I took my wife to a party. She left with another man because he’s rich. He threw a dollar bill on me and said, “I will take good care of her tonight.” The next day, my cheating wife found out her key no longer fit the door and her affair partner called her screaming. You didn’t tell me your husband is.

My name is Darren Hol, and I’m 46 years old with the kind of life that looks boring on paper, but feels pretty damn satisfying when you’re living it.

I own Holt Custom Smokers, a Tennessee-based company that specializes in turning cold, lifeless steel into beautiful barbecue pits that make grown men weep with joy. We’re not talking about those sad little propane grills you buy at Home Depot and pretend make you a pitm. No, sir. I build the kind of smokers that could double as modern art installations if modern art actually served a purpose beyond confusing people at galleries.

These bad boys are tanks, custom welded, precision engineered monuments to the sacred art of low and slow cooking. I build barbecue pits for people who genuinely believe that brisket isn’t just food. It’s an entire lifestyle choice, a philosophy, maybe even a religion if you squint hard enough.

I’ve got permanent grease under my fingernails that no amount of that fancy orange pummus soap can fully remove. And honestly, I’ve stopped trying. It’s like a badge of honor at this point. Proof that I actually work for a living instead of just attending meetings about meetings. I’ve got a mortgage that I actually paid off 3 years early, which apparently makes me some kind of unicorn in this economy.

I’ve got four kids who oscillate between thinking I’m half genius and half complete embarrassment depending on whether I’m fixing their cars or trying to use Tik Tok. And up until about a week ago, I genuinely thought I had what you’d call a perfect marriage.

Or at least the kind of marriage that looked good enough in the holiday card photos that nobody asked uncomfortable questions at church. My wife Miranda, well, I guess I should start saying my soon-to-be ex-wife Miranda to get used to the taste of those words. is beautiful in that elegant, put together way that makes other women simultaneously admire and hate her.

She’s got ambition pouring out of her pores. The kind of drive that could power a small city if we could just figure out how to hook her up to the electrical grid. She worked in corporate marketing for some tech company whose name sounds like it was generated by an AI having a stroke doing something with brand synergy and vertical integration that I never fully understood despite her explaining it to me approximately 700 times.

The woman could talk her way out of an armed robbery. Probably convinced the robber to invest in a time share while she’s at it and have him thanking her for the opportunity. She had this way of making words do back flips and cartwheels until people just agreed with whatever she said out of sheer exhaustion.

I thought we made sense together, you know, like peanut butter and jelly or bourbon and bad decisions. I handled the smoke and fire, the tangible things you could touch and smell and taste. She handled the clients and cocktails, the social climbing and networking events that made my teeth itch.

I built things with my hands in a workshop that smelled like metal and motor oil. She built strategic partnerships in conference rooms that smelled like expensive carpet and broken dreams. I figured we balanced each other out. The bluecollar guy who kept things grounded and the white collar woman who kept us classy. I was the substance. She was the style.

Together we were supposed to be unstoppable. My workshop is my sanctuary, my happy place, the one spot on earth where everything makes sense. It’s a 1500 ft metal building behind our house. Sorry, my house now. We’ll get to that. Filled with welding equipment, steel sheets, and half-finish smoker projects in various stages of completion. The concrete floor is stained with decades of oil and sparks.

And there’s a radio in the corner that only plays classic rock because I’m not subjecting my power tools to mumble rap. I’ve got a workbench that’s older than my oldest kid, covered in tools that I’ve collected over 25 years of actually giving a damn about craftsmanship.

There’s something deeply therapeutic about taking raw metal and transforming it into something beautiful and functional, something that’ll outlive me and maybe even end up as a family heirloom if my kids don’t pawn it for beer money. The kids are the only part of this marriage that turned out exactly right.

Noah is 18, heading to trade school in the fall because he’s smart enough to realize that a philosophy degree is just an expensive way to end up managing a Starbucks. He’s got my height and his mother’s cheekbones, which means he’s going to break hearts and hopefully some speed limits in a responsible way. The twins, Marcus and Maya, just turned 15 and are currently in that delightful phase where they think everything I say is stupid until they need money or a ride somewhere.

Marcus wants to be a professional gamer, which I’m pretty sure isn’t a real job, but who am I to crush dreams? Mai is into environmental science and lectures me about my carbon footprint while simultaneously taking 40-minute showers. And then there’s Hazel, my baby at 12, who still thinks I hung the moon and stars.

And I’m dreading the day she figures out I’m just a guy who’s really good at welding and dad jokes. For years, I went to Miranda’s company events, suffered through small talk with people whose idea of hard work was a difficult Excel formula, and smiled while they asked me what I really did, as if building custom smokers was some kind of hobby I did between real jobs.

But somewhere around year five of our marriage, I became her plus none. She stopped inviting me to the holiday parties, the corporate retreats, the award dinners where everyone congratulated each other for doing the bare minimum. She said I didn’t fit the culture, that my jokes were too bluecollar, that I made her colleagues uncomfortable because I asked them to explain what they actually produced besides PowerPoint presentations and buzzwords.

So, I stayed home, worked on my business, coached little league, and convinced myself that her embarrassment of me was somehow normal, maybe even healthy. After all, opposites attract, right? until last Tuesday night when she walked into my workshop where I was finishing up a custom offset smoker for a guy in Atlanta and said something that made my welding torch feel heavier than it should. You have to come to my company’s party this year.

Not I’d like you to come or I want you there. She said have to like I was a prop she needed to complete some picture she’d been painting which was weird cosmically weird suspiciously weird because for the last 5 years I’d been specifically uninvited persona nonrada the husband who shall not be named. And when your wife suddenly wants you at the party she spent half a decade keeping you away from well that’s not an invitation.

That’s a red flag the size of Texas waving in the wind maybe even on fire. I should have known right then that something was burning and it wasn’t just the brisket. The event was being held at the Belgrave Grand Hotel, which is the kind of establishment where they have a guy whose entire job is to open doors for you. Like you’ve suddenly forgotten how handles work just because you’re wearing expensive shoes.

This place was dripping with the kind of wealth that makes you want to check your bank account just to make sure it hasn’t committed suicide out of shame. The lobby had marble floors so shiny you could probably perform surgery on them. And there were crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling that cost more than my entire first truck, the beater Ford F that got me through my 20s and taught me that duct tape is indeed a valid mechanical solution.

I wore my best suit, the charcoal gray one I’d bought for my father’s funeral 3 years ago and had worn exactly twice since then, both times under duress. It still had the tags from the dry cleaner stapled to the inside pocket. Miranda had insisted I get a haircut, so I’d gone to my regular barber, a 60-year-old Vietnamese guy named Tommy, who charged 15 bucks and told the same three jokes every single time instead of the $70 salon sheet suggested.

My shoes were polished, my cologne was the good stuff from Christmas 2 years ago, and I’d even trimmed my beard into something that didn’t scream, “I live in a cabin and make moonshine.” I was presentable, damn it. Even if I felt like a bear someone had stuffed into a tuxedo for a circus act. Miranda wore a red dress that could have caused car accidents.

