The next day, I sent my private investigator to follow them. Brian took Vanessa to a luxury maternity boutique. They wandered through aisles of pastel cribs and tiny shoes, laughing like newlyweds. In one photo, Brian’s hand was on her waist, the other brushing tenderly over her swollen stomach, his gaze soft and tender—the way he used to look at me when we first got married. And then, he escorted her into a jewelry store and slipped a two-thousand-dollar diamond ring onto her finger, as if to mock me.
When we got married, I told him not to spend too much on my ring. He’d cried, said I was the most understanding woman alive. Now? He could hand over two grand for his mistress without blinking.
I saved every photo. Evidence for the divorce.
That afternoon, I headed to the shopping district—the same area Vanessa was known to frequent—under the pretense of buying clothes. I spotted her in a café, chatting with a friend. I ordered a coffee and took the corner seat near enough to catch every word.
“Vanessa, are you sure want to keep this going?” her friend asked. “He’s married.”