Chapter 3

The next morning, I received a call from the lawyer. Her name was Jessica Doyle, and her voice was crisp and professional, radiating competence. We met at a coffee shop.

Jessica was younger and more beautiful than I had expected, dressed in an impeccably tailored suit. Her eyes were so sharp that they seemed to see right through me.

"Ms. Green," she began, getting straight to the point. "Mr. Harrison has given me a brief overview of your situation. Right now, the evidence we have is the post on your company's intranet and your suspension notice. This is enough to file a defamation suit."

"However," she continued, "if you want to win this case decisively and make him pay a steep price, we'll need something more powerful."

She looked at me intently. "For instance, evidence of his infidelity."

I looked down, stirring my coffee. "I suspected, but I never found any proof."

In our three years of marriage, Peter had always been distant. We were more like roommates than husband and wife. I had noticed him coming home late more and more often, sometimes with the scent of a perfume that wasn't mine clinging to his clothes.

But I had chosen to deceive myself. I thought if I were just a good enough wife, compliant enough, I could earn a peaceful home. It was laughable, thinking about it now.

"If you don't have proof, you create the opportunity to get it," Jessica said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Ms. Green, how far you want to take this fight depends entirely on how determined you are."

I met her gaze. "I want him ruined."

A small, appreciative smile touched Jessica's lips. "Excellent."

The heavy weight in my chest lifted the moment I left the coffee shop, and for the first time, I could actually breathe."

That evening, a text came through from Bryce. It was a photo. In it, Peter had his arm wrapped snugly around a young woman's waist. They were laughing together in a booth at a nightclub.

Beneath the photo was a line of text. ["Midnight" Lounge, Booth 302. The girl's name is Rachel White. She used to work for you.]

My heart seized, as if crushed by an invisible hand.

Rachel was the intern I had personally trained, the one who was always so sweet and innocent, calling me "Michelle" with such reverence. So she was the one that had ruined my marriage.

Overwhelmed by a sickening sense of betrayal, I fled to the bathroom, sick to my stomach until my lungs burned. Tiffany arrived in a blur of concern, having sensed the cracks in my voice over the phone.

As she stared at the photos, her hands shook with pure rage.

"That little snake," she spat. "After you did so much for her. I'm going to go down there and rip her hair out."

"No," I said hoarsely as I grabbed her arm. "If we go now, we'll just scare them off."

My mind was racing. I told myself to be calm.

I showed Tiffany my text exchange with Jessica. "Jessica is right. We can't just rely on Bryce. We need our own ammunition."

Tiffany looked at me with pity. "What are you going to do?"

I said, "We're going to 'Midnight.'"

Half an hour later, Tiffany and I walked into the club. The thumping music and flashing lights were overwhelming. We quickly spotted them in Booth 302.

Rachel was nestled against Peter, and they were kissing openly, oblivious to the world around them. The sight was a physical pain in my eyes.

I forced myself to look away and pulled Tiffany to a dark corner across from them. Instead of confrontation, we just watched.

Using a backup social media account, Tiffany took a picture of the club's interior, "accidentally" capturing Peter's and Rachel's backs in the shot.

She posted it with the caption: [This city's nightlife is insane. Just spotted the cutest couple.] She tagged the location as "Midnight."

Without staying a moment longer, we made a quiet exit.

On the way home, Tiffany asked, "That's it? What's the point of that photo?"

I stared out the window at the blurred city lights. "Peter is a very paranoid person," I said calmly. "When he sees that post, he'll immediately think it was me. And the more suspicious he gets, the more likely he is to make a mistake."

Sure enough, it wasn't long before my phone rang. It was Peter. The moment I answered, his furious roar filled my ear. "Michelle, was that you? Are you following me?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I said, feigning confusion.

"Don't play dumb with me. 'Midnight.' The club. Are you telling me you weren't there?"

"Peter, we're divorced," I said. "Where you go and who you're with is no longer my concern. Please stop harassing me."

I hung up. He called back several more times, but I ignored every call.

As I was pulling up to my house, my phone rang again. It was an unfamiliar number. I hesitated and answered.

A woman's voice, thick with tears, came through the line. "Hello? Is this Michelle?"

I froze. The voice was vaguely familiar.

"My name is Amanda Hart," she sobbed. "Did Peter ever mention me?"

Amanda Hart?

It clicked. She was the daughter of one of Peter's most important business partners. I had met her once at a company gala. Peter had introduced her as the daughter of his client, Jack Hart.

My heart sank.

"Michelle, are you free right now?" she pleaded. "I need to see you. Please."

Before I could even process what was happening, a violent crash came from my front door. Peter was outside, pounding on it with all his might.

"Michelle, you poisonous bitch," he screamed. "Get the hell out here."

A sharp jolt of shock forced a step back, my phone wobbling dangerously in my hand.

On the other end of the line, Amanda must have heard the commotion. Her voice rose in panic. "Michelle, what was that?" she cried. "Is he there? Did he find you? Don't open the door. He's been drinking. He's acting like a lunatic."

Opening the door was the last thing on my mind.

Hanging up, I dashed to the second-floor window and peered down.

Peter's face was flushed, and his eyes were bloodshot as he repeatedly kicked the front door. The expensive, solid wood groaned under the assault.