Maybe even a multi-vehicle pile up with fatalities. It was the kind of dress that made every other woman in the room either want to be her or destroy her with very little middle ground. The fabric hugged her in ways that reminded me why I’d married her in the first place.

Back when I was 23 and thought that being pretty and ambitious was the same thing as being a good person. Her heels were so high. I was genuinely concerned about her ability to flee in case of emergency. But she walked in them like she was born wearing stilts. She’d spent 2 hours on her makeup and hair, which seemed excessive until we walked in and I realized everyone there looked like they’d just stepped out of a magazine ad for things I couldn’t afford and didn’t want. The ballroom was packed with Miranda’s co-workers.

All of them dressed like they were attending the Oscars instead of a corporate holiday party in Nashville. There was a open bar serving top shelf liquor, which explained why everyone seemed so enthusiastic about being there. Waiters in bouties glided around with trays of tiny food that looked like art projects, little towers of something on something else, drizzled with a third something that was probably truffle oil because rich people are legally required to put truffle oil on everything. I grabbed a drink, some kind of whiskey that tasted

like it cost more per ounce than gold, and tried my best not to break anything expensive or make eye contact with anyone who might want to discuss quarterly earnings or whatever the hell these people talked about when they weren’t at work. Miranda immediately transformed into her work persona, which was like watching Clark Kent become Superman, except instead of fighting crime, she was fighting for social status.

She laughed louder, touched people’s arms more and used phrases like circle back and move the needle without a trace of irony. I stood next to her like a piece of furniture, smiling politely while she introduced me to various colleagues whose names I forgot immediately after hearing them. “This is my husband, Darren,” she’d say with the same enthusiasm you’d use to introduce your accountant or your podiatrist. “He builds barbecue pits.

” And then she’d quickly pivot the conversation away from me before anyone could ask follow-up questions. Like I was an embarrassing fact she needed to acknowledge but not dwell on. I was nursing my second drink and seriously contemplating how quickly I could fake a medical emergency when he appeared.

Gavin Cross materialized out of the crowd like a villain in a movie who knows the cameras on him. This guy was everything I wasn’t. polished, smooth, the kind of handsome that comes from good genetics and better skincare products. His hair was perfect, like he’d just walked off the set of a shampoo commercial.

Not a single strand out of place, despite the fact that it was December, and statistically someone in the room should have generated static electricity. He had a smile that was probably described as winning in his dating app profile. The kind of grin that made you want to punch him even before he opened his mouth. And he had that particular brand of confidence that only comes from never having to assemble IKEA furniture in your life.

Never struggling with an Allen wrench at 2 in the morning while questioning every decision you’ve ever made. Miranda’s entire face changed when she spotted him. I’m talking a complete transformation like someone had plugged her into an electrical socket and turned her up to 11. She lit up brighter than our Christmas tree.

Her eyes sparkling in a way they definitely hadn’t sparkled when looking at me in recent memory. They had that instant connection, that comfortable familiarity that made my stomach drop, like I’d just driven over a hill too fast. They laughed at inside jokes, whispered comments that weren’t meant for anyone else to hear, and generally acted like they were the only two people in the room.

I might as well have been a decorative plant, something green and boring in the corner that nobody notices until it dies and starts smelling funny. Gavin barely acknowledged my existence for the first 10 minutes. He shook my hand with the kind of grip that was trying too hard to prove something and said, “Oh, you’re the husband.” Like I was a minor character he’d heard about but never expected to actually meet.

Then he turned his attention back to Miranda, complimenting her dress, her hair, her recent presentation that apparently killed it in ways I didn’t understand and didn’t care to. They talked about work stuff, about campaigns and strategies, and some project they were collaborating on that required a lot of late nights at the office.

My internal alarm system was blaring louder than a smoke detector with dying batteries. But I told myself I was being paranoid, insecure, maybe even jealous for no good reason. Then it happened. The moment that would change everything. The moment I’d replay in my head about a thousand times over the next week.

Gavin turned to me with that smug smile, reached into his wallet with the kind of casual confidence that made me want to set something on fire and flicked a single dollar bill across the table in my direction. It landed right in front of my drink. George Washington staring up at me like he was disappointed in both of us.

Gavin leaned back in his chair, draped his arm casually near Miranda’s shoulders without quite touching her, which somehow made it worse, and said, “Don’t worry, champ. I’ll take good care of her tonight.” The table erupted in laughter. Miranda’s colleagues, these people I’d never met and would probably never see again, laughed like it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.

Miranda herself had the decency to look embarrassed for about half a second before she joined in. Her laugh mixing with everyone else’s, creating this chorus of mockery that made my ears ring. Someone said, “Oh my god, Gavin, in that tone people use when they think something is inappropriate but hilarious.” Another person, some guy in a suit that probably cost what I make in a month, slapped the table and wheezed like he was dying.

I sat there for what felt like an hour, but was probably 3 seconds, watching my wife laugh at a joke about another man taking care of her, watching her co-workers treat me like I was the punchline to a story they’d all been in on, except me. The dollar bill sat there on the table, crumpled and insulting, a physical representation of what this [ __ ] thought I was worth.

The rational part of my brain was screaming at me to stay calm, to not make a scene, to remember that assault charges are expensive and my kids need their college funds. But there’s a limit to what a man can take before something inside him just snaps like a tension wire pulled too tight. I picked up that dollar bill, folded it neatly into quarters with hands that were surprisingly steady considering the rage currently remodeling my internal organs, and looked Gavin directly in his smug, punchable face.

Thanks,” I said, my voice calm and clear enough that nearby tables went quiet. “That’s the down payment for your upcoming hospital bills.” The laughter died faster than my respect for my wife.” Gavin’s smile faltered for just a second before he recovered, trying to play it off like I’d made a joke instead of a promise.

Miranda’s face went pale, then red, cycling through colors like a traffic light, having an identity crisis. I could feel every eye in our section of the room locked on me. could practically hear the gossip engines revving up for Monday morning water cooler talk. I stood up, buttoned my suit jacket with the kind of deliberate calm that probably looked more threatening than any outburst could have been and walked out of that ballroom before I started a second career and aggravated assault.

Behind me, I heard Miranda calling my name, but her voice sounded distant and unimportant, like a radio station fading out as you drive away from the city. I handed my valet ticket to the kid at the front, tipped him 20 bucks because he looked nervous about my energy, and sat in my truck with the engine running for a solid 5 minutes before I trusted myself to drive.

That dollar bill was still in my pocket, and it felt like it was burning a hole through my suit. Miranda didn’t come home that night. I know this because I stayed awake watching the driveway like a psychopath in a stalker movie. except instead of being creepy, I was just a guy slowly realizing his marriage was circling the drain like hair in a shower that nobody bothered to clean.

I sat in my workshop at 3:00 in the morning wearing the same suit pants from the party but with an old Metallica t-shirt replacing the fancy button-down, welding steel together with the kind of focused aggression that probably should have concerned me. There’s something therapeutic about welding when you’re pissed off. the shower of sparks, the smell of hot metal, the fact that you’re creating something instead of destroying something, which is what every fiber of my being wanted to do to Gavin Cross’s face. My phone sat on the workbench, stubbornly silent.

