$100,000 right now. Don’t file for divorce.

It was a cafe in Midtown Manhattan. A strange man placed a black briefcase on the table and clicked open the metal latches. The case was filled with stacks of $100 bills. It took my breath away.

My name is Grace Miller. I had been married for seven years. It had been two months since I became certain of my husband’s affair. My heart was pounding.

This man was the husband of my husband’s mistress. We, who had suffered the same betrayal, were sitting face to face. The bundles of cash in the briefcase glittered under the fluorescent lights.

“If you file for divorce now, you’ll be the only one who loses. Moving emotionally without evidence will only benefit the perpetrators.”

His words were cold, but they weren’t wrong. It was exactly what I had heard during a consultation with my attorney. An affair is a battle of evidence, not emotions. A rash response is poison.

“We’re in the same boat. You and I have been wronged in the same way. So, let’s end this properly, perfectly, legally.”

This was a transaction with $100,000 on the table. It wasn’t about revenge. It was preparation for a just and proper reckoning. I looked back at the briefcase. I realized then that collapsing under the weight of emotion and responding with cold calculation produce entirely different outcomes.

I had been married for seven years. My husband, Michael Davis, was a project manager at a midsized construction firm, a diligent and quiet man. My name is Grace Miller, a 35-year-old freelance translator working from home, a typical housewife.

We met on a blind date. At our first meeting, Michael was reserved, but he exuded a sense of reliability. He wasn’t flashy, but he was sincere and always kept his promises. We dated for a year and then got married. My parents were pleased. He had a stable job, a sincere personality, and his family background was decent.

The early years of our marriage were happy. Michael would wake up at exactly 7:00 a.m. every morning to get ready for work, and in the evening, he would return home to have dinner with me. On weekends, we would go grocery shopping together and occasionally see a movie. It was ordinary, but I believed it was happiness. I thought the accumulation of these unremarkable days was building a life that was uniquely ours.

Michael was never very talkative. He rarely spoke about his work and was clumsy at expressing his feelings. But that was just Michael. I believed he was a man who quietly and steadfastly took care of his family. He was, after all, the kind of person who brought home flowers on our anniversary and prepared a cake for my birthday.

The changes began last fall. Michael said he was working late more often. At first, I accepted it without a second thought. He said it was a busy season in the construction industry. A major project was underway, he explained, and his director wouldn’t let the team leave on time. I understood. I thought my husband must be exhausted.

But his arrival times grew later and later. 10:00 p.m. became 11:00 p.m. And some nights he started coming home after 1:00 a.m. When I called, he’d say he was in a meeting and would call back, but he never did.

His text replies also slowed down. He used to respond immediately.

“This project is at its peak right now. Just bear with me a little longer,” he’d say, his face etched with fatigue.

There seemed to be no room for doubt. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his shoulders were slumped. As a wife, all I could do was prepare a warm dinner and wait. Sometimes I would pack his dinner in an insulated container and leave it by the front door.

But then, strange things started catching my eye. One by one, the background on Michael’s phone changed. It used to be our wedding photo, but it had been replaced with a monochromatic landscape picture. When I asked, he just said he felt like changing it. It seemed like a small thing, but a corner of my heart felt heavy.

His shower times became longer. He would head straight for the bathroom as soon as he got home and wouldn’t come out for over 30 minutes. This was a man who used to be too tired to even bother washing up after work. After his showers, I could smell cologne. He had never worn cologne before.

His style of dress changed, too. He started buying new shirts instead of the old ones he’d worn for years. His hairstyle changed. He started getting his hair trimmed at a salon, not the simple barber shop he used to go to. There was nothing wrong with caring about his appearance, but I questioned why now. Why so suddenly?

On weekends, he began going to the gym. Suddenly taking up exercise in his mid-40s, he would leave the house every Saturday morning. I should have been happy that he was taking care of his health. But for some reason, a part of me felt uneasy. Dressed in workout clothes, Michael would return well after lunchtime only to take another shower.

“Working out makes my body feel so much better,” he’d say.

But his face was vibrant. It was different from the face worn out by work. It felt like there was another reason. Was it a wife’s intuition? A persistent feeling that something was wrong kept nagging at me.

Our conversations dwindled. We used to briefly share our days after dinner, but now he just stared at his phone during meals. When I asked what he was thinking, he would say nothing. Even when we were together, I felt alone. It was as if an invisible wall had sprung up between us.

The decisive moment came a month ago. That day, Michael left, saying he had to work late again. I went to a restaurant near Grand Central Terminal to meet my friend Sarah. She was a college friend I still met up with occasionally after getting married. We caught up over dinner, sharing stories.

Suddenly, I saw him. Through the restaurant window at a cafe across the street sat my husband, Michael. My heart sank. But Michael wasn’t alone. A woman was sitting across from him. She had long, dark hair and was wearing a burgundy coat. Michael was smiling. It was a relaxed, happy expression I hadn’t seen in a very long time.

My legs went weak. Sarah grabbed my arm. I wanted to storm in and confront him, but my feet wouldn’t move.

At that moment, Michael reached across the table and took the woman’s hand. It was a natural gesture, as if it had been repeated countless times.

“Grace, snap out of it. Let’s just get out of here,” Sarah urged, pulling me into an alley.

I couldn’t breathe properly. This was the man I had lived with for seven years, the man I believed to be ordinary and sincere, and now he was sitting there holding another woman’s hand.

I returned home. The empty living room felt alien. I sank onto the sofa and sat there in a daze. Michael came back after 1:00 a.m. The sound of the front door opening made my heart race. I was torn between greeting him as usual or confronting him immediately.

“You’re still up? You should have gone to bed early,” Michael said, his expression completely normal.

It was the face of a liar. The same man who was holding another woman’s hand just hours ago was now standing in front of me, acting as if nothing had happened.

I bit my lip. A thought struck me that I shouldn’t say anything rash.

“Is work very tough these days?” I asked, trying to sound as calm as possible.

Michael nodded and went into the bathroom. I heard the shower running. I remained on the sofa. I felt like crying, but I held it in. I couldn’t cry. Now was the time to be level-headed.

From the next day, I began to observe. I recorded Michael’s commute times, his weekend movements, and his phone usage patterns. On days he claimed to be working late, I checked the company parking lot. His car was gone. I secretly checked his gym membership records. He had only checked in once.

I was certain my husband was having an affair, but certainty wasn’t enough. I needed proof, clear, legally admissible evidence. I had no idea how to obtain it. I resisted the urge to go through his phone at night. Michael had a biometric lock on it and even took it with him to the bathroom. A man this cautious wouldn’t leave a trail of evidence.

I spent my days in a state of helplessness. I never knew that having to pretend not to know what I knew could be so agonizing. A week passed. Michael continued to use late nights in the gym as excuses to be away while I guarded our empty home alone. I couldn’t tell my friends. I was ashamed. And more importantly, I couldn’t spread rumors without concrete proof.

That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Beside me, Michael slept peacefully. The liar’s face was at peace. I clenched my fists. I couldn’t confront him impulsively. An emotional outburst could put me at a disadvantage.

I made a decision. I would be cold, thorough, and confirm the facts. I had to find out everything. If my husband was really having an affair, who the woman was, and how deep their relationship went. Only then could I respond properly.

