Her face twisted in disgust.
“You think Gavin will stay with you after this?” she snarled.
I picked up her phone, scrolling through their messages—dozens of them. Photos. Voice notes. Plans. Lies.
I photographed everything with my own phone.
“See, Lydia,” I said, “you’ve just given me every ounce of evidence I’ll need.”
“For what?” she whispered.
“For the divorce, Gavin never thought I’d see coming.”
Her fingers twitched—movement returning. Good. Let her feel everything.
“You won’t win,” she spat.
“Oh, I will,” I said quietly. “The house is in my name. I supported him financially when he switched jobs three times. And courts don’t take kindly to cheating spouses. Especially when their mistress calls the kids brats.”
Her eyes became glassy.
By the time she could fully move again, her anger had drained into something like panic.
“You ruined everything,” she muttered as she grabbed her bag.
“No,” I corrected. “Gavin did that. You just walked into the wrong massage studio.”
She left, slamming the door so hard my framed license rattled on the wall.
That night, when Gavin came home, I was waiting for him at the kitchen table. He looked tired, distracted—like always.
“We need to talk,” I said, placing my phone in front of him.
When the screen lit up with the pictures I’d taken, he went pale.
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