“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.

When Ethan finally sat me down and said, “I think we should talk,” I nodded.

I was already done talking.

The conversation happened on a Sunday morning, sunlight spilling across the kitchen table like it was unaware of the tension sitting between us.

He confessed just enough to feel honest.

“It wasn’t planned.”
“I was confused.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

All the familiar lines, delivered carefully, like he expected them to soften the ground beneath his feet.

I let him finish.

Then I slid a folder across the table.

Inside were printed screenshots. Timestamps. Financial summaries. And one still image from the door camera—the car, perfectly clear.

His face drained of color.

“I know,” I said gently. “I’ve known since the night you said you needed time.”

He stared at me, stunned. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

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