The Cheat’s Spare Key,Karma Always Collects

I caught my boyfriend’s female coworker unlocking his front door with her own key. She dangled the key chain in my face, looking completely smug. "I’m just here to feed his cat and tidy up a bit. You don’t mind, right?" I froze for a split second. Dylan had told me I was the only one who had a key to his place. But I composed myself immediately and flashed her a bright smile. "Oh, perfect! Dylan just texted me saying he hired a maid to clean today and asked me to supervise." Her smile instantly died. I pushed right past her, shoved a heavy-duty trash bag into her chest, and walked in. "Well, maid, get to work. Start with the litter box, then mop the floors." She stood frozen in the doorway, still clutching that key. I walked straight past her, sat down on the sofa, and tossed my designer bag aside. "What are you standing around for?" I looked up at her coldly. "Get moving. Weren't you here to clean?" She opened her mouth, her face pale and ugly. I pulled out my phone, leaned back against the cushions, and started scrolling, not even bothering to give her another glance. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her freeze by the door for about fifteen seconds. Finally, she shoved the key into her pocket, bent down, and pulled the litter scoop from under the coffee table. Her movements were smooth. She clearly wasn't doing this for the first time. She squatted by the litter box and started scooping. Without looking up from my screen, I asked casually, "So, how much is he paying you to clean his place?" The scoop in her hand paused. "We don't talk about money." She tied a knot in the trash bag. "We just help each other out. We're coworkers. He looks out for me at the office, so it's only normal that I drop by to feed his cat and tidy up." Hearing the subtle superiority dripping from her voice, I couldn't help but smirk. Not getting paid a single cent, providing free maid service, and showing off a key like it was a badge of honor. "Right," I nodded slowly. "Then why did he tell me he hired a maid?" She didn't answer. I didn't press her. I shifted into a more comfortable position on the couch. "Whatever. Doesn't matter." I waved a hand at her dismissively, like she was hired help. "Hurry it up. When you're done with the litter, mop the hardwood floors and wipe down the kitchen counters." She didn't move. I looked up and locked eyes with her. "What? Got a problem?" She bit her lip, swallowed her words, and dragged the scoop out toward the balcony. Listening to the clattering on the balcony, my smile faded completely. I knew this girl. Or rather, I’d seen her on Dylan’s phone. Once, his phone lit up on the nightstand with a notification from "Chloe." It was a photo of his cat with a text: "Your fur baby is refusing to eat again today." I’d asked about it back then. Dylan had wrapped his arm around my shoulder, looking completely innocent. "Just a girl from work. She helped feed the cat a couple of times when I was out of town. It's nothing." Nothing. And yet she had a key to his apartment. I hadn't said anything at the time, but that thorn had buried itself deep inside my chest. Today was my day off. I had woken up early, gone to the specialty grocery store to buy Dylan’s favorite cut of steak, planning to surprise him with a romantic homemade dinner while he was out. Instead, I arrived to find Chloe twirling a key, greeting me with that sly grin. There was a little plush bear keychain dangling from her set. I recognized it instantly. Dylan and I had won matching pairs at a boardwalk carnival last summer. He told me we’d each keep one. Mine was on my car keys; his was on his apartment key. And now that little bear was in Chloe’s hands. On my phone, my chat with Dylan had gone dead since seven this morning. I had texted: "Good morning babe." He replied hours later with a dry: "Morning." I asked if he wanted to have dinner together tonight. No reply. I opened Instagram. Dylan had posted a photo of a flat white at a chic cafe near his office just an hour ago. Timestamp: 9:15 AM. He had time to curate an aesthetic Instagram story, but no time to answer my text.Yet he had plenty of time to send Chloe over to scrub his floors. Chloe finished cleaning the litter box. As she walked back from the balcony carrying the dirty bag, I pointed my chin toward the front door. "Trash bin is right by the shoe rack. Don't leave it in the hallway." Her shoulders tensed visibly. She set the bag by the door and walked straight into the bathroom to get the mop. She didn't have to look. She pushed open the door and grabbed it without a second of hesitation. My heart turned to ice. She knew this apartment better than I did. Where the bathroom was. Where the mop was kept. Where he stored extra litter and trash bags. She could navigate this place blindfolded. By the entryway shoe rack, two pairs of women's house slippers sat side by side. One pair was blush pink—mine. The other was white plush fleece. The soles were visibly worn, meaning they had been used dozens of times. I shifted my gaze back to Chloe as she mopped the living room. She moved with