After They Stole My Manuscript, I Went Viral

I sat on the living room sofa, sewing the button on Mark Collins’ favorite white shirt, torn during his business trip last week.
My fingertips brushed the shirt’s inner pocket and touched a folded piece of stiff cardboard, sinking my heart—Mark Collins’ pocket usually held only a pen and notes.
Unfolding it revealed a photo of them together, Mark Collins holding Stacy Scott with an intimate, smiling warmth.
Stacy Scott has been his graduate student for half a year; at the last family dinner, he even praised her diligence and cleverness.
The rose-colored lipstick mark on the back of the photo felt like a silent provocation.
I hurriedly shoved the photo back, my trembling hand pricking my fingertip.
The door lock clicked; Mark Collins pushed the door open. I quickly wiped the blood from my hand with a tissue and clenched it tight.
“What are you doing?” He picked up the shirt, glanced at the crooked stitching, and frowned. “Why is this stitching so messy? I can’t wear this out.”
“I was helping you sew on a button and accidentally pricked my hand.” I lowered my gaze to avoid his eyes.
He looked at my fingertip and said softly, “Thanks for the trouble.”
Saying no more, he took the shirt into the bedroom without a word of reminder.
I sat in place, memories of having given up research and development for three years to care for him rushing through my mind, feeling both absurd and heartbroken.
After Mark Collins fell asleep that night, I rummaged through his briefcase. Alongside photos, there was a receipt from a high-end lingerie store dated last Wednesday—he had said he was working late at the school that day.
The receipt was for a Size S lace item; I have always worn Size M and never owned anything like that.