No calls, no texts, not even one of those [ __ ] don’t wait up messages that at least acknowledge you’re married to another human being who might wonder where you are. I tried calling her twice around midnight, and both times it went straight to voicemail, which meant she’d either turned her phone off or let the battery die.

And neither option was particularly reassuring given the circumstances. I left one message, kept it simple. Where are you? I didn’t yell, didn’t accuse, didn’t give her ammunition to later claim I was being controlling or paranoid. Just three words: calm and reasonable.

the kind of question a husband should be able to ask his wife at midnight without it being considered a federal offense. The workshop was freezing because December in Tennessee doesn’t care about your emotional crisis, but I kept working anyway, finishing a custom smoker for a client in Memphis who’d paid extra for hand engrave details.

My hands knew what to do even when my brain was spinning like a hamster wheel powered by rage and disbelief. I kept replaying the party in my head, watching that scene over and over like a bad movie I couldn’t turn off. The way she’d laughed at Gavin’s joke. The way she’d looked at him with something in her eyes that she used to reserve for me back when we were young and stupid and thought love was enough to build a life on.

The casual cruelty of that dollar bill and the fact that she hadn’t defended me, hadn’t said a single word to shut down that disrespect. I thought about calling one of my buddies, maybe Rick, who lived three streets over and was always good for a beer and some solid advice, but it was 3:00 in the morning.

And also, there’s something deeply humiliating about admitting to another man that your wife might be cheating on you. It feels like a failure, like you couldn’t keep your own house in order, couldn’t hold on to the woman you promised forever to. Pride’s a funny thing. It’ll keep you silent even when you’re drowning. make you smile and wave from underwater while your lungs are screaming for air.

Around 4:30, I finally gave up on the welding before I accidentally set something on fire or lost a finger to an attention. I made coffee in the workshop’s ancient pot that probably violated several health codes and watched the sky slowly change from black to that weird purple gray color that means morning’s coming whether you’re ready for it or not.

Birds started making noise. Those annoying chirpy sounds that seem way too cheerful for the end of the world. My phone buzzed once, a notification from my bank app about a transaction. I checked it out of habit and felt my blood pressure spike into the stratosphere.

Miranda had used our joint credit card at the Belgrave Grand Hotel for a room at $147 a.m. The charge was $387, which meant she’d gotten one of the fancy suites because apparently when you’re cheating on your husband, you might as well do it in luxury. I took a screenshot, saved it to three different folders, and emailed it to myself because I’m not an idiot and divorce court loves documentation.

Then I sat there staring at my phone wondering what percentage of marriages end because of a hotel charge and a dollar bill and whether I was overreacting or underreacting or reacting exactly the right amount for a man whose wife just spent the night in a hotel with her smug coworker. At dawn, just as the sun was turning the sky into something pretty that I was too angry to appreciate, I heard her car, that distinctive sound of her white BMW purring into our driveway.

a car I’d helped her pick out three years ago when she got promoted and wanted something that reflected her success. I stayed in the workshop, forcing myself to keep my hands busy organizing tools that didn’t need organizing because I didn’t trust what I might say or do if I met her at the door like some anxious puppy waiting for its owner.

She crept into the house like a teenager sneaking in past curfew, and I watched through the workshop window as she fumbled with her keys and slipped inside. I waited 5 minutes, then 10, letting her think maybe I was still asleep. Maybe I hadn’t noticed, maybe she’d gotten away with it. Then I walked across the yard in the cold morning air, still wearing my welding gloves like armor, and went inside through the back door that leads into the kitchen.

She was standing by the coffee maker wearing yesterday’s makeup and Gavin’s suit jacket, his monogrammed suit jacket, because of course this [ __ ] was the type to get his initials embroidered on his clothes like he was European royalty instead of a middle management douche bag. The jacket was expensive. You could tell some kind of Italian wool blend that probably cost more than my monthly utility bill.

And right there on the left breast pocket, clear as day, were the initials GC in fancy script that looked like it required a second mortgage to afford. Oh, she said when she saw me, her voice doing this weird squeaky thing that might have been cute 20 years ago, but now just sounded guilty as hell. You’re up early, never went to sleep, I said. My voice flat and dead like roadkill.

Where were you? She laughed. Actually laughed. this nervous Twitter that made me want to put my fist through the drywall I’d installed myself five summers ago. I told you I’d be late. The party went long and then a bunch of us went to another colleague’s suite to keep celebrating. I crashed on their couch.

She gestured to the jacket like it was evidence of innocence instead of guilt. Oh, Gavin lent me this. It got cold, right? Because 3:00 in the morning is prime time for PowerPoint presentations and professional development. Because you need a man’s suit jacket in a climate controlled hotel.

Because your husband is stupid enough to believe that you spent 7 hours in someone’s suite doing anything besides what we both know you were doing. Then I saw it just visible above the collar of that expensive jacket right there on her neck where it met her shoulder. A mark. Not just any mark, but the kind of purple red bruise that has exactly one cause and zero innocent explanations.

Someone had stamped property of morons right on her skin. Left their signature like a dog marking territory. A hickey. A goddamn hickey. At 44 years old, my wife came home with a hickey like she was 16 and making out in her boyfriend’s basement.

“You’ve got something on your neck,” I said, pointing with one grease stained finger. Her hand flew up to cover it. Her face cycling through surprise, panic, and then landing on defiance. It’s just I must have burned myself with the curling iron yesterday. You know how clumsy I am. The curling iron. She was going with the curling iron excuse. I’d been married to this woman for 23 years.

Watched her get ready approximately 8,000 times. And not once had she ever burned herself with a curling iron. But sure, today of all days, she suddenly developed a coordination problem that resulted in a perfectly mouth-shaped burn mark. Right. I said the curling iron. She turned away from me, busied herself with the coffee maker like it was the most important task in human history.

Started humming, actually humming some pop song I didn’t recognize, making small talk about the weather, about needing to pick up dry cleaning, about whether we should do turkey or ham for Christmas dinner. Acting like nothing had happened, like she hadn’t just walked and wearing another man’s clothes with his mouth print on her neck, like our marriage wasn’t actively bleeding out on the kitchen floor.

I watched her pour coffee into her favorite mug, the one that said boss lady that I’d bought her as a joke three birthdays ago. Watched her add the exact amount of cream she always used. Two sugars, stirring it precisely seven times clockwise because she had this weird superstition about counterclockwise stirring bringing bad luck.

She was playing normal committed to the bit and something inside me just broke. Not loudly, not dramatically, but quietly, like a rope that’s been fraying for years, finally giving up its last thread. That’s when I decided the locks were changing. Today, this morning, before she could walk back through that door with another man’s jacket and another weak excuse, I was done being the decorative plant, done being worth a dollar, done pretending that any of this was salvageable.

She kept humming, and I started planning. Sunday morning hit me like a hangover, except I was completely sober, which somehow made it worse. I’d spent the rest of Saturday avoiding Miranda while she floated around the house, pretending to be confused about why I wasn’t talking to her, like my silence was some mysterious phenomenon instead of a completely reasonable response to her showing up in another man’s jacket with a hickey that could be seen from space.

