Had contracts. Had clients. Past tense. Hartwell's voice was ice cold. Your termination is effective immediately.
Amber looked at me with pure hatred. This is all your fault. No, I said quietly. This is all your choice. Security arrived.
Two large men in uniforms who'd probably seen this scene played out dozens of times before. They escorted Amber to her office while she gathered her personal belongings, then walked her to the elevator while half the firm watched in fascination. I stayed in Hartwell's office for a few more minutes making small talk about the weather and the local sports teams. When I finally left, I could feel the weight of dozens of stares following me to the elevator. The word would be all over town by dinner time.
Amber Morrison caught cheating, fired from her job, publicly humiliated. And this was just the beginning. My phone buzzed as I was walking to my truck. A text from Tess. I hate you.
I typed back, "Join the club. Your mother's the president. " She didn't respond, but I knew she was probably posting about it on every social media platform she could access. Good. The more people who knew the truth, the better. I drove home through streets that suddenly felt different, like I was seeing my town through new eyes.
This was my world now, not the comfortable married life I'd known for 20 years, but something raw, more honest, a place where actions had consequences and secrets couldn't stay buried forever. The real revenge was just getting started. Two weeks after Amber lost her job, I hired a private investigator. His name was Ray Sullivan, a former cop who'd traded his badge for a camera and a flexible relationship with privacy laws. He worked out of a cramped office above a pizza shop surrounded by filing cabinets and the lingering smell of pepperoni.
"What exactly are you looking for? " Ray asked, leaning back in a chair that squeaked like a dying mouse. "Everything," I said. "Financial records, business dealings, personal history. I want to know what Curtis Brennan had for breakfast and who he owes money to. " Ray nodded slowly. "This is about the affair. " "This is about justice. " "Justice costs extra. " I paid him a retainer that represented most of my savings account, money I'd been putting aside for a vacation that would never happen, a retirement that suddenly seemed very far away.
But some investments are worth making. Ray delivered his report 3 days later. It was a thick folder full of photocopied documents, surveillance photos, and the kind of information that could ruin a man's life if it fell into the wrong hands. Curtis Brennan, it turned out, was not the successful businessman he pretended to be. His car lot was mortgaged to the hilt.