My Husband Cheated at His College Reunion (She Gets Revenge #10)

Prologue

My husband thinks I’m at Target right now.

He thinks I’m pushing a red cart through the laundry detergent aisle with my hair in a ponytail, maybe picking up sippy cups, maybe browsing the dollar section because that’s what wives like me do on a Thursday morning while their husbands sit in corner offices and make partner and handle things.

He kissed our daughter goodbye this morning.

He didn’t kiss me. He never kisses me. But he told me to have a good day, and he said it in the voice of a man who has absolutely no idea that his wife is now standing in the lobby of his law firm with a folder that’s going to end his career.

The folder has every email, every photo, every hotel confirmation, every text thread, every lie he told me for eight months while I packed his daughter’s lunch and folded his shirts and stood in our kitchen in a new dress asking if he wanted to go to dinner.

He always said no. It’s been a long week, he said. I have to work on this case, he said.

But that bastard said yes to her.

I know because I’ve seen the photos. I’ve seen his arm around her waist at his college reunion—the one he told me was a guys’ thing, the one he said I’d be bored at, the one he looked me in the eye and lied about while I stood in our kitchen like a woman begging for a seat at a table that was never set for her.

I’ve seen her comment on the post—best weekend ever, can’t wait for next time—with a little heart emoji, because nothing says I’m fucking your husband like a red heart on a public Instagram story.

And the emails. God, the emails. Eight months of them on a laptop he never thought I’d open because why would his wife look? Why would I ever sit down at his desk and read what he’s been writing to a blonde paralegal at a rival law firm between sending her photos I can’t unsee?

My hands are shaking. Not from fear—from the effort of holding still, of keeping this fire inside my ribs from burning through my skin.

Two weeks ago I was crying on my couch at midnight while my best friend held my wine glass and told me to breathe.

Two weeks ago I was a woman whose husband broke her heart.

That woman is gone.

The one standing in this lobby has receipts.

And now I’m going to destroy my husband’s career. And then I’m going to call my divorce lawyer, because my husband is going to pay for what he did.