practiced efficiency: bending down, pushing the mop, rinsing it in the bucket, wiping the baseboards. She didn't look like a visiting coworker. She looked like the second woman living here. A memory suddenly flashed in my mind. Three months ago, I brought up moving in together. My apartment lease was ending, and renewing it required a steep rent hike and another deposit. I figured since I spent so much time at his place anyway, moving in together would save us money. Dylan had sat me down and given me a deeply solemn speech. "Evelyn, moving in together right now wouldn't be fair to you. If we ever broke up, you'd be the one getting hurt and uprooting your life. I want to protect you." I had been so touched. I thought he was being responsible, looking out for my best interests. Looking back now, it was pure bullshit. He wasn't protecting me. He was protecting his setup. He already had a convenient side chick coming and going freely. If his official girlfriend moved in, the whole charade would fall apart. I bit down on the inside of my cheek, forcing the fury down. No rush. Since I was already here, nobody was getting off easy today. Chloe finished mopping, took a step back to inspect her work, and pulled out her phone to snap a photo. She found a flattering angle that captured the entire sunlit, spotless living room. She edited the lighting and sent it off. Less than two minutes later, her phone pinged with an incoming voice note. When she tapped to play it, she clearly forgot to turn her volume down. Dylan’s voice blasted through the speaker, crisp and clear: "Thanks so much, Chloe! The place looks amazing. Unlike someone I know, who only ever lies on the couch scrolling through her phone without lifting a single finger."Chloe scrambled to turn down the volume, her eyes darting over to me with barely hidden panic. I stared blankly at my phone screen. Whatever reel I had been watching was paused. I hadn't registered a single second of it. "Someone I know." He was talking about me. I inhaled slowly, locked my phone, and set it face down on the sofa. "Done cleaning?" Chloe nodded, fidgeting awkwardly with her sleeves. "Then you can leave." My voice was completely flat, as if I were commenting on the weather. She reached for her purse, but her phone buzzed again. This time it was a text. As she read it, a smug little smile tugged at the corner of her lips. I caught the words on her illuminated screen: "I picked up that chestnut mousse cake you love. Wait for me at the apartment, I'm heading back right now." Chestnut mousse cake. I stared at the tiny scratch on my phone case for two whole seconds. Dylan never remembered what sweet treats I liked. Yet he knew Chloe’s favorite cake flavor down to the exact dessert. Chloe picked up her tote bag. Instead of heading for the door, she walked over to the sofa and sat down right across from me. I instinctively leaned back, disgusted by her proximity. She noticed, smiling with condescending pity. "You know, Dylan talks about you a lot at work," she said softly. "He always says you're immature, spend too much money, and refuse to do any chores." She paused, clearly savoring every word. "He told me being with you is utterly exhausting." I tilted my head and met her eyes. "So he vents to you? Big deal." I tossed my phone onto the coffee table, crossed my legs, and leaned back into the cushions. "At least I don't sign up to be his unpaid maid." Chloe's face tightened. I didn't give her room to breathe. "He still transfers me money whenever I want, pays half my rent, and clears my shopping bills." I tilted my head, offering her a sweet, razor-sharp smile. "Which means, in his eyes, me lying on his couch playing on my phone is worth infinitely more than you cleaning his toilet for free." Chloe’s face went dead white. Her lips parted, but before she could find her voice, the sound of a key turning in the lock echoed from the entryway. The door swung open. Dylan walked in, holding a high-end bakery box tied with a satin ribbon. "Chloe, I got the chestnut one! The line was ridiculous—" He looked up and saw me sitting on the couch. He froze dead in his tracks. The bakery box was wrapped in an elegant chestnut-colored bow, packaged like an anniversary present. His gaze darted frantically from me to Chloe, then back to me, the color rapidly draining from his face. "Evelyn? What... what are you doing here?" I stayed seated, tilting my head. "Didn't you hire a maid to clean the apartment?" I pointed a finger at the gleaming hardwood floor. "I just came to supervise. She did a decent job." Dylan’s brow furrowed, his eyes darting with panic. "What maid?" I didn't answer. I just looked over at Chloe. Chloe looked down at her hands, clutching the straps of her bag in silence. Realizing the jig was up, Dylan forced an awkward laugh. "Babe, you’re misunderstanding. Chloe isn't a maid. She's just a coworker who kindly offered to help out! I was just bringing her a treat to thank her—" I nodded and stood up. "Right. My mistake." I walked over until I was standing inches from him, looking up into his lying eyes. "She’s not a maid." "She’s your side piece."