Just before midnight, my phone buzzed. Half-asleep, I assumed my wife Claire was still in New York for her work trip—until I saw my brother Daniel calling from Maui. His voice was tense: Claire had checked into his hotel hours earlier with a man named Eric Monroe, her co-worker, and was using my ATM card.
I told Daniel to gather proof—photos, receipts, timestamps—and not to stop her spending. By morning, I had pictures of Claire laughing, holding hands, and kissing Eric at the same hotel we’d honeymooned in. I froze the card, knowing she’d soon hit a wall. Hours later, she called, panicked. I told her Daniel said she looked great in the presidential suite, but “shame about the location.”
Eric bailed the next day, leaving her stranded. I cut her off from all accounts, filed for separation citing misconduct, and exposed her on social media, ruining her curated “perfect marriage” image. She lost her job and, eventually, everything she’d built.
Weeks later, she asked to meet. Pale and defeated, she apologized. I handed her the divorce papers—no alimony, no assets. “I don’t hate you,” I said. “I just don’t care anymore.” I walked away lighter, knowing the best revenge was moving on in peace while she faded into obscurity.