Our marriage continued, but an irreparable crack had already formed between us.

After witnessing Michael and the woman at the cafe, I couldn’t sleep properly. Whenever I closed my eyes, the scene replayed in my mind. Their clasped hands on the table, Michael’s relaxed smile. It was all so vivid.

The next day, I began a full-scale observation. I logged his work hours and tracked his weekend activities. On a night he claimed to be working late, I drove to his office parking garage. His car wasn’t there. It was a lie. I also secretly checked his gym membership and found he had only attended once on the day he registered.

The conviction was there, but I had no evidence. Michael was meticulous. His phone was secured with a fingerprint lock and he carried it with him even to the bathroom. I checked the credit card statements, but there were no suspicious charges. He was clearly using cash. I searched his car, looking under the passenger side floor mat and opening the glove compartment. There was nothing. It was clean. It was so clean it was suspicious. Michael was not a tidy person. Yet, his car was now impeccably maintained without a single receipt in sight.

Two weeks passed like this. My certainty grew, but I had no concrete evidence. I considered hiring a private investigator, but the cost was substantial, and I wondered if it was necessary. I already knew. My husband was cheating on me.

One evening, as Michael was about to leave again, claiming to work late, I couldn’t hold back. I spoke up.

“You’ve been coming home so late recently. Is work really that busy?”

Michael paused for a moment but quickly regained his composure.

“The project deadline is next month. Just bear with me a little longer.”

The liar’s face was serene. He looked me straight in the eye and lied. My heart shattered.

I couldn’t ask any more questions. Pressing him without proof would only make me look like a suspicious wife. I searched the internet. Infidelity, divorce, alimony, evidence. I spent the whole night looking up related information. And I realized that infidelity is not a matter of emotion, but a matter of law. No matter how certain I was, it was useless without proof.

I posted anonymously on a law firm’s online consultation forum explaining my situation and asking for advice. A few days later, a reply came. It was a cold dose of reality. Suspicion alone was not enough. I needed objective and clear evidence. Photos, videos, audio recordings, text messages, things like that were necessary.

I decided to meet with an attorney in person. I called a law firm I found online and scheduled a consultation. Two days later, my hands trembled as I headed to the attorney’s office. This felt like the real end.

The law office of Johnson and Associates was on the eighth floor of a building near Grand Central. It was a neat office. I passed the reception desk and entered a conference room. Robert Johnson, a divorce attorney, greeted me. He appeared to be in his mid-40s.

“How can I help you?”

In a trembling voice, I explained my situation, my husband’s changes, the scene I witnessed, and my inability to find evidence. Mr. Johnson listened quietly, taking notes. When I finished, he spoke calmly.

“First of all, it’s clear that filing a lawsuit in your current state will be difficult. The court won’t recognize suspicions and circumstantial evidence.”

It was the answer I had expected, but hearing it directly felt devastating.

Mr. Johnson continued. “In an infidelity lawsuit, the most important thing is irrefutable evidence. You need things like photos or videos of them entering a hotel, text messages or chat logs proving an intimate relationship, or audio recordings. At the very least, you must be able to prove they are meeting continuously.”

He turned his laptop to show me case precedents. He explained that simply being in a photo together was not enough. Physical contact or clear expressions of affection had to be visible. Even the scene I saw at the cafe would be difficult to admit as evidence.

“Then what should I do?” I asked.

Mr. Johnson thought for a moment before answering cautiously. “If you don’t want an immediate divorce, it’s best to take your time and secure evidence. If you rashly confront your husband or raise the issue, he’ll only become more careful.”

My chest felt tight. He was telling me to pretend I knew nothing, to act like a normal wife until I caught him. Could I endure it? Sleeping in the same bed with a liar every night?

“What happens if I get a divorce without evidence?” I asked.

Mr. Johnson answered coolly. “If you can’t agree on an uncontested divorce, you’ll have to go to trial. Without evidence, it will be difficult to prove the grounds for the dissolution of the marriage. The assets will likely be split 50/50, and it will be hard to get alimony. In the worst case scenario, it could even work against you, making it seem like you are unilaterally demanding a divorce.”

It was a shock. Michael was the one having an affair. Yet I could be the one at a disadvantage. The law moved on evidence, not emotions. How much pain I was in, how betrayed I felt, none of that mattered.

The consultation lasted about an hour. Mr. Johnson explained methods for collecting evidence, the process of hiring an investigator, and the stages of a lawsuit. Finally, he handed me his business card.

“Contact me again when you have secured evidence. We can proceed formally then.”

I left the office. In the elevator, I saw my reflection in the mirror. I looked haggard. I couldn’t believe how much I had changed in just a few weeks. I stepped out of the lobby into the cool air that brushed against my face. On the way home, my mind was a mess. I had decided on divorce, but I couldn’t move forward. I had no proof. I wanted to confront Michael immediately, but I had to restrain myself. It could backfire. Knowing and proving were two entirely different things.

I arrived home and sat alone in the empty living room. Only the ticking of the wall clock could be heard. I stared at the wall where our wedding photo hung. It was us seven years ago, smiling. We were happy then. Or at least I believed we were. Tears started to fall. The emotions I had been holding back burst forth. I cried out loud alone in the empty house.

How long did I cry? By the time my tears stopped, the sky had grown dark.

Michael came home late that day, too. It was after 1:00 a.m. I was lying in the bedroom. I heard the front door open, the sound of him taking off his shoes in the entryway, and him going into the bathroom. I heard the shower. Thirty minutes later, Michael got into bed. I closed my eyes, pretending to be asleep. I could hear his breathing. It was calm, peaceful. The liar slept soundly. I lay awake all night staring at the ceiling.

From the next day, life went on. In the morning, I helped Michael get ready for work, and in the evening, I ate dinner alone. Michael still came home late, claiming to work late. On weekends, he went out saying he was going to the gym. It was all lies, but I couldn’t say a word.

My friend Sarah called. She said she was worried because I hadn’t been in touch since that day. She asked to meet but I declined. I didn’t have the emotional energy to see anyone.

“Grace, are you struggling because of that?” Sarah asked gently.

I couldn’t answer. A lump formed in my throat.

She sighed and said, “Don’t go through it alone. Call me anytime, okay?”

I thanked her and hung up. But I couldn’t tell anyone. I was ashamed. And more importantly, I couldn’t spread rumors without proof. This was a pain I had to bear alone.

I couldn’t sleep at night. Lying next to Michael, I felt suffocated. It was agonizing to be in the same space, but I couldn’t show it. I had to act like a normal wife. I smiled when I had to smile and answered when I had to answer.

I lost weight. I had no appetite. Everything tasted like sand. When I looked in the mirror, my eyes were sunken. Michael didn’t notice a thing. Or rather, he pretended not to notice. Maybe he just didn’t care.

A month passed like this. I was certain, but I had no evidence. I wanted a divorce, but I couldn’t act. The law was not on my side. A wife without proof was in a weaker position than her cheating husband. I was confused. I didn’t know what to do. Lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling. Beside me, Michael slept peacefully. I was breaking down psychologically. The pain was too heavy to bear alone. But I had to endure. I told myself that the truth would come out eventually and I had to hold on until then.

