Chapter 1
On the day I caught them in the act, I didn't cry or make a scene.
I swung an iron bar at the other man twelve times.
The sound of his knees shattering was cleaner than my wife's screaming.
I was the one who called the cops.
"Please hurry up. Don't let him bleed out," I said. "If he dies, it'll cost me."
I paid a million dollars for his letter of forgiveness.
I traded three years in prison for his life in a wheelchair.
It was worth it.
The day I got out, Emily Stone stood outside the iron gate. She was holding two marriage license applications.
Her eyes were red, but she was smiling.
"Alex, time to come home," she said.
*****
My name was Alex Rivers.
Before tonight, I was the young CEO everyone admired for building his empire from scratch, worth 100 million dollars, married to the most beautiful woman in the company.
After tonight, I was charged with assault causing serious injury. The number was 73026.
At 9:17 on the night of July 14th, I stood at my own front door, gripping an iron bar.
No matter how soundproof the door was, it couldn't block out those sounds: the rhythm, the breathlessness, the bed slamming against the wall.
I stood at the door for six seconds. I wasn't hesitating. I was counting.
One, two, three, four, five, six. Six seconds was enough to turn on the phone's video recorder, tuck it into my chest pocket, camera facing out.
The door wasn't locked. Laura Linton, my wife, couldn't be bothered to lock it.
The hallway light was on, her high heels kicked off next to the shoe rack. Beside them was a pair of men's leather shoes. They were brown, pointed, and polished to a shine.
Three months ago, Brian Coleman wore those shoes when he came to my office for a business meeting. When he left, Laura walked him to the elevator, and their fingers touched for a moment.
I didn't say anything back then.
The bedroom door was barely open, a sliver of warm yellow light seeping through the gap.
I pushed it open with my toe.
And that was when I saw everything I needed to.
The white sheets were a mess. Laura's hair fanned out over the pillow, eyes shut, head arched back, lips parted in a silent gasp.
Brian was pressed against her, his back streaked with fresh, red nail marks.
I stood in the doorway, gripping the iron bar, my heart was eerily steady.
Two weeks ago, when I checked Laura's phone, acid burned up my throat, my nails dug so hard into my palms as I crouched on the cold bathroom tiles, dry-heaving for twenty minutes.
But that was two weeks ago.
Two weeks. That was enough.
The time was enough for me to transfer my company shares to Ethan Lane.
It was enough to cut all our marital assets apart, leaving nothing behind.
It was enough to have David Quinn, my lawyer, prepare the divorce agreement and three separate criminal defense plans.
It was enough to figure out what was worth doing, and what wasn't.
"A-Alex?" Laura was the first to spot me.
Her reaction was classic. She froze up, like a butterfly pinned to a pillow, then came the scream, then the frantic grab for the blanket.
She was all over the place, tripping over the blanket's edge.
Brian was a beat slower. He turned, his Adam's apple bobbing, eyes wide, mouth hanging open, but not a single word came out.
I didn't spare her a glance.
My eyes were locked on him.
"W-Wait, Alex. We can talk!" Brian scrambled off the bed, stark naked, stumbling backward until his back slammed into the nightstand.
The lamp wobbled, the shade slipped sideways, throwing weird shadows on his face. Sweat broke out along his nose.
Brian's voice was trembling.
I walked toward him. I was three steps away from him. Then two steps. Then one step.
The first blow smashed into his left knee.
The sound of steel hitting bone was muffled, like stomping on a dry walnut.
His scream was sharper than I'd imagined.
The second hit smashed right into his knee.
I went all in. As the iron bar crashed down, every muscle in my arm snapped tight, my whole body channeling the force from the ground up, hips to shoulders, spine to wrist, until it all exploded right where metal met bone.
He curled up, clutching his leg, rolling across the floor. His scream tore through the room, so sharp it felt like it could rip my eardrums apart. Blood poured from his knee, spreading across the tiles in a messy pool.
White tiles, red blood. No mistaking where one ended and the other began.
I was so calm, I even wondered if the blood seeping into the grout would leave a permanent stain.
The third and fourth swings landed right on his knees again. More specifically, I was going for the ligaments and cartilage surrounding it.
I'd done my research. A shattered tibial plateau, torn ACL and PCL. Even with the best orthopedic surgeons money could buy, he'd never be able to run again.
Best case, he'd limp around on crutches. Odds were, he'd spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair.