When it ended, I gasped for air like I’d been underwater. My chest hurt. My stomach twisted. I wanted to drive home and confront him. Scream at him. Demand answers.
Instead, I cried silently in that parking garage. Then I wiped my face, fixed my makeup, and kept scrolling.
This wasn’t today.
One week back — same thing. Two weeks back — same woman. Same bed. Same betrayal.
I went back two months.
Every Tuesday. Every Thursday. After I left for work.
Her name, I later discovered, was Madison.
By the time my phone buzzed with a text from Ryan — Hey babe, what do you want for dinner? Love you. — I felt nothing but cold fury.
I replied, Anything is fine. Love you too.
He would not know that I knew.
Not yet.
I spent the next morning calling in sick. While he left for work at 8:15, kissing my forehead like always, I waited until his car pulled away.
Then I went to work — just not the kind he expected.
I downloaded six months of footage. Saved everything to multiple drives. I accessed his email. Found a hidden folder labeled “Projects.” It was filled with messages to Madison.
They talked about missing each other. About how “dangerous and exciting” it felt. About how he was “working on leaving his wife.”