I wasn’t looking for proof—I already knew.
The late nights, the sudden gym obsession, the way he always flipped his phone face-down. My gut had been screaming for months, but I kept making excuses.
Then last Friday, he claimed he had a “work dinner.” But I knew his team was remote. So, I followed him.
He drove to a discreet hotel. Fifteen minutes later, she arrived—young, confident, unaware. He kissed her like I didn’t exist, then led her inside.
Instead of breaking down, I took control. I snapped pictures, walked in, and bluffed my way into a spare key. My hands shook, but not with fear—with certainty.
I opened the door. He was on the bed, half-undressed. She gasped. “Wait… you’re married?”
“Oh, he didn’t mention that?” I said, smiling.
She ran. He panicked. “Lena, I—”
I cut him off. “Save it. I knew. I just needed to see it.”
Then I pulled out my phone. “Already sent these to my lawyer.”
Divorce wasn’t easy, but it was liberating. The best part? His little affair counted as financial infidelity. I got the house. A solid settlement. And he got exactly what he deserved.
A few months later, I heard she ghosted him. Turns out, broke and divorced wasn’t what she signed up for.
And me? I was doing just fine.
Because sometimes, karma just needs a little push.