She’d gone to bed in the guest room without me asking her to, which told me everything I needed to know about her guilty conscience. Cheaters always tell on themselves eventually. They just can’t help it. I was up at 6:00, made coffee strong enough to strip paint, and headed straight to Home Depot before the DIY weekend warriors could clog up the aisles with their confusion about which end of a hammer to hold.

There’s something deeply American about solving your problems at a hardware store. Marriage falling apart. There’s a product for that. Wife cheating, aisle 7, next to the dead bolts and your dignity. I walk through those automatic doors with a mission. And that mission was to buy locks so strong they could keep out the apocalypse, zombies, and cheating spouses in that order of importance.

The lock aisle was more complicated than it needed to be, filled with options that range from a determined child could pick this to you’ll need a battering ram and a prayer. I stood there reading packages like I was studying for the SAT. Comparing security ratings and features I didn’t know existed. Smart locks that connected to your phone. Locks with keypads.

Locks that probably could have launched nuclear missiles if you entered the right code. But I went old school. Schlleg deadbolts. Grade one security rating. The kind of locks that locksmiths respect and burglars cry about. I bought four of them. One for every exterior door. plus new handles that matched because if I was doing this, I was doing it right.

The cashier was a kid who couldn’t have been older than 20, sporting a name tag that said Brandon and a facial expression that said he’d rather be literally anywhere else. He scanned my locks without comment until I added a drill bit set and a new screwdriver to the order. And then his eyes got a little knowing.

Home improvement project? He asked in that way cashiers do when they’re bored and trying to make conversation. Something like that. I said, “More like home security, keeping the wrong people out.” “I feel that,” Brandon said, nodding like he understood the philosophical weight of changing locks at 7:00 in the morning on a Sunday. My ex kept showing up at my apartment after we broke up.

Had to change my locks three times before she got the hint. I wanted to tell him that at least his ex was just showing up, not showing up in other dudes clothes, but that felt like oversharing with a stranger who was just trying to get through his shift. women, right? I said instead, and he laughed and gave me some kind of bro code nod that made me feel ancient and young at the same time.

The total came to just under 300 bucks, which felt like the cheapest investment in my sanity I’d ever made. I loaded everything into my truck, stopped at Duncan for a box of donuts and another coffee, and headed home with the grim determination of a man about to change more than just his locks. Miranda’s car was still in the driveway, which meant she was either still asleep or hiding in the house trying to figure out her next move.

I didn’t care which. I grabbed my purchases and headed straight to the front door, the main entrance that she used every single day, the door she’d walk through tonight after whatever [ __ ] activity she’d planned to avoid actually dealing with our marriage. Installing new locks is oddly satisfying when you’re angry.

There’s something cathartic about unscrewing the old hardware, removing the mechanisms that used to let someone in, and replacing them with shiny new barriers that require different keys. Keys she didn’t have, keys she wouldn’t get. I worked methodically, starting with the front door and moving around the house. Back door, side door, garage entrance.

Each installation took about 20 minutes, and I did them all with the precision of a surgeon and the motivation of a man who’d finally hit his limit. Noah wandered out around 9:00, still in his pajama pants and looking like death warmed over, which was the natural state of 18-year-old boys on Sunday mornings.

He watched me work on the back door for a minute, scratching his stomach and yawning like a bear emerging from hibernation. Dad, why are you changing all the locks? Home security upgrade, I said, not looking up from the screwdriver I was working, making sure only the people who live here can get in.

He was quiet for a second and I could practically hear the gears turning in his head. Noah’s a smart kid, smarter than I was at his age, and he definitely noticed the tension in the house lately. Does mom know about this home security upgrade? She’s about to find out. That’s cold.

Dad, he said it like he was impressed rather than concerned, which told me he’d noticed more than I thought. Want some help? We worked together on the last two doors. Noah holding the hardware in place while I drilled and screwed everything tight. It was nice working alongside my son, not having to explain myself or justify my actions. He understood, or at least understood enough to know that asking questions wasn’t going to help anybody.

When we finished, I handed him the old locks to throw in the garage pile of things I’d eventually take to the scrapyard. And we stood back to admire our handiwork like we just built the cyine chapel instead of just changing some dead bolts. So, what happens when she tries to get in? Noah asked. And there was definitely some anticipation in his voice, like he was looking forward to the drama in the way that kids do when it’s not their mess to clean up. We find out if she remembers how to knock, I said.

By noon, I tested all the locks approximately 50 times, made sure they were smooth and solid, and distributed the new keys. I kept one set, gave Noah a set with strict instructions to not give them to his mother under any circumstances, and hid a spare set in my workshop inside a coffee can labeled miscellaneous bolts because nobody in their right mind would ever look through my random hardware collection.

The twins were at their friend’s house and Hazel was at a sleepover, which meant they’d miss the fireworks, but I’d fill them in later. Sometimes it’s better when the younger kids aren’t around for the messy parts of divorce. Miranda had left around 10:00 for hot yoga, or at least that’s what she’d announced to the house in general, like she was still keeping up appearances.

She tried to make small talk with me about dinner plans, and I’d responded with the enthusiasm of a tree stump. “Whatever you want,” I’d said, knowing damn well that dinner plans were about to become the least of her concerns. At 6:30 on the dot, I heard her BMW pull into the driveway.

I was sitting in the living room with a beer and a book I wasn’t actually reading, just using as a prop, so I’d look casual and unbothered when the [ __ ] inevitably hit the fan. Noah was upstairs in his room with his door cracked open, definitely listening, probably recording audio for posterity or blackmail purposes.

I heard her footsteps on the porch, heard her keys jingle, heard that familiar sound of her trying to insert her key into a lock that no longer recognized her authority. Silence. Then another attempt, harder this time, like maybe she’d just used the wrong key. More silence, then the sound of her trying different keys, probably cycling through her entire hearing, like maybe she’d forgotten which key opened her own front door.

“Darren,” she yelled through the door, and I let her yell my name three more times before I casually walked over and opened it. She was standing there in her yoga pants and overpriced athletic top, holding her keys like they’d personally betrayed her. Her face somewhere between confusion and fury. “The key isn’t working,” she said, stating the obvious like I might not have noticed.

“Yeah,” I said, leaning against the door frame in a way that I hoped looked cool and unbothered. “Neither is our marriage.” Her jaw dropped, literally dropped like a cartoon character who’d just been hit with an anvil. What? Darren, that’s not We need to talk about this. Let me in so we can have an adult conversation.

Adult conversation, I repeated, tasting the words. That’s rich coming from someone who spent Friday night in a hotel room and came home wearing another man’s jacket. That’s real mature behavior, Miranda. Very adult. That’s not what happened. You’re twisting everything.

Her voice was climbing in pitch, getting that shrieky quality that meant she was losing control of the narrative. I told you we were just go talk to Gavin, I interrupted, feeling calmer than I had in days. The guy who thinks I’m worth a dollar. The guy whose initials were on the jacket you wore home. The guy who left his signature on your neck. I’m sure he’d love to have an adult conversation with you.

She tried the door handle. Actually tried to push past me like this was still her house. Like she still had rights here. I didn’t move. Didn’t budge an inch. Just stood there being an immovable object to her unstoppable audacity. Darren, this is my house, too. You can’t just lock me out. Actually, I said I can, and I did.

Maybe crash on Gavin’s couch tonight. I hear you’re familiar with his furniture. That’s when the neighbors started appearing. Old Mrs. Henderson from next door suddenly needed to water her plants despite the fact that it was December and everything was dead.

The Johnson’s across the street discovered an urgent need to check their mailbox for the third time that day. Even Mr. Park, who usually minded his own business like a professional, was suddenly very interested in inspecting his gutters in the fading evening light. They weren’t even being subtle about it, just standing in their yards pretending to do tasks while obviously listening to my wife have a meltdown on our front porch.

Miranda noticed the audience and lowered her voice, trying to salvage some dignity. You’re being unreasonable. We need to talk about communication. About communication, I said loud enough for the neighbors to hear because at this point I didn’t give a single damn about privacy.

Communication ended when you turned our marriage into a group project. Miranda, when you added a third person without my consent, that’s not a marriage. That’s a committee. And I’m resigning. Her face went red, then white, then some color in between that I didn’t have a name for.

She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again like a fish that had just realized it was out of water. Finally, she grabbed her phone from her yoga bag, and stormed back to her car, and I watched her peel out of the driveway with the kind of acceleration that definitely violated several traffic laws. I waved to the neighbors, who quickly went back to their fake tasks, and went inside to finish my beer. It tasted like victory.

The house felt different after Miranda left, like someone had finally opened a window in a room that had been suffocating for months. I sat on the couch with my beer getting warm in my hand, listening to the silence and realizing I didn’t miss her voice filling it. That’s probably the saddest realization a married man can have.

That peace sounds better than his wife’s presence. The beer tasted like freedom with a slight aftertaste of impending legal bills, but I take it. Noah came downstairs about an hour later after the neighbors had gone inside and the street had returned to its normal suburban quiet.

He had that look on his face, the one kids get when they’re trying to decide if they should say something or just let sleeping dogs lie. He grabbed a Coke from the fridge, sat down in the recliner that used to be his grandfather’s, and just looked at me for a solid 30 seconds like he was scanning me for damage. So, he finally said, popping open his Coke with that satisfying hiss. Mom called me.

I bet she did. I took a sip of my now warm beer and grimaced. Let me guess. I’m being unreasonable, dramatic, refusing to communicate like an adult. She said, “You’re overreacting.” Noah said it flat. No inflection. Just reporting the facts like a journalist who didn’t want to editorialize.

That you changed the locks without warning and embarrassed her in front of the neighbors. That you’re making a big deal out of nothing. Nothing, I repeated, feeling my blood pressure start to climb again. Did she mention the nothing she was doing in a hotel room at 2 in the morning? The nothing that left a mark on her neck? The nothing that involved wearing another man’s jacket home? Noah held up his hand like he was stopping traffic. Dad, I’m just telling you what she said. I’m not saying I believe her.

He took a long drink of his Coke, buying time to figure out how to navigate this conversation. She wants me to talk to you, convince you to let her back in so you guys can work through this like mature adults. And what did you tell her? I told her I’d talk to you, Noah said, and then grinned in a way that reminded me exactly of myself at his age. I didn’t say I try very hard. I laughed, couldn’t help it. You’re a good kid, Noah. Too good for this mess.

Dad, I’m 18. I’m not a kid anymore, and I’m definitely old enough to know when someone’s bullshitting me. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, getting serious in that way young men do when they’re trying to have important conversations. I’ve seen how she’s been treating you the last couple years.

Like you’re an accessory she’s embarrassed to wear in public. Like building smokers isn’t a real job. Like you’re not successful enough for her image. It’s been gross to watch. That hit me harder than I expected. I thought I’d been hiding it better. Thought the kids hadn’t noticed the slow erosion of respect in our marriage. Apparently, I was wrong.

Or at least not as good an actor as I thought. You noticed that, huh? Dad, we all noticed. Even Hazel asked me last year why mom never wants to talk about what you do when her friends are around. Noah finished his Coke and crushed the can, which was technically littering in my living room, but I wasn’t about to start enforcing rules right now.

Marcus and Maya have a whole theory that she’s been having an affair for like 6 months. I told them they watched too many reality shows, but he gestured vaguely at the locked door, at the empty driveway, at the whole situation. Guess they were on to something. 6 months. The twins thought she’d been cheating for 6 months.

I tried to do the math backward, figure out when things had shifted from distant to suspicious. But honestly, it all blurred together. The late nights at the office, the business trips that seemed longer than necessary, the way she’d started dressing nicer for work than she did for date nights we’d stopped having.

All the cliches, all the warning signs I’d ignored because acknowledging them meant admitting my marriage was dying. So what now? Noah asked. You kicking her out permanently, or is this just to make a point? I don’t know yet. I admitted, which felt weird to say out loud. I’m angry enough to want her gone forever. But we’ve been married 23 years. We’ve got four kids, a house, a whole life. I can’t just pretend none of that matters.

But Dad, Noah said carefully. Does it matter if she doesn’t respect you? If she’s out there doing whatever, whoever she wants. Before I could answer, my phone buzzed, then buzzed again, then started ringing with a number I didn’t recognize. I let it go to voicemail, watched the notification pop up, and felt my stomach drop.

The voicemail was from Whitmore and Associates, a law firm downtown that advertised on benches and late night TV. Miranda had already lawyered up, and it hadn’t even been 24 hours. “That was fast,” I muttered, putting the phone down like it might explode. Noah raised his eyebrows. “Lawyer? Probably.

” “Well, at least you hit him,” Noah said, and then caught himself. Wait, no. You didn’t hit Gavin. You just threatened him verbally. That’s personal growth, Dad. I’m proud of you. We both laughed at that. The kind of slightly unhinged laughter that happens when your life is imploding, but you’ve still got enough sense of humor to see the absurdity. I didn’t hit him. Gold star for emotional maturity, Darren.

Really setting the bar high there. But inside, I was boiling like a smoker on overheat. like someone had cranked all my internal dials to maximum and forgot where the off switch was. I wanted to break things, hit things, scream until my voice gave out.

Instead, I sat on my couch drinking warm beer with my son and pretending I had any idea what I was doing. The next morning came too early and brought gifts I didn’t want. The mail arrived at 10:00 and mixed in with the credit card offers and grocery store flyers was a thick manila envelope with a law firm’s return address.

My hands were shaking slightly as I opened it, which pissed me off because I didn’t want to give Miranda the satisfaction of making me nervous, even though she wasn’t there to see it. The letter was three pages of legal jargon that basically boiled down to Miranda wanted money, wanted it now, and wanted a lot of it.

She was demanding spousal support because apparently 23 years of marriage entitled her to a percentage of my income for the rest of eternity or at least until she remarried, which given recent events might be sooner than later. She wanted equitable asset division, which I’m pretty sure is lawyer speak for half of everything you’ve worked for.

But the part that really made my blood boil, the part that had me gripping the letter so hard I nearly tore it, was that she wanted half of my business. Half of Hol Custom Smokers, the company I’d built from nothing, started in a garage with borrowed tools and a dream that everyone said was stupid.

The business she’d spent years calling too bluecollar for her image, not sophisticated enough for her social circle, just welding. Whenever her fancy friends asked what her husband did, that business, she wanted half of it. I read the letter three times, each time getting angrier before I finally grabbed my phone and called Jack Freeman.

Jack had been my attorney for years, handled my business contracts and LLC paperwork, and had once gotten me out of a zoning dispute with the city that nearly shut down my workshop. He was expensive, but he was good. And more importantly, he enjoyed a good fight the way some people enjoy golf. Darren, Jack answered on the second ring. His voice doing that thing lawyers do where they sound professional but friendly.

How’s business? Business is fine. Marriage is dead. Need your help killing it officially and making sure I don’t get murdered in the process. There was a pause and then I heard Jack’s chair creek as he leaned back. Finally. Huh? I was wondering when you’d call. Melody saw Miranda at a restaurant two weeks ago with some guy who definitely wasn’t you.

We figured it was only a matter of time. Everyone knew but me apparently, I said, feeling stupid and angry at the same time. I just got a letter from her lawyer. She wants spousal support and half my business. The business she always said was beneath her. Jack laughed, but it wasn’t a nice laugh.

It was the laugh of a lawyer who’d just been handed ammunition. Oh, Darren, my friend, you’re about to have fun. Legally sanctioned fun. I don’t want fun. I want to not lose everything I’ve built. Same thing in this case. Jack said, “Come by my office tomorrow morning.” Nine sharp.

Bring any financial documents you’ve got, bank statements, business records, that letter from her lawyer. And Darren, yeah, stop talking to her. Don’t answer her calls. Don’t respond to texts. Don’t engage at all. Everything goes through me now. Understand? Understood. Good. And Darren, we’re going to destroy her. Legally and ethically, of course, but thoroughly.

I hung up feeling something close to hope for the first time in days. Maybe I was screwed. Maybe she’d get half of everything, and I’d spend the next decade rebuilding. But at least I had Jack Freeman in my corner. And that man loved winning almost as much as he loved billing hours. Noah stuck his head into the kitchen.

Good news or bad news? Potentially good news disguised as expensive news. That’s the lawyer spirit, Noah said. Want me to make pancakes? Spite pancakes taste better than sad pancakes. Make a lot. I said we’re going to need the energy. We ate pancakes and planned for war. Jack Freeman’s office was in one of those downtown buildings that tried really hard to look important.

All glass and steel and modern art that nobody understood but everyone pretended to appreciate. His suite was on the seventh floor, decorated in that expensive minimalist style where everything cost a fortune but looked like it came from IKEA’s corporate line. There were leather chairs, a massive desk made of some endangered tree species, and framed diplomas on the wall that reminded you he went to fancy schools where they taught you how to financially eviscerate people within the boundaries of the law.

I showed up at 9:00 with a cardboard box full of documents that represented my entire financial life. bank statements, business records, tax returns from the last 5 years, credit card bills, mortgage papers, and that damn letter from Miranda’s lawyer that I’d read so many times I could practically recite it.

Jack was already there with coffee that smelled way better than anything I made at home. And sitting next to him was a woman I’d never met before. Darren Holt, meet Clara Woo, Jack said, gesturing to the Asian woman in her 30s who looked like she could calculate your net worth just by looking at your shoes. She wore a sharp gray suit, rectangular glasses, and had the kind of expression that suggested she’d seen every financial crime humanity could dream up and wasn’t impressed by any of them.

Clara is a forensic accountant, best in the business. She’s going to dig through your finances and make sure we know exactly what we’re dealing with. Clara stood up and shook my hand with a grip that was surprisingly strong for someone who spent their days staring at spreadsheets. Mr. Holt Jax told me about your situation.

I’m sorry you’re going through this, but I’m very good at finding where money goes when people think nobody’s looking. Call me Darren, and I appreciate that because I have a feeling my wife’s been creative with our finances lately. We sat down around Jack’s conference table and I started unpacking my box of financial shame.

Clara’s eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning, which I guess makes sense when your job is following money trails. She immediately started organizing everything into piles with a system that probably made sense to her, but looked like chaos to me. Okay, Jack said, opening his legal pad to a fresh page. Let’s start with the basics. Community property state, married 23 years for kids. She’s claiming she needs spousal support and half the business.

What assets are we looking at total? I ran through the numbers. The house worth about 450. My business that brought in roughly 300,000 a year in profit, retirement accounts, savings, the usual accumulation of a life spent not being completely irresponsible with money.

Clara took notes on her laptop, her fingers flying across the keyboard like she was playing a piano concerto, and she’s claiming what grounds for divorce. Clara asked, not looking up from her screen. irreconcilable differences, according to her lawyer, which is code for, “I got caught cheating and need to make it sound mutual.

” Jack leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers in that way lawyers do when they’re about to say something they think is clever. Here’s what we’re going to do. Clara’s going to audit your joint accounts, credit cards, any financial activity over the last year. We need to know if she’s been hiding money, spending inappropriately, anything we can use to counter her narrative.

How long does that take? I asked already dreading the answer. For someone good, a week, Clara said, finally looking up from her laptop. For me, 3 days. I’m very motivated by spite and cheating spouses offend my sense of order. She smiled and it was the smile of someone who enjoyed ruining people’s days.

Jack mentioned you think she’s been staying in hotels. I know she has. I’ve got the credit card charge from last Friday. $387 at the Belgrave Grand. Clara’s fingers flew across her keyboard. What card? Our joint MX. The one linked to the business account for legitimate expenses. Her eyes narrowed behind her glasses. Your business account? She’s been using business funds for personal expenses.

She’s got authorization on the card for client entertainment, business dinners, that kind of thing. Her job involves whining and dining clients sometimes. So, I added her as an authorized user years ago. Seemed logical at the time. “Oh, this is going to be good,” Clara said, and she sounded genuinely excited.

I love it when spouses forget that business accounts have different rules than personal accounts. Misuse of business funds, potential tax implications, possible fraud if she’s been claiming personal expenses as business deductions. Mr. Hold Darren.

I’m going to need access to all your business accounts, credit card statements, expense reports, everything. I gave her the login credentials for my business banking. Watched her eyes light up even brighter as she started pulling up statements and downloading files. Jack poured us all more coffee while Clara worked her magic, muttering to herself about expense categories and merchant codes like she was speaking a foreign language.

After about 20 minutes of clicking and typing, Clara looked up with the expression of someone who just found buried treasure. Darren, when was the last time you actually reviewed your business credit card statements? I mean, I look at the totals every month. Make sure nothing’s wildly off. Why? Because your wife has been very busy with your money.

Clara turned her laptop around to show me a spreadsheet that made my head hurt. In the last 6 months alone, she’s charged over $40,000 to your business account. Hotels, restaurants, spa days, shopping. There’s a charge here for Victoria’s Secret for $600. That a legitimate business expense for building smokers. My stomach dropped. $40,000. Are you serious? Dead serious. Look at this.

The Belgrave Grand Hotel appears 11 times in the last 4 months. Always on Friday or Saturday nights. Charges ranging from $3 to $600 per stay. That’s not business travel, Darren. That’s an affair hotel. Clara scrolled through more charges. Each one feeling like a punch to the gut. Here’s $1,000 at Fleming Steakhouse. Two grand at a spa resort in Gatlinburg.