It was an ordinary Tuesday afternoon. Michael was at work and I was at home working on a translation project. The doorbell rang. Thinking it was a package delivery, I checked the intercom.

A strange man was standing there. He was in a suit, appearing to be in his early 40s.

“Who is it?” I asked.

The man looked directly into the intercom camera and answered in a calm voice. “Are you Grace Miller? I’d like to speak with you for a moment. It’s about Michael Davis.”

My heart dropped. About Michael? Was he a colleague? A creditor? All sorts of thoughts raced through my mind, but I had no choice but to open the door.

I stepped outside. The man handed me a business card. It read James Carter, senior manager, Sterling Construction. He had a clean-cut appearance, but his gaze was sharp. He looked like someone who had come with a firm resolve.

“How about we get some coffee?” Mr. Carter said. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

His tone left no room for refusal. We went to a quiet cafe nearby and sat at a window table. Mr. Carter took a sip of his coffee and began.

“My wife is seeing your husband.”

It was a direct hit. I couldn’t breathe. I had expected it, but hearing it so directly made it painfully real. My hands started to tremble.

Mr. Carter continued. “My wife’s name is Jessica Vance. She’s 29 and works at an advertising agency. She started seeing your husband last October.”

He took a manila envelope out of his bag and placed it on the table. With trembling hands, I opened it. Inside were photographs, pictures of Michael and a young woman together. They were taken in various places, cafes, restaurants, outside a movie theater, in a hotel parking lot.

It was the same woman I had seen that day. The one with long dark hair and a burgundy coat. In the photos, Michael was smiling. It was a happy expression I hadn’t seen in a long time. My heart crumbled.

“I’ve been collecting evidence for six months. I hired a private investigator and even tailed them myself.”

Mr. Carter’s voice was calm, but I could feel the anger and pain beneath it. He was in the same situation as me, a person betrayed by their spouse.

More photos emerged. Them walking hand in hand, kissing in a car, entering a hotel lobby. It was all undeniable proof. The evidence I had been desperately searching for was now right in front of me.

I first became suspicious last September. My wife’s late nights at work became more frequent. He said his situation was identical to mine. He too had noticed the changes, grown suspicious, and tried to confirm his fears. Working late is common in the advertising industry, but something felt different. Her return times were erratic, and she started going out often on weekends.

Mr. Carter’s story continued. His wife’s phone screen changing, her style of dress altering, her starting to wear perfume. It was all exactly what I had experienced. I was convinced.

“So I hired an investigator. After a month of surveillance, I found out she was regularly meeting someone.”

“Your husband?”

He explained each photo one by one. October 15th, a restaurant near Grand Central. October 22nd, Bryant Park. November 3rd, a movie theater in Times Square. November 17th, a hotel on the Upper East Side. The dates and locations were meticulously recorded. This wasn’t just a casual fling. They were meeting regularly and maintaining a relationship.

The most recent one was a week ago. They spent four hours together at that hotel on the Upper East Side. It was the last photo. Two cars parked side by side in the hotel garage and their backs as they walked into the hotel together. It was irrefutable proof.

“Why are you showing me this?” I finally managed to ask.

Mr. Carter took another sip of coffee and replied, “We’re in the same boat. You and I have both been betrayed. I thought you had a right to know.”

He was right. I needed to know. I shouldn’t have to suffer in suspicion. I needed to know the clear facts.

Mr. Carter went on. “According to the investigator’s report, their relationship has been going on for over six months. They met at least two or three times a week and have been to a hotel more than five times.”

The specific numbers came out. It was a cold reality, a testament to how long we had both been deceived.

“At first, I was just going to confront my wife,” Mr. Carter said, “but I changed my mind. This is an issue between two people.”

His expression hardened. I could sense his restrained anger. He wasn’t being emotional. He was being cold and rational.

“Your husband is also responsible. He’s a married man who got involved with another woman. My wife is also a married woman who had an affair.”

He was right. Michael and Jessica were both at fault. They were married people who had entered into a relationship with someone else. Mr. Carter and I were the victims.

“Did you know?” he asked.

I nodded. “I saw them by chance a month ago together at a cafe. I tried to confirm it afterward, but couldn’t find any evidence.”

Mr. Carter nodded in understanding. “I was the same way. At first, I kept it all to myself. I was suspicious but couldn’t be sure and I didn’t have proof to confront her. That’s why I hired a professional.”

Hiring an investigator must have been expensive, but for Mr. Carter, it was worth it to know the truth and to take legal action.

“I’ll make copies of this evidence for you. You’ll need it,” he said.

I was grateful. He was a stranger, but he was helping me as someone in the same predicament. I needed this evidence. It was the irrefutable proof my attorney had talked about.

“I also have the original investigator’s report. It’s organized by date with location and timestamps all recorded.”

He took out his phone and showed me the file. It was a log of their meetings compiled in a spreadsheet. Over 30 meetings from October until now were listed meticulously. It was systematic material that would surely be accepted in court.

“Have you consulted with an attorney?” he asked.

I nodded. “I went a month ago. He said I needed evidence.”

Mr. Carter gave a bitter smile. “That’s right. The law moves on evidence, not emotion. No matter how certain you are, it’s useless if you can’t prove it.”

We sat in silence for a moment, each of us mulling over our own pain. A bond of empathy formed between two people experiencing the same suffering.

“To be honest, I was furious at first. At your husband,” Mr. Carter said. “I understood. I had been angry at Jessica, too. The woman who seduced my husband. That’s what I had thought, but then I realized my wife was just as much to blame. She got involved with a married man. They’re both at fault.”

He was right. Michael was wrong and Jessica was wrong. It wasn’t one person’s fault. It was a relationship they built together and they had both betrayed their families.

“What are you planning to do?” Mr. Carter asked.

After a long pause, I answered. “I’m going to file for divorce. I’m certain now.”

Mr. Carter nodded. “Me, too. I’ve already consulted with an attorney and am preparing for a lawsuit.”

We looked at each other. We were victims in the same situation. People who had been betrayed by their spouses and suffered alone. But now, we were not alone. Just knowing there was someone who understood my pain was a comfort.

“I’ll give you my number. If you need anything, contact me anytime.”

Mr. Carter took out another business card. It had his personal cell phone number on it. I gave him my number as well.

We left the cafe. Mr. Carter drove away and I stood there for a moment, holding the envelope of evidence. I now had proof, clear, undeniable proof.

On the way home, a wave of complex emotions washed over me. Sadness, anger, betrayal, and strangely, a sense of relief. It was now certain. I no longer needed to doubt or search for evidence.

I arrived home. I sat on the living room sofa and looked through the photos again. Michael and Jessica smiling together, holding hands, kissing. It was all so vivid. I now knew who my husband had been with, for how long, and in what way.

I picked up my phone. I found attorney Robert Johnson’s business card. I was about to dial but stopped. Not yet. I needed a little more time to think. I had the evidence, but now I had to make the real choice.

I looked out the window. The sun was setting. It had been a long day. In the morning, I was alone. But by evening, I had an ally, a man named James Carter, who was in the same position. We were not alone anymore. We were people who had suffered the same pain and faced the same truth.

