Chapter 1

My husband's mistress, Alia Becker, sent me a photo of her and my husband, Andrew Brown, getting cozy.

She captioned it: [Andrew said you're like a dead fish in bed.]

I didn't bother replying.

I called up a printing shop, had them rush out 1,500 copies of the photo and caption, and covered every wall, every door, every corner of her apartment complex.

The next day, Alia called me up in tears, pleading for mercy and saying sorry.

I just chuckled. "Hold on, this is just the appetizer. Wait till you see what I've got planned for you two."

*****

My phone screen glowed quietly, showing 2 a.m.

I'd just wrapped up the final plan for next quarter's exhibition and was about to close my laptop when a sharp notification sound sliced through the silence of my study. Then a photo popped up.

Andrew, my husband of five years, was wrapped around a young woman, both of them with nothing on.

Our bedroom was the backdrop. The gray sheets I'd personally chosen were crumpled into a heap.

The girl stared straight into the camera, a taunting smile on her lips as she snapped a selfie.

Andrew's face was buried in her neck, so I couldn't make out his expression, but that Patek Philippe watch on his wrist was the one I'd gifted him for his birthday last year.

Right below the photo, there was a caption: [Andrew said you're like a dead fish in bed.]

I stared at "dead fish" for a long time. An icy numbness started at my fingertips, crawling up my arm and settling deep in my chest.

But there was no pain, no gut-wrenching meltdown as I'd expected. All I felt was this weird, almost peaceful calm, like the other shoe that had been dangling over me for years had finally dropped.

So, this was it.

Without a flicker of emotion, I took a screenshot of the photo and the caption, my fingers moving across the screen like I was handling another work file.

The image went straight into an encrypted folder I'd created long ago. The folder was called "Final Chapter."

Without a second thought, I opened my laptop and pulled up another file I'd already prepared. The file was titled: Alia Becker.

It had every bit of information about her, way more detailed than her job application.

Her home address, down to the apartment number, her parents' workplaces and contact info, her alma mater, and even the coffee shop she hit up every day. I'd already gathered all this a month ago.

Ever since I noticed Andrew working late all the time and caught the scent of a woman's perfume in his car, one that definitely wasn't mine, I knew this day would come sooner or later.

I didn't bother confronting him or picking a fight. That kind of pointless emotional drama wasn't worth my time.

I simply, without showing a hint of emotion, prepared every piece of ammo I'd need for the war that was bound to happen.

I grabbed my phone and dialed up Mike, my go-to printing guy for years.

Mike answered, his voice thick with sleep, "Ms. Proctor? It's crazy late."

"Mike, I need a rush job," I said, sounding way calmer than I felt. "1,500 color prints on A4 glossy paper, done in three hours. I'll pay triple the usual rate."

"What's the rush? What exactly do you need printed?" Mike mumbled.

"A photo and a single line of text," I answered, keeping it brief as I sent him the screenshot via email.

There was a brief silence on the other end, followed by a soft sigh. "Ms. Proctor, you—"

"Mike, it's a family matter." I cut him off, my voice flat and emotionless.

"Alright, I'll get someone to fire up the machines right away," he replied.

I didn't bother sleeping. I changed clothes, got in my car, and drove straight to the printing shop.

The machines were roaring, and the sharp smell of ink hung thick in the air.

I watched as those filthy photos were spat out one after another from the cold, mechanical jaws of the printer.

The sheets Andrew and I had picked out together, and the luxury watch I'd given him, were now props for him and that woman to flaunt their affair.

Mike offered me a cigarette, but I politely declined. He patted me on the shoulder and didn't say a word.

At 4 a.m., I drove off with three heavy boxes in my trunk.

I'd already hired three temps through and met up with them near Alia's apartment complex.

"Cover every spot you can in this place," I told them, handing over a wad of cash and a box of photos. "Bulletin boards, elevators, and slap one on every apartment door in every building."

"Hey, lady, what exactly are we doing here?" one of the guys asked, looking at the photos, clearly unsure.

I pulled out another stack of bills from my wallet and tossed them onto the pile. "Don't miss a single spot."

With that kind of cash on the table, all hesitation disappeared.

I didn't leave. I parked my car across the street, tucked away in the shadows, quietly watching as they slipped through the night, plastering my "handiwork" onto every corner of the complex.

The first light of dawn pierced through the darkness, and the apartment complex started to stir.

The old folks out for their morning walk were the first to spot those blinding color prints. They crowded around the bulletin board, pointing, gossiping, and whispering.

Then the security guards in their uniforms came running, tearing down the posters as fast as they could, but for every one they ripped off, another one would pop up somewhere else.

With 1,500 copies plastered everywhere, that scandal could blow up before the sun even fully rose.

I watched as lights flickered on behind window after window, and saw silhouettes peeking out, curious and nosy. I let out a cold chuckle.

My phone finally buzzed. It was Alia.

As soon as I answered, Alia's hysterical sobbing blasted through the phone, with neighbors shouting and gossiping in the background.

"Giselle, please, I'm sorry. I really am. Just let me off the hook. I'm begging you," Alia cried, her voice trembling so hard. "If my parents find out, they'll freaking kill me. And I'll lose my job. Please, I'm begging you."

I let out a cold chuckle, cracked the window open, and let the chilly dawn breeze wash over my face.

My tone was soft, almost like I was soothing a frightened child, but every word I spoke was ice-cold and merciless.

"Hold on," I said. "This is just the appetizer. The next big treat is for you, and your darling Andrew."