Take half my business. Paint me as the poor idiot who couldn't satisfy his wife. I read lines from Lauren calling me safe, predictable, simple, and easy to manipulate. I read her calling Ryan a golden retriever who tries too hard. I read her calling Brandon desperate but useful.
I read her mocking their wives, Jessica and Michelle, as clueless. And the part that flipped the switch in me? Her confidence. The way she wrote about me like I was already dead inside. Like she'd already decided how the world would see me when she was done.
Like I wouldn't even fight back. There's a point where shock stops hurting. Turns into something steadier. By the time I set the iPad down, the house didn't feel like mine anymore. I walked to the sink, ran cold water over my hands, and watched it drip off my knuckles.
Not shaking, just thinking. Two truths settled in, heavy and clean. One, my marriage wasn't dying. It was already dead. Two, if Lauren wanted a story where I played the helpless victim, she picked the wrong man.
I turned off the faucet, grabbed the iPad, and took it to my office. If they wanted a war, I wasn't going to show up unarmed. The moment the numbness wore off, I realized I didn't need comfort. I needed information, and I knew exactly who to call. Once I knew the truth, the anger stopped being hot.
Settled low like a pilot light. Steady. Useful. Lauren had 6 months to plan her move. I gave myself one night to plan mine.
At midnight, after rereading every message twice, I called Karen Bolton, former cop, current private investigator, the kind of woman who could track a footprint through a tornado. I'd used her on insurance jobs before. She owed me a favor. She picked up on the second ring. Jason?
You don't call this late unless somebody's stealing heavy machinery. Worse. I said. My wife. That got her quiet.
I laid it out for her. Not the emotions. Just the facts. Dates. Names.
Screenshots. The hotel plan. The divorce timeline they were building behind my back. Tara's involvement. Ryan and Brandon's roles.
When I finished, Karen whistled low. This isn't adultery, she said. This is premeditated psychological warfare. Yeah. I said.
So, help me turn it around. Legally. She didn't hesitate. Send me everything. By the next afternoon, she had a dossier.