The cameras were strategically placed in the living room and bedroom, and their feeds were linked directly to my phone.
The recorders, one in my bag, the other in my pocket, were my constant companions, ready to capture any evidence.
Not content with passive measures, I reached out to a private detective, Jerry Short, offering a substantial sum for his services.
His mission was clear: to watch the private villa and document any intimate moments between Henry and Selena.
This was my new battlefield, and Henry was my adversary.
I would ensure he left this house with nothing but disgrace.
Upon Henry's return, I was perched atop a stool to delicately remove the wedding photograph that had once proudly hung at the heart of our bedroom.
The moment his eyes caught my action, a frown of displeasure creased his brow.
"It's perfectly fine where it is. Why are you taking it down?"
His voice, laced with impatience, reached my ears as I steadfastly refused to turn and face him.
"It's gathered dust. I thought to clean it," I replied.
The wedding photo slipped from my grasp, crashing to the floor and fracturing into two pieces.