"Heartbreak requires structure," I said. He laughed. "Man, you're going to turn this into a TED Talk. Title: How to Monetize Betrayal: A Journey in Conditional Formatting."
We clinked our coffee mugs in a toast. That night, after Tar left, I sat alone with my masterpiece of a spreadsheet glowing softly on the screen. Each cell represented control, closure, and a little bit of vengeance. I even added a note at the bottom that read: She thought I'd crumble. Joke's on her. I calculate.
I printed a copy for safekeeping, slipped it into a folder, and placed it in the drawer next to our marriage certificate, which now felt like a warranty that had expired early. Then, just for fun, I opened the bank app again. Her latest transaction popped up: $87.50, Wine Loft Bar and Lounge. I smiled.
"Oh, you're still at it." I didn't feel jealous, not even mad, just strategic. Because if she thought she was the only one capable of surprises, she clearly never met me. Midnight motivation.
I started researching divorce attorneys, landed on a name that sounded like she charged by the ounce of confidence: Mrs. Delgado, Esq. Her website tagline read, "Don't get even. Get everything." I bookmarked it.
Poured another drink and leaned back in my chair, feeling something close to peace. Revenge wasn't chaos. It was math. And I was damn good at math.
By midnight, I had my plan neatly stored in both physical and digital form, password-protected, cloud-backed, and printed on premium paper because if I was going to burn down a marriage, I wanted it to look professional. I sat there in the glow of the laptop screen, Milo curled up by my feet, and realized something that actually made me laugh out loud. She thought she'd broken me.
But what she'd really done was wake me up. I looked at my reflection in the dark window and said to myself, "Congratulations, Belinda. You just turned a man into an organized hurricane." Then I shut down the laptop, patted Milo on the head, and whispered, "Revenge may be slow, buddy, but it autosaves."
When people imagine hiring a divorce lawyer, they picture dramatic phone calls, boxes of tissues, maybe a playlist titled Heartbreak and Chardonnay. Me? I walked into Mrs. Delgado's law office like I was clocking in for a board meeting. I didn't want pity. I wanted precision.
I didn't need therapy. I needed a woman who saw a marriage not as sacred, but as a contract that could be dissolved faster than bleach on a red-wine stain. Mrs. Delgado didn't disappoint. Her office smelled like victory and lavender sanitizer.
Diplomas lined the wall, each one basically screaming, "I've ruined happier couples than yours." She was in her 50s, silver hair cut sharp enough to slice egos, wearing a suit that looked like it came with its own legal precedent. The second she shook my hand, I knew Belinda was in trouble. Her grip was firm, her nails immaculate, and her eyes carried the kind of confidence you only get from winning arguments against men twice your size and IQ.
"So, Mr. Carver," she said, settling behind her desk. "Tell me everything, and don't leave out the juicy parts. I bill by the hour, but I enjoy good storytelling." I smiled.
"You'll get a bestseller. My wife confessed she had a one-night stand with her boss." "Recently?" she asked, pen poised like a dagger. "Last week, right before bedtime."
"Great timing, really. Nothing like ruining sleep and trust in one sentence." Mrs. Delgado nodded sympathetically but smirked just slightly. "And you have proof?"
"Oh," I said, leaning forward with the confidence of a man who'd already built a case stronger than Starbucks coffee. "Mrs. Delgado, I have more documentation than the IRS." Her eyebrows lifted. "Show me."
I opened my laptop, clicked the folder labeled Exhibit Belinda, and turned the screen toward her. She scrolled through bank statements, texts, and photos with the enthusiasm of a woman watching her favorite courtroom drama. "Oh, she's done," she said finally. "This is like watching a cat bring a bird home and pretending it's a gift."