"This about a cheating spouse?" "Ex-spouse." "Soon." I said, "But before I walk away, I want to take everything she built her pride on and burn it down. She doesn't get to walk away in heels and lipstick while I lie in the wreckage."
He nodded. "Say no more." While Chase got to work, I went back to mine. I dove into my art like it was my only air supply. I started creating a new graphic novel, something raw and angry.
The story of a man betrayed by the one person he trusted most. The antagonist? A seductive woman with a mask of virtue and poison in her veins. Sound familiar? Weeks passed.
Vanessa kept calling, crying one day, furious the next. She tried guilting me. "You're being dramatic, Liam. People evolve. Why are you punishing me for wanting to grow?"
"You're not growing." I said flatly. "You're rotting and calling it a blossom." She went quiet after that. Then, one day Chase delivered.
A USB drive, footage, screenshots, timestamped texts. Vanessa and Colt weren't just co-workers. They were an office cliché. Flirting over coffee, sneaking into the supply room, weekend getaways disguised as corporate training. She'd been living a double life for nearly a year.
I watched one video in silence. Her sitting in his lap at a beachside cafe, laughing like she didn't just carve a knife into my back. I didn't flinch. My heart didn't race. I just saved the files.
It was go time. But I wasn't going to scream or cry or smash her apartment windows. No, that'd be too easy. Vanessa worked at Ignite Strategies, a high-level marketing firm with a pristine reputation, and she held a management role. Company policy strictly prohibited relationships with subordinates.
Colt was her junior. I didn't need to ruin her. I just needed to tell the truth with proof. But not yet. I had something else to prepare first.
I knew how Vanessa's mind worked. She believed she had me wrapped around her finger, that if she pushed enough emotional buttons, I'd crack. She didn't know I'd already stepped off the chessboard and was watching her play herself. To keep her complacent, I started replying, "I'm sorry, too. I just need time.
Maybe we could talk next week. Just coffee. Nothing heavy." Her texts became warm again, hopeful. She sent selfies, said she missed my smell.
It made me sick, but I played the part because revenge isn't a punch. It's a symphony. Meanwhile, I started rebuilding my own life. I picked up freelance art gigs. I started jogging again at dawn, letting the chill slap the grief out of my bones.
I reconnected with old friends, told no one what was really happening. Not yet. One night, Dylan looked at me and said, "You seem calm. Too calm." That's because the storm's already scheduled.
Scheduled? Yeah. I smiled coldly. "It isn't about three weeks. She just doesn't know she's standing in the middle of it."