Meanwhile, Camille was gone: deleted Instagram, logged out of group chats, muted everyone except apparently Daniel, her now ex-boyfriend, who sent me this screenshot two hours after the livestream. It was a message from Camille: I didn't sign up to be the excuse. She told me she was going to come clean, not this.
Daniel just sent a thumbs-up, then added: "You were right. She used everyone."
Now, here's where things get really twisted. Two days later, Riley showed up at my hotel. No warning, no text, nothing. She knocked on the door around 7:45 p.m. I looked through the peephole, saw her standing there with makeup smeared under her eyes and a manila envelope in her hand.
I opened the door but didn't step aside. "What do you want?"
She didn't speak for a second, just held up the envelope. "Divorce papers," she said.
I blinked. "You're serving me?"
"I just thought it'd be easier this way before lawyers get involved."
That was rich. This whole thing started because she thought I wouldn't understand, and now she was trying to claim the moral high ground by handing me documents like a peace offering.
Still, I took them. "Thanks," I said. "One less thing for my attorney to file."
That's when she asked softly, "Do you hate me?"
I studied her for a long moment. This broken, cornered version of her wasn't the woman I married, but it wasn't someone new either. It was the real Riley: unmasked, uncomfortable, and unable to lie anymore.
"No," I finally said. "I don't hate you." I paused. "But I also don't trust you, and that's worse."
She flinched. Then she said something I'll never forget: "You never loved me. You loved the version of me that lied to you."
Then she turned and walked away.