“I need some space,” my husband said, refusing to look at me. That night, I heard a car slow outside. I’m staying with a friend, he texted. I didn’t respond. Instead, I calmly checked the door camera. When a car I recognized all too well appeared in the darkness, I smiled. “That’s confirmation enough,” I murmured. Because from that second on… my plan was officially in motion.

I rarely checked it anymore. There was never anything interesting to see. Cars passed. Dogs walked by. Ordinary life.

Until that night.

At 11:18 p.m., headlights swept across our driveway.

I leaned forward slightly.

The car slowed. Parked. The porch light flickered on automatically, illuminating the side of the vehicle. And that was when I noticed it—the small dent near the rear bumper. The scratch along the side panel.

A scratch I’d once pointed out, laughing, telling Ethan he should probably get it fixed before it rusted.

It wasn’t his car.

But it was a car I knew very well.

It belonged to Lauren.

Lauren, his coworker. Lauren, whose name came up too casually at dinner. Lauren, who texted him about “projects” at odd hours and laughed a little too freely when she stopped by office gatherings.

The camera caught Ethan stepping into frame, looking around briefly before walking toward the car. The passenger door opened. A woman leaned out, laughing softly, reaching for his hand.

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