We had lived together for fourteen months. I knew his phone's passcode the way I knew the route from our apartment to our favorite bagel shop in Brooklyn — without thinking. I had never used it to snoop. I want to say that clearly, because of what happened next. I was not the kind of fiancée who checked his messages. I wasn't insecure. I wasn't suspicious. I trusted the man I was marrying. But something about the preview that flashed across his lock screen at 11:47 that night — the way a single name sat next to a single question — made my hands move without my brain's permission. I typed in his passcode. I opened the thread. And I read the entire exchange while the shower ran and my wedding dress hung three feet away from me on the closet door. It was from a woman named Caroline. The last message, sent an hour before we'd gone to bed, said: "So you're actually going through with it tomorrow?"