Multiple charges at liquor stores, wine shops, expensive restaurants. She’s been living very well on your dime. Can we use this? I asked Jack, feeling rage and vindication, fighting for dominance in my chest. “Oh, we’re going to use the hell out of this,” Jack said, grinning like a shark that just smelled blood.

“Misuse of business funds, potentially affecting your tax liability, demonstrating a pattern of deception. This destroys her claim that she deserves spousal support. You can’t claim you need money while you’re out here spending 40 grand on hotels and steak dinners.” Clara kept typing, kept digging, and I could see her getting more excited with each discovery. She’s been transferring money, too. Look at this.

Regular transfers from your joint account to another account. 2,000 here, 1,500 there, 3 grand last month. Always going to the same place. She pulled up the transfer details. Account holder is listed as GC Enterprises LLC. GC, I repeated, feeling something click in my brain. Gavin Cross. She’s been funding her boyfriend with our money.

Allegedly, Jack said, because lawyers always have to say allegedly, even when something is obvious as hell. But yes, probably, Clara. Can you trace that LLC? Already on it, Clara said, her fingers dancing across the keyboard. GC Enterprises, registered in Tennessee 6 months ago. Principal owner Gavin Cross, business purpose listed as consulting services.

What a joke. This is clearly a pass through for personal income. We sat there for a minute, letting it all sink in. Miranda hadn’t just cheated on me. She’d been systematically looting our finances to fund her affair, using my business accounts like her personal piggy bank, and transferring money to her boyfriend’s shell company.

The audacity was almost impressive. Then Jack looked at me across the table with an expression I couldn’t quite read. Darren, I need to ask you something. This Gavin Cross guy, where does he work? some tech company. Miranda mentioned it a few times. Something with outdoor products or innovations or something.

What? Jack’s grin got even wider. What’s the full name of your business? The legal entity name, not just Holt Custom Smokers. Holt Custom Smokers and Outdoor Innovations LLC. I bought out a smaller competitor 5 years ago. Kept them running as a subsidiary. They make fire pits, outdoor grills, that kind of thing. Different market than my custom smokers. What? Jack started laughing.

Not a polite chuckle, but a full-blown throw your head back laugh that made Clara look up from her laptop in confusion. Darren, what’s the name of that subsidiary? Crossfire Outdoor Innovations. I kept the name because they had good brand recognition. We operate it separately. Different management team, different facilities. It’s profitable, though.

Why are you? I stopped mid-sentence as my brain finally caught up with what Jack was implying. No, no way. Yes way, Jack said, still laughing. Clara, pull up the corporate registration for Crossfire Outdoor Innovations. She typed, clicked, and then her jaw dropped. Parent company: Holt Custom Smokers and Outdoor Innovations LLC. Owner: Darren Holt.

Holy [ __ ] I need to see the employee roster, I said. My voice coming out weird and strangled. Pull up Crossfire’s payroll. Clara navigated to my business accounting software, accessed the subsidiaries payroll system, and there it was in black and white.

Gavin Cross, senior marketing director, Crossfire Outdoor Innovations. Salary: 95,000 a year. Reporting structure, ultimately reports to me. The guy threw a dollar bill at his boss. The guy who’d been sleeping with my wife, using my money to fund his lifestyle, smirking at me at that party like I was beneath him.

That guy cashed a paycheck with my signature on it every two weeks. My laughter could have registered on the RTOR scale. It started as a chuckle, built into a roar, and ended with me wiping tears from my eyes while Jack and Clara stared at me like I’d lost my mind. Maybe I had, but this was the most beautiful twist of fate I’d ever witnessed.

This is going to be beautiful, I finally managed to say. This is going to be so godamn beautiful. Jack was already making notes, his eyes gleaming with predatory joy. Darren, my friend, we’re not just winning this divorce. We’re going to make legal history. Tuesday morning arrived with the kind of crisp winter sunshine that makes everything look clean and hopeful, which felt wildly inappropriate given that I was about to professionally destroy a man’s life.

I got to my office at Crossfire Outdoor Innovations at 7:00. early enough to beat the morning crowd, but late enough that my assistant, Kelly, would already be there with coffee and the ability to schedule meetings without asking too many questions. Kelly had been with me for 12 years, survived three economic recessions and my terrible dad jokes, and had developed a sixth sense for when I needed something done quietly and efficiently.

“Morning, boss,” she said when I walked in, already holding out a cup of coffee like she’d sensed my arrival. Kelly was 53, had four grandkids, and took exactly zero [ __ ] from anyone. You’ve got that look. What look? The look that says someone’s about to have a very bad day, and you’re going to enjoy watching it happen. She sipped her own coffee, eyeing me over the rim.

What do you need? I need you to schedule a mandatory meeting for all division heads. Today, 10:00 sharp. Conference room a I took a long drink of coffee that tasted like liquid vengeance. Make it sound important but vague. Strategic planning session or organizational restructuring discussion or whatever corporate nonsense makes people nervous.

Kelly’s eyes narrowed. All division heads means Gavin cross for marketing. Especially Gavin cross for marketing. She didn’t ask questions, just nodded and started typing on her computer with the efficiency of someone who’d been waiting for this moment. Consider it done. Anything else? Yeah.

Can you pull Gavin’s personnel file? I want it on my desk in 20 minutes. Complete file, higher date, performance reviews, salary history, everything. Getting messy, are we? Kelly said, but she was smiling. Kelly, we passed messy 3 days ago. Now we’re in scorched earth territory. About damn time, she muttered and went back to her computer.

By 9:30, I had Gavin’s complete employment history spread across my desk like evidence at a crime scene. hired three years ago. Decent performance reviews, but nothing spectacular. Salary bumped twice because of market adjustments that I’d apparently approved without paying much attention.

There were a few notes in his file about boundary issues with female co-workers. Nothing actionable, just observations from HR about him being overly friendly and inappropriately casual. Reading between the lines, the guy was a creep who’d learned to operate just inside the acceptable zone. I also had the dollar bill. I’d kept it in my wallet since the party folded and creased.

And now I smoothed it out on my desk like it was a valuable artifact because in a way it was physical evidence of disrespect, a paper trail of arrogance, George Washington as my witness. At 9:45, I walked into conference room A and set up camp at the head of the table. The room was one of those modern meeting spaces with a huge table, uncomfortable chairs that cost a fortune, and a whiteboard that nobody ever used.

I positioned myself where I could see everyone’s faces, put the dollar bill in my jacket pocket, and waited. The division heads started filtering in around 9:55. Susan from operations, Michael from finance, Patricia from HR, and a couple others whose names I knew but didn’t use often because I spent most of my time in the custom smoker division. not here at the subsidiary.

They all looked vaguely concerned, which was the appropriate response to a surprise mandatory meeting called by the owner. Nobody looked happy to be here, but that was fine. I wasn’t aiming for happy. Gavin walked in at exactly 10:00, probably thinking that being precisely on time showed professionalism.

