks.
“Much.”
Liar.
We’re both liars.
But only one of us knows it.
END OF CHAPTER 1
Reader Reactions