Three days had passed since I met James. I had gone over the photos and documents he gave me again and again. It hurt every time I looked at them, but it also brought clarity. I no longer had to live with suspicion. I had proof.

I picked up my phone to call my attorney, Robert Johnson, but just before I pressed the number, I stopped. Something didn’t feel right. I was confused about whether I should start the divorce proceedings immediately or wait a little longer.

Just then, my phone rang. It was James. He wanted to meet, saying he had something to discuss. His voice was serious. It sounded important.

We agreed to meet at the same cafe. James was already there when I arrived, sitting at the window table, sipping his coffee. He motioned for me to sit. As I sat down, he hesitated for a moment before speaking.

“I have a proposal.”

His expression was grave. I wondered what it could be. James took something out of his bag. It was a black briefcase. He placed it on the table and clicked open the metal latches. The case was filled with stacks of $100 bills. My breath caught in my throat and my heart began to pound. The bundles of cash glittered under the fluorescent lights. I couldn’t understand what was happening.

“$100,000 right now. Don’t file for divorce,” James said.

I couldn’t believe my ears. He was offering me $100,000 and telling me not to get a divorce. It didn’t make any sense. Why would he pay for someone else’s divorce? And what were his intentions?

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

James began to explain calmly. “If you file for divorce now, you’ll be the only one who loses. Moving emotionally without evidence will only benefit the perpetrators.”

It sounded similar to what my attorney had said, but James’s words carried a more specific intent.

“Let me tell you my plan. I’m not going to file for divorce right away. I’m going to wait at least three more months.”

I was about to ask why, but he explained first.

“I’m waiting for the most legally damaging moment. Let them get in deeper. Let them leave more evidence.”

It was a cold calculation. It wasn’t emotion. It was strategy. James didn’t want revenge. He wanted to respond in a legally flawless way.

“If we sue now, they’ll be startled for a moment, but they’ll soon come up with excuses,” he said. “They’ll say it was a mistake, a temporary lapse in judgment. But if we give it time and accumulate more evidence, there will be no room for excuses.”

It was logical. It made sense, but there was still a part I didn’t understand.

“But why are you telling me not to get a divorce?”

James took a sip of his coffee and answered, “If you initiate divorce proceedings first, my plan will be ruined. Your husband will become cautious and my wife will find out. Then they’ll destroy evidence and become more careful.”

I understood. If I moved first, Michael would get nervous, which would be communicated to Jessica, and they would both become guarded. It would interfere with James’s evidence gathering.

“We’re in the same boat. You and I have been wronged in the same way. So, let’s end this properly, perfectly, legally.”

James’s gaze was sharp. This wasn’t a proposal. It was a request for collaboration, a call for the victims to join forces and respond effectively.

I looked at the briefcase again. $100,000. It was a lot of money, but I felt a sense of resistance. This felt like a deal. It felt like he was buying my divorce with money.

“I’m not getting a divorce because I need money,” I said.

James nodded. “I know, but this is compensation. For the three months, you’ll have to endure. I know that’s not an easy thing to do.”

He was right. Enduring for three more months would not be easy. It meant living in the same house with Michael, pretending not to know. It meant sleeping in the same bed with a liar every night.

“To be honest, it’s hard for me, too,” James said. “It’s painful to see my wife every day and pretend I don’t know, but I’m enduring it to end this properly.”

Emotion crept into James’s voice. He was struggling, too. We were suffering the same pain, and through it all, he was collecting evidence and making plans.

“A premature divorce can actually benefit the perpetrators,” he said. “If you sue now, the assets will be split 50/50, and you won’t get much in alimony. But if we accumulate evidence of an undeniable breakdown of the marriage, things will be different.”

He explained the legal aspects. He had clearly consulted with an attorney. James was prepared. He was approaching this with reason, not emotion.

“We let them develop a deeper relationship. Let them go on a trip together, start living together, maybe even get pregnant. If that happens, there will be absolutely no room for excuses.”

A chill ran down my spine. It was calculating, but he wasn’t wrong. The more evidence there was, the clearer the relationship, the more advantageous it would be in a lawsuit. That’s what James was aiming for.

“The $100,000 is compensation for the time you have to endure,” he said, “and it’s also a token of my gratitude for your cooperation in my plan.”

He pushed the briefcase towards me. The stacks of cash were packed tightly. It was real. James was serious.

I hesitated. Should I accept? Was this the right thing to do? But on second thought, James was right. If I divorced now, I was unprepared. I had some evidence, but I needed something more definitive.

“So you’re saying if I move first, your plan will be ruined.”

James nodded. “That’s right. If your husband finds out, he’ll tell my wife. Then they’ll either break up immediately or at least become more cautious. It will be harder to gather evidence.”

I understood. We were connected. Just as Michael and Jessica were a couple, James and I were in the same boat. One person’s action would affect the other.

“So what will you do after three months?” I asked.

James answered clearly. “We file lawsuits simultaneously. On the same day, at the same time, we both file for divorce and sue the other party for adultery. They won’t have time to react.”

It was strategic. He was like a soldier. A man who planned and prepared everything. A man who prioritized reason over emotion.

“I’ve already consulted with an attorney and the preparations for the lawsuit are almost complete,” he said. “You should also find an attorney and quietly prepare.”

He explained it step by step as if he were outlining a business plan. But this wasn’t business. It was our lives. The end of our marriages.

I was conflicted. On one hand, I wanted to get a divorce immediately. I didn’t want to live with Michael for another moment. But on the other hand, James was right. A rash response could be disadvantageous.

“What if I refuse?” I asked.

James thought for a moment and answered honestly. “I can’t stop you. It’s your decision, but I would like to ask for a favor. At least give me time to prepare. Even just one month.”

He was desperate. James was just as tormented as I was. How much effort had he put into gathering evidence and making plans? All of that could be undone by my single choice.

I made my decision. I would accept. I would accept James’s proposal, not for the money, but because I wanted to end this properly. I didn’t want to give Michael a chance to make excuses.

“All right. I’ll wait three months.”

A look of relief washed over James’s face. “Thank you. You won’t regret it.”

He pushed the briefcase all the way towards me. I took it. It was heavy. Not with the weight of money, but with the weight of my decision.

Now I had to endure for three more months acting like a normal wife next to Michael.

“One more thing,” James urged. “Please don’t let your husband suspect anything. You have to act as you normally do.”

I nodded. I knew I had to act. I had to pretend to be an unsuspecting wife.

“I’ll do the same,” James said. “In front of my wife, I’ll be the husband who knows nothing. I’ll make sure she never finds out.”

We looked at each other. It felt like we were accomplices, but we weren’t plotting something evil. We were preparing a just response, making the betrayers take responsibility.

“Let’s keep contact to a minimum,” James said. “I’ll contact you discreetly only when necessary.”

I understood. Frequent contact could arouse suspicion. Michael might see my phone or Jessica might check James.

“I’ll let you know if I find out any important information. You should also share anything you discover,” James said. “But don’t try to tail them or investigate on your own. We can’t risk getting caught.”

He meant we had to be cautious. We couldn’t act emotionally. We had to move calmly and methodically.

We left the cafe. James drove off first. I stood there holding the briefcase. The briefcase with $100,000 inside. I could feel its weight.

I took a taxi. On the way home, I stared out the window. It felt like I had made a deal, like I had sold my endurance for money. But it didn’t feel bad. In fact, I felt a sense of clarity. I had a goal now: to endure for three months.

During that time, Michael would know nothing. Neither would Jessica. They would continue to meet and their relationship would deepen, and in three months we would file our lawsuits simultaneously. Only then would Michael and Jessica realize how thoroughly they had been monitored.

I got home. I hid the briefcase deep in a closet, a place Michael would never find. I looked in the mirror. My face looked unfamiliar. I looked like a different person from a month ago. I had changed. I was no longer the naive wife. I was now a woman with a plan, a woman with a purpose, a woman preparing for the day I would face Michael.

A cautious alliance had begun, a collaboration between me and James.

A week had passed since my agreement with James. I had to return to being an ordinary wife, pretending to know nothing, to suspect nothing. It was harder than I thought.

It was morning. Michael was getting ready for work, putting on his usual dress shirt and tie. I set the table for breakfast. Scrambled eggs and toast.

“A normal breakfast. Thanks,” Michael said.

I smiled, trying to make it look natural. He didn’t notice anything. He ate his breakfast comfortably.

“Are you working late again today?” I asked just like I always did.

Michael nodded. “Yes. The project deadline is next week. Just bear with me a little longer.”

It was a lie. I knew the project had finished a month ago. I had checked the company’s website, but I pretended not to know.

“Then you should probably eat out. Should I pack you something?” I asked sweetly.

Michael waved his hand. “No, it’s fine. I’ll eat near the office. Don’t worry about it.”

He would be eating with Jessica. I knew, but my expression didn’t change. I just smiled and nodded.

Michael left for work. I heard the front door close. In that instant, my smile vanished. I stared at the leftover dishes on the table. It was bitter. This was my daily life. A wife making breakfast for a liar.

I did the dishes and cleaned the house, moving as usual. But a part of my mind was constantly wondering, Where is Michael now? Who is he with? What are they talking about?

In the afternoon, I received a text from James. It was short.

Tonight, 7:00 p.m. Restaurant near Grand Central.

It was just location information, the place where Michael and Jessica would meet. I replied, “Confirmed.” That was all. As James had said, we exchanged only facts, no emotional content. If anyone saw our conversation, there would be nothing to suspect.

Evening came. I ate alone. I turned on the TV, but the content didn’t register. I looked at the clock. Michael would be sitting across from Jessica right now, talking and laughing.

I looked at my phone. Another text from James. It was a single photo taken through the restaurant window. Michael and Jessica were sitting there drinking wine. My heart ached. Knowing was one thing, but seeing it was different. Seeing it with my own eyes made it more vivid. But I held back. I suppressed my emotions. Now was the time to gather evidence.

The next morning was the same. I made breakfast for Michael and saw him off to work, acting like a normal wife. Michael seemed to be getting more and more comfortable. His guard was down.

It was the weekend. Michael said he was going to the gym and left. I knew it was a lie, but I let him go. I even told him to have a good time. He left the house with a light heart. I texted James.

Husband left 10:30 a.m.

Just simple information. The reply came.

Wife also left 10:00 a.m.

It meant they were meeting in the afternoon.

James called. His voice was cautious. “Is it a good time to talk?”

I looked around. I was home alone. “Yes, it’s fine.”

James said, “I captured something important today. I saw them go into a condo in Long Island City. A condo, not a hotel. It felt more planned, more permanent. Can you find out whose name the lease is under?”

It was possible it was in Michael’s name. I said I would check.

After hanging up, I went to Michael’s home office. I opened his desk drawers. There were various documents, bank statements, credit card bills, insurance policies. In the bottom drawer, I found a lease agreement, a rental agreement for a condo in Long Island City. The tenant was Michael. The lease was dated two months ago.

I took pictures of the entire document with my phone. It was evidence, undeniable proof that Michael had leased a condo. I sent the photos to James. A reply came quickly.

Perfect. This will be crucial evidence.

It was clear proof of the marriage’s breakdown. It meant Michael had secured a space to meet his mistress.

Evening came. Michael returned wearing sweaty workout clothes. It was an act, an act to pretend he had been to the gym. He went in to shower. I prepared dinner. Michael came out, his hair wet, and sat at the table.

“How was your workout?” I asked as if it were a normal question.

Michael replied, “It was tough, but I feel refreshed. My body feels lighter.”

He continued the lie. I nodded, smiling as if I believed him. Michael ate his dinner with a relieved expression.

That night, Michael fell asleep quickly. Was he tired or was his mind at ease, thinking his wife suspected nothing? I couldn’t sleep. I looked at Michael lying next to me. The man I had lived with for seven years, a man who would soon be a stranger. In three months, he would be a stranger.

The following weeks unfolded in the same way. On Monday, Michael came home late from work. On Wednesday, he came home in the early hours from a company dinner. All lies. I knew from the information James sent me.

He continued to send updates, messages with only dates, times, and locations. There was no emotional content.

November 23, 9:00 p.m. LIC condo.
November 25, 1:00 p.m. Central Park.

I shared information as well, telling him Michael’s schedule.

Husband on business trip. Nov 28 to 29, Chicago.

James replied, “Wife also on business trip. Same dates, same city.”

It meant they went together.

The evidence piled up. Photos, date logs, location information, the lease agreement. It was all objective and clear evidence. Irrefutable data.

A month passed. I got used to pretending to be calm. I sent Michael off every morning and ate dinner alone. We spent our weekends separately. Outwardly, we were a normal couple, but inside it was different. I knew about Michael’s lies, his relationship with Jessica, the existence of the condo. I knew everything. And James knew, too. We were gathering evidence together.

James called. It was evening. Michael was out for work.

“I have a suggestion,” James said.

I was curious.

“I’m thinking of putting a GPS tracker on my wife’s car. Then we can track her location in real time.”

I asked if there were any legal issues. James said he had consulted with his attorney. It was permissible between spouses. Placing a tracker on a spouse’s vehicle is not illegal.

That meant I could put one on Michael’s car, too.

James continued, “We can see in real time when they’re moving together. It will be even more solid proof.”

I agreed. It was necessary.

A few days later, James gave me a tracker. It was a small device, easy to install. After Michael left for work, I went to the parking garage. I attached the tracker underneath Michael’s car. It was magnetic. I placed it in an inconspicuous spot.

From that day on, I could see Michael’s movements in real time on a phone app. His office, restaurants, the condo, hotels, every move was recorded.

James also put a tracker on Jessica’s car. Whenever the two cars’ locations overlapped, I got an alert. It meant they were together. The data accumulated. Their meetings were logged by date and time.

I sent the files to my attorney, Robert Johnson. I emailed him everything. Photos, a copy of the lease, the GPS logs. A few days later, he replied, “This is excellent evidence. With this much, we have a very high chance of winning the case.”

The attorney’s words were reassuring. I was confident that we were preparing properly.

Two months passed. Michael became bolder. The frequency of his late nights increased and he went out more often on weekends. His guard was completely down. He thought his wife suspected nothing.

One evening, Michael said, “I think I have to go on a business trip to Miami next week. For three days. Miami.”

It wasn’t a business trip. It was a vacation. My expression didn’t change as I replied, “Okay, have a safe trip.”

Michael looked grateful. He must have thought I was a good wife, an unsuspecting wife who let him go without question.

I informed James about Michael’s Miami trip. A reply came soon after.

Wife is also going to Miami. Same dates.

It was certain. They were going together.

This will be the final blow, James texted.

He was right. Spending three days and two nights together in Miami was undeniable grounds for divorce. No further proof would be necessary.

During their trip, I kept checking. I looked at the GPS locations. Michael’s and Jessica’s cars were at a rental car agency in Miami, the same one. They had rented a car together. I also confirmed the hotel location. It was a resort in South Beach.

James called the hotel and confirmed a reservation for a double room. He also secured photos. James flew to Miami himself and tailed them. He took pictures of them walking together, eating, and in the hotel lobby.

Michael returned. The night he came back from Miami, he handed me a box of key lime pie, a souvenir. I accepted it with a smile.

“Did you have a good trip?” I asked.

Michael nodded, saying he was tired. “It was exhausting. So many meetings.”

A lie. It wasn’t meetings. It was dates. He would have been looking at the ocean with Jessica, eating delicious food and spending time at the hotel.

“You must be very tired. Go wash up and rest,” I said gently.

Michael thanked me and went into the bathroom. I heard the shower. I looked at my phone. A message from James.

All evidence secured. Now we just wait one more month.

Two of the three months had passed. I just had to endure for one more month. I looked out the window. It was night. I could see the stars. In a month, it would all be over. Michael would find out. He would find out how thoroughly he had been monitored, that all the evidence had already been secured.

The trap had been set. A trap Michael and Jessica couldn’t escape. They thought they were free, but they were in the palm of our hands, caught in the plan that James and I had created.

The final month of our three-month agreement began. The evidence we had accumulated was more than enough, but a more decisive moment was approaching, heralded by a change in Michael’s behavior.

One evening, Michael broached a subject cautiously.

“I’m thinking of getting a small apartment near the office starting next month. The late nights are making the commute too difficult.”

It had finally come. The words I had been expecting. I already knew about the condo in Long Island City, but now he was trying to make it official, creating an excuse for his wife.

“Okay, if you think that’s better, you should do it,” I replied calmly.

A look of relief washed over Michael’s face. He was pleased that his wife had agreed so easily. He must have thought I didn’t suspect a thing.

“I’ll stay there on weekdays and just come home on weekends,” Michael said.

It was, in effect, a declaration of separation. He would live with Jessica during the week and only come home on weekends. He wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore.

I immediately informed James.

Husband announced weekday separation.

The reply came quickly.

This is it. We need to secure proof of cohabitation.

He was right. Simply renting a place was different from actually living there together.

A week later, Michael packed his bags. He filled a large suitcase with clothes and toiletries, looking like someone leaving for a long business trip. I watched him.

“Did you pack everything you need?” I asked.

Michael nodded. “Yeah, I’m good. I’ll be back on the weekends, so don’t worry.”

I pretended to be concerned and even saw him to the door. Michael left the house with a clear conscience, believing his wife was completely oblivious.

The moment the door closed, I pulled out my phone and checked the GPS. Michael’s car started moving. It was heading towards Long Island City, just as expected.

Thirty minutes later, I got a text from James.

Wife’s car heading in the same direction. Similar ETA.

They were meeting. They were going to start living together.

That night, James called. His voice was tense.

“I confirmed it at the condo entrance. They went in together, both carrying luggage.”

It was the beginning of their cohabitation. Michael and Jessica would now live like a married couple. They would wake up together, come home together, and sleep in the same space.

“I got photos,” James said. “I even got a shot of them getting into the elevator with their luggage.”

It was perfect evidence, proving they weren’t just meeting, but living together.

Several days passed. Michael didn’t come home all week. He sent a few texts.

How are you? Work is busy.

Formal, perfunctory messages.

I checked the GPS. Every night, Michael’s car was in the parking garage of the Long Island City condo. Jessica’s car was there, too, parked side by side.

James continued his surveillance. He documented them leaving together in the morning and returning together in the evening. The photos piled up day by day.

One week, two weeks, a month went by. A month later, I met James. Not at a cafe, but in his car. We had to be more cautious now.

James opened his laptop. “Look, this is the record for the past month.”

The screen displayed a spreadsheet. It was a log organized by date, work departure times, arrival times, places they ate dinner, condo entry times. Everything was recorded.

“They spent 27 out of 30 days together,” James said. “That’s undeniable cohabitation.”

He was right. There was no room for excuses. This wasn’t a mistake or a temporary fling. It was a planned and sustained relationship.

He opened another file. It was full of photos, dozens of them organized in a folder. Pictures of them going to work, coming home, grocery shopping, taking walks together.

“This is the clincher.”

He enlarged one photo. It was taken from the condo’s balcony. Michael and Jessica were standing together talking over coffee. It was morning. They had greeted the morning in the same space.

“There’s more.”

James opened another file. Financial records. Michael’s credit card statements.

“How did you get this?” I asked.

James explained, “Through my attorney. It’s possible to formally request and view a spouse’s financial transaction records.”

The screen showed detailed statements, purchases from a supermarket near Long Island City, home appliance stores, household goods. It was the spending pattern of people sharing a home.

“They bought furniture, too,” James said. “A bed, a sofa, a dining table. They set up a new home, not a temporary hideout, but a proper place to live.”

“My wife’s card statements are similar,” he added. “Kitchenware, bedding, interior decor. They furnished the place together, each paying their share.”

Could there be more obvious proof of cohabitation?

“And I secured this, too.”

James opened yet another file. It was a video, security footage from the condo lobby.

“How did you get this?” I asked, astonished.

James answered calmly. “I asked an employee at the management office. When I mentioned that legal procedures were involved, they cooperated.”

He played the video. It showed Michael and Jessica coming out of the elevator and walking through the lobby. It was morning. They were heading to work together. It looked natural, like a couple who had lived together for a long time.

“This video alone is enough,” James said. “But there’s more.”

He continued to show me evidence: package delivery records, utility payment histories, parking garage entry logs. It was all there. He was systematic, leaving no stone unturned.

“I showed this to my lawyer,” James said. “He says our chances of winning are over 95%.”

“I felt a sense of relief,” James said. “The three months of waiting had not been in vain. We had secured perfect evidence. We should be able to get a significant settlement. This goes beyond simple infidelity to cohabitation.”

He was right. It was clear grounds for the dissolution of the marriage. What could be more definitive proof than a spouse living with another person?

“There’s no reason to wait any longer,” James said.

I agreed. The evidence was more than sufficient. Photos, videos, financial records, GPS logs, security footage. We had everything.

“I’m planning to file the lawsuit next week. Are you ready?” James asked.

I nodded. “I’m ready.”

I had waited three months. It was time to end it.

“It’s best if we do it on the same day,” James said. “If the lawsuits are served simultaneously, they’ll be caught completely off guard.”

It was a strategic judgment. If one filed first, the other party would have time to prepare. But by proceeding at the same time, they would have no time to react.

“How about Monday?” James suggested.

It was Thursday, four days from now. I agreed. Monday was good.

“Then on Monday at 10:00 a.m., we’ll each file the papers from our respective attorneys’ offices,” James said.

Simultaneously, the plan was set. James had already prepared everything with his attorney. I had also finished my consultations with Robert Johnson and reviewed the draft of the complaint.

“It will take a few days for the papers to be served,” James explained. “They should receive them by Wednesday.”

That meant Michael would receive the court documents on Wednesday. Two sets of documents, one for the divorce and one for the lawsuit against his mistress.

“I’d like to see his face then,” James said with a wry smile.

I felt the same way. How shocked would Michael be to learn that his wife knew everything, that she had been gathering evidence for three months?

I got out of the car. James and I shook hands.

“See you Monday,” he said.

I nodded. We had been allies for three months. Two people who had endured the same pain and worked toward the same goal. Now only the final step remained.

I returned to an empty house. Michael was at the condo with Jessica. They would be eating dinner, watching a show, and falling asleep together, but they had no idea. They didn’t know that their every move was being recorded, that it was all piling up as evidence soon to be submitted to a court.

I lay in bed alone. I had slept alone for three months. It was hard at first, but I was used to it now. It was better this way, not having to lie in the same bed as a liar.

I closed my eyes. I looked forward to Monday. At 10:00 a.m., I would go to the attorney’s office. I would sign the complaint and file it with the court. And then I would wait. I would wait for the day the documents arrived at Michael’s door.

They had crossed a line, a line Michael and Jessica should never have crossed. They had gone from just meeting to living together. Now it was time for them to pay the price, perfectly legally.

It was Monday morning. I woke up earlier than usual. Today was a special day, the day I would go to Johnson and Associates to sign the lawsuit and file it with the court.

When I arrived at Robert Johnson’s office, he greeted me in the conference room.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

I nodded. “I’m ready.”

I had waited three months. It was time to begin.

“There are two lawsuits,” Mr. Johnson explained, pointing to a stack of documents on the table. “One for divorce and one suing the third party. The complaints were meticulously prepared. The divorce suit is against your husband, Michael Davis. The other is against Jessica Vance.”

He went through the documents page by page, explaining the grounds for the lawsuit, the amount of damages requested, and the demands for asset division. The legal jargon was dense, but the content was clear.

“We are requesting $50,000 in damages from your husband and $30,000 from his mistress,” he said. “For asset division, we are demanding a 60/40 split. It isn’t the typical 50/50 because the responsibility for the marriage’s breakdown lies with Michael. You are entitled to a larger share.”

“You can sign here.”

I signed in several places. The hand holding the pen trembled, not from nervousness, but from the relief of finally bringing this to an end.

“The evidence has already been compiled,” Mr. Johnson said. “Photos, videos, GPS logs, financial records. It’s all attached.”

He showed me a thick binder. It contained all the evidence collected over three months, including the materials from James.

“It’s airtight. With this much evidence, our chances of winning are extremely high.”

His words were confident.

I finished signing. Now all that was left was to file it with the court.

“I will file it electronically at exactly 10:00 a.m. At that same moment, James will be in his own attorney’s office signing his papers.”

10:00 a.m. arrived. Mr. Johnson sat at his computer and logged into the court’s e-filing system. With a few clicks, the documents were uploaded. A filing complete message appeared.

“It’s filed,” he said. “The court will now review it and serve the papers.”

It was done. It had begun. The lawsuits were officially underway.

I left the office and texted James.

Filing complete.

A reply came quickly.

Me too. Now we wait.

It had been done simultaneously.

I returned home feeling strangely calm. A peace made possible by the three months of patience and endurance. Now the law would decide.

Tuesday passed and then it was Wednesday. I got a call from Mr. Johnson.

“The papers have been served. They should arrive tomorrow.”

Tomorrow, Michael would receive the court documents. Michael, who had been living with Jessica, oblivious to everything, was about to get the shock of his life.

It was Thursday afternoon. My phone rang. It was Michael. His voice was frantic.

“Honey, where are you? Are you home?”

I told him I was.

“I’m coming right now. Don’t go anywhere.”

The line went dead. His voice was shaking. He had received the papers. He finally knew.

Thirty minutes later, the front door burst open. Michael stormed in, his face pale. He was holding a court-stamped envelope.

“What the hell is this?” he shouted.

He was normally a quiet person, but his voice was loud with panic.

I answered calmly. “It’s exactly what it looks like. A divorce petition.”

Michael looked at me in disbelief. He unfolded the documents and began to read, his face hardening.

“I also filed a suit against Jessica Vance,” I added.

Michael’s head snapped up, his eyes wide.

“How could you—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence. He couldn’t comprehend how I knew about Jessica, how I had gathered evidence.

“I’ve known for three months,” I said. “I’ve known who you were meeting, where you were living. I know everything.”

Michael collapsed onto the sofa, the papers falling from his hand.

“I have photos and videos, GPS records, financial statements, security footage. I have it all,” I said, listing each item.

Michael’s face grew paler with every word. He knew he couldn’t deny it.

“Jessica’s husband knows, too. He probably filed his own lawsuit today.”

Michael shot up and grabbed his phone, trying to call Jessica. She didn’t answer. He tried several more times, but the calls went straight to voicemail.

“She’s not picking up,” he said, voice breaking.

“She’s probably confronting her husband right now,” I said. “James would have met with Jessica today, lawsuit in hand.”

Michael sat back down, clutching his head. He was processing the reality that he was completely caught, that all the evidence had been secured.

“Since when did you know?” he asked, his voice a whisper, drained of energy.

“Three months ago.”

“Since the day I saw you at that cafe near Grand Central?”

Michael seemed to remember that day. His expression tightened.

“I started documenting everything from then on,” I said. “Your lies, your meetings, the condo lease, the Miami trip, the cohabitation, everything.”

Michael said nothing. There was nothing he could say.

“Why?” I asked. I truly wanted to know why a man I had spent seven years with would choose someone else.

After a long silence, he finally spoke.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

That was all. An apology, but no reason. He couldn’t give one because there was no excuse.

His phone rang. It was Jessica. Michael answered.

“Yeah, it’s me. You got them, too? Yeah, I just—what do we do?”

His voice was panicked. Jessica had been served as well. They were both in the same situation.

He hung up, looking lost.

“She got sued for divorce, too. Her husband knew everything.”

James had confronted Jessica at the same time. The plan had worked perfectly.

That night, Michael didn’t go back to the condo. He stayed at the house, sleeping on the living room sofa, not in our bedroom. I could tell he didn’t sleep at all.

The next day, James contacted me. We met at a cafe.

“I met with my wife yesterday,” he said, his expression complex. “She denied it at first, but when I showed her the evidence, she had nothing to say.”

Jessica had reacted just like Michael, stunned that her husband knew everything.

“She tried to call your husband, asking what to do,” James continued. “Now they’ll start blaming each other.”

He was right. In a crisis, people try to protect themselves. Michael and Jessica would be no different.

A week passed. I heard from Mr. Johnson.

“Your husband’s attorney contacted me. They want to negotiate a settlement.”

It was the expected response. They knew they would lose in court.

“What are their terms?” I asked.

“A $30,000 settlement and a 50/50 asset split,” Mr. Johnson replied.

It was far too low. I had requested $50,000 in damages and a 60/40 split.

“Reject it,” I said. “If they don’t meet our terms, we go to trial.”

Mr. Johnson nodded. We would stand firm.

A few days later, James reported a similar development. “My wife also proposed a settlement, but the terms are ridiculous.” He had rejected it, too.

“With such clear evidence, there was no reason to compromise,” James said. “They’ve started turning on each other.”

When I asked what he meant, he explained, “My wife is blaming your husband. She claims he seduced her, that she tried to refuse, but he was persistent. It’s absurd. After living together for months, that’s her excuse.”

“What about your husband?” James asked.

Michael was saying something similar. That Jessica had been aggressive, that he had tried to turn her down.

“They’re shifting the blame, trying to paint themselves as the victim,” James said.

I couldn’t help but laugh. A bitter, miserable laugh. The people who claimed to be in love and live together were now attacking each other.

Another month passed. No agreement was reached. Neither Michael nor Jessica would accept responsibility. We had no choice but to go to trial.

The first court date was set for the 15th of next month. Michael remained at the house but didn’t return to the condo. It seemed his contact with Jessica had dwindled. When crisis struck, their love had cooled.

Whenever we passed each other in the living room, Michael would lower his head. He no longer apologized. There was nothing left to say. Only guilt and regret remained.

I heard from James. “My wife moved out of the condo. She went back to her parents’ house.”

Jessica had broken down. The nest they had built was now empty.

“How is your husband?” James asked.

“He’s here, but we don’t speak. It’s as if we’re living in separate houses.”

The relationship was already over. Only the legal formalities remained.

That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. The legal battle had begun, and two families were collapsing simultaneously. Michael and Jessica had claimed to love each other, but now they were at each other’s throats. Watching the perpetrators fall apart was a bitter experience. There was no thrill of revenge, only a sense of finality. Now the law would decide who was at fault and who had to take responsibility.

The trial proceeded over three sessions. Each time I sat in the courtroom, it felt surreal. Facing the man I had spent seven years with as plaintiff and defendant was something I never imagined.

In the first session, Michael’s attorney tried to deny the evidence, claiming the photos were a matter of perspective and the GPS records were coincidental. But when Mr. Johnson presented the security footage, they were speechless. It was undeniable. A clear video of them entering and leaving the condo together.

In the second session, Jessica was called as a witness. In a trembling voice, she testified that Michael had pursued her and that she was a victim. But when James’ attorney presented the condo lease agreement, which she had co-signed, she was unable to speak.

In the third session, the judge declared, “The evidence is irrefutable. The defendant’s responsibility for the breakdown of the marriage is acknowledged.”

It was a cold judgment based on facts, not emotions. Michael sat with his head bowed.

The verdict came a month later. The judgment was mailed from the court. Mr. Johnson called me after reviewing it.

“We won. The ruling is almost entirely in our favor.”

I was awarded $45,000 in damages from Michael and $25,000 from Jessica for a total of $70,000. The asset division was ruled 60/40. The apartment, our savings, 60% of our marital assets were awarded to me. It was the court’s judgment that the fault lay with Michael.

I heard from James as well.

“I got a similar outcome. $60,000 in damages and a 60/40 split.”

His voice was calm, neither happy nor sad, just relieved that it was over.

“You went through a lot,” he said.

I said the same to him. We had endured for four months together, allies working toward the same goal. Now it was time to go our separate ways.

A week after the verdict, Michael moved out. He packed his things and left. I didn’t ask where he was going. I didn’t want to know. He was already a stranger.

“I was sorry,” he said just before he left.

I nodded. It wasn’t forgiveness, just an acknowledgment that it was over.

The front door closed. Seven years of marriage ended just like that.

I was alone in the empty house, but my heart felt strangely light. It was as if a heavy burden had been lifted.

The asset division was finalized. The apartment was transferred to my name. The savings were divided and the damages were paid. With the $100,000 from James, it was a substantial sum.

I heard news about Michael. He had quit his job. The affair had become known during the lawsuit and his position at the company had become untenable. He had lost his social standing.

The same happened to Jessica. James told me she had quit the advertising agency after her colleagues found out.

Michael and Jessica lost everything at once. Their assets, their trust, and their reputations.

The judgment of the law was cold. Those who do wrong must pay the price.

But I didn’t feel like I had gotten revenge. Watching them fall didn’t bring me any pleasure. I just felt that a just outcome had been reached.

One day, I called my mother. I hadn’t told her about the divorce, not wanting to worry her. But it was time.

“Mom, I got divorced.”

Silence on the other end. After a long pause, she asked when. I told her it was last week. My mother sighed.

“It must have been so hard.”

“I’m okay,” I said. And I really was. I told her I actually felt relieved.

She told me to come home to rest for a while.

That weekend, I visited my parents. My mom greeted me at the door and my dad was in the living room.

“You went through a lot,” my dad said.

I nodded, telling them it was hard, but I had gotten through it. My dad said I did the right thing, that I had handled it properly.

I ate my mom’s home-cooked meal. It was the first proper meal I’d had in a long time.

I spent a week at my parents’ house, recovering from the accumulated fatigue. I thought about what I would do, how I would live my life.

I got one last message from James.

Coffee.

We met in a much more relaxed atmosphere. He looked different, his expression brighter.

“I’m looking for a new job. Time for a fresh start,” he said.

He was preparing for a new beginning, just like me.

“I wish you all the best,” he said.

I thanked him for his help over the past four months. I couldn’t have ended it so perfectly without him.

We parted ways, likely to never see each other again, but he would always be an important person in my life, the ally who helped me through the hardest time.

I returned to my home. My home. The traces of Michael were gone. I had redecorated, bought new furniture. It was a new start.

I sat in the living room and looked out the window. Spring was coming. New buds were sprouting on the trees. Just as the seasons were changing, so was my life.

I started my translation work again. I contacted my clients and they were happy to have me back. It felt good to work, to focus on something, to prepare for the future.

My friend Sarah called. I told her everything.

“You did the right thing,” she said.

Her words were a comfort, affirming my choices. “Now you can start fresh. You’re still young. Good days are ahead.”

She was right. I was 35. I could start over.

Life settled into a routine. I worked in the mornings, exercised in the evenings, and met friends on the weekends. Thoughts of Michael came occasionally, but there were no regrets. I believed I had made the right choice by not tolerating his wrongdoing and protecting my dignity.

This wasn’t revenge. It was a just response. The result wasn’t an emotional victory, but the preservation of my self-respect.

One evening, I stood on my balcony and looked up at the clear night sky. A cool breeze blew. I realized then that divorce isn’t an end, but a beginning. It wasn’t about falling apart, but about standing up again.

Seven years hadn’t been erased. A new life had begun. I had no regrets. Choosing Michael, deciding to divorce him, they were all my choices. I decided to look forward instead of dwelling on the past.

It was a new beginning. Living again under my own name, Grace Miller. Not as someone’s wife, but as myself.

I lay in bed, alone, but not lonely. Peaceful. Tomorrow was waiting with a new day and new possibilities. It was a quiet but certain case of cause and effect. The person who did wrong paid the price, and the person who endured protected their dignity.

All that was left was a new beginning. Not regret, but hope. Not an end, but a start—the start of Grace’s new beginning.