He was wearing another expensive suit, his hairstyled within an inch of its life, and carrying a leather portfolio that probably cost more than my monthly truck payment. He looked confident, comfortable, like a man who thought he belonged here. Like a man who thought he was untouchable. Then he saw me sitting at the head of the table and his tan face drained faster than cheap coffee left on a hot plate.

All that artificial color from his spray tan or golf outings or whatever rich guys do to look healthy. It just vanished, leaving him the color of old newspaper. His eyes went wide, his mouth opened slightly, and I watched in real time as his brain tried to calculate what the hell was happening.

“Morning everyone,” I said, keeping my voice casual and friendly like this was just another boring Tuesday meeting. “Thanks for making time on short notice. Please sit down.” “Everyone sat.” Gavin remained standing for a beat too long, like his legs had forgotten how to bend before finally lowering himself into a chair three seats down from me.

He was trying to maintain eye contact, trying to project confidence, but I could see his hands shaking slightly as he opened his portfolio. “Morning, Gavin,” I said, looking directly at him with the kind of smile that doesn’t reach the eyes. “I heard you had an interesting night last Friday. How’s Miranda doing?” The room went dead silent.

“You could have heard a pin drop, a feather land, a mouse fart.” Susan from operations physically recoiled like I’d set off a bomb. Patricia from HR got very interested in her notepad. Michael from finance looked like he was trying to calculate the legal liability of this conversation. Gavin opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. I, Mr.

Holt, I’m not sure what your Oh, I think you know exactly what I’m referring to. I said, keeping my tone light and conversational. The company party at the Belgrave Grand Hotel, the one where you were very generous with your financial offerings. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the dollar bill, unfolded it slowly and deliberately, and slid it across the conference table toward him.

It spun slightly on the polished wood before coming to rest directly in front of his portfolio. I think this belongs to you.” Gavin stared at that dollar bill like it was a live grenade. The silence in the room was so thick you could cut it with a knife and serve it for dinner. I watched various emotions flash across his face. confusion, recognition, horror, panic, like a slot machine landing on the worst possible combination. I don’t, he started, but his voice cracked.

Let me help you out, I said, leaning back in my chair like I had all the time in the world. That’s the dollar bill you threw at me, your boss, owner of this company and its parent company, while making a joke about taking care of my wife. remember now.

Patricia from HR made a noise that might have been a gasp or might have been the sound of her soul leaving her body. Susan covered her mouth with her hand. Michael just stared at Gavin like he’d never seen him before. Mr. Holt, I can explain. Gavin tried again, his voice desperate now. Please don’t, I interrupted. I’ve heard enough explanations to last a lifetime. What I’m interested in now is professional conduct.

Patricia, can you grab Gavin’s personnel file? I think we need to review this section about employee behavior and corporate values. Patricia practically ran out of the room, probably grateful for an excuse to escape. The rest of us sat in uncomfortable silence while Gavin sweated through his expensive suit.

I could see the stains forming under his arms, watch his collar getting damp, observe the complete collapse of his confident facade. You know what the funny thing is, Gavin? I said conversationally. I actually liked you when we hired you. thought you had potential. Good credentials, decent ideas, seemed like a team player. I had no idea you were the kind of guy who’d disrespect his boss and sleep with his wife. That’s poor judgment, Gavin.

Really poor judgment. I didn’t know, he stammered. She never said, I thought you were just some some what? I asked genuinely curious. Some nobody some guy who didn’t matter? Some bluecollar loser who you could throw a dollar at and laugh about. He didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

Patricia came back with the file, handed it to me like it was radioactive, and sat down quickly. I opened it, flipped through a few pages for dramatic effect, and then looked up at Gavin. It says here that employees are expected to maintain professional conduct both during and outside work hours, especially when representing the company at official functions.

Would you say throwing money at your boss and propositioning his wife falls under professional conduct? I wasn’t. It was just a joke. I didn’t mean. Here’s what’s going to happen. I said, closing the file with a satisfying thump. You’re fired. Effective immediately. Conduct unbecoming of an executive. You can clean out your desk within the hour.

Escorted by security. Your final paycheck will be mailed to your address on file. Your benefits in today. and if you try to file wrongful termination, my lawyers will be very happy to discuss your relationship with my wife and your misuse of company time and resources in court.

Gavin’s face went from pale to red to pale again. You can’t. This isn’t. I absolutely can and it absolutely is. I said, “Patricia, can you call security to escort Mr. Cross to his office and then off the premises?” Already texted them, Patricia said, not looking up from her phone. They’ll be here in 2 minutes. We sat there in silence, waiting for security to arrive.

Gavin looked like he wanted to crawl inside a vent and die or maybe run screaming from the building or possibly just dissolve into the floor. I felt nothing but cold satisfaction, the kind of calm that comes from finally taking action after days of impotent rage. Security arrived.

two guys named Marcus and Jeff who I’d hired specifically because they looked intimidating but were actually giant teddy bears who coached youth football. They escorted Gavin out without incident. Though I’m pretty sure Marcus accidentally bumped him into a door frame on the way. The meeting ended shortly after with everyone looking shell shocked and avoiding eye contact with me.

I didn’t care. I went back to my office, had another coffee, and waited for the fallout. It came 3 hours later in the form of a voicemail on Miranda’s phone. She’d apparently changed her number but forgotten to update it with people. So, the voicemail got forwarded to our home phone, which then got forwarded to my phone because technology is wonderful when it’s on your side. Gavin’s voice came through the speaker, high-pitched and panicked.

You didn’t tell me your husband is the owner of my company. You said he was just some. You said he built grills. You didn’t mention he owned the whole goddamn business. I just got fired, Miranda. Fired because of you. Because you couldn’t be bothered to mention that your husband signs my paychecks.

There was more, but I stopped listening because I was too busy laughing. Music to my ears. The week between Gavin’s firing and our first court date was a masterclass in watching someone’s carefully constructed life fall apart in real time. Miranda tried calling me approximately 67 times.

each call going straight to voicemail because Jack had been very clear. No contact. Everything goes through lawyers. Protect yourself from doing something stupid. She left messages that ranged from apologetic to angry to desperate. Cycling through emotional states like she was trying to find the right frequency to make me cave. We need to talk. You’re being unreasonable. Think about the kids.

How could you do this to me? That last one was particularly rich, coming from a woman who’d been spending my money on hotel rooms with her boyfriend. She also tried using the kids as messengers, which was about as low as you could go without actually digging a hole. Noah shut her down immediately, told her to stop putting him in the middle of adult problems. The twins were less diplomatic.

Marcus told her she made her bed, and now she could sleep in it, preferably in a hotel since that seemed to be her favorite place. Maya just hung up on her after a 30-second lecture about personal responsibility. Hazel cried, which broke my heart, but even she understood on some level that mommy had done something really wrong and daddy wasn’t the bad guy here.

Miranda moved in with her sister Denise, who lived in a condo in Green Hills and had always thought I wasn’t good enough for her baby sister. Denise had a spare bedroom, an inflated sense of importance, and a wine habit that could fund a small country.

I imagine the two of them sitting around bitching about men and drinking Chardonnay while pretending Miranda was the victim in all this. That image sustained me through several difficult moments. Jack kept me updated on the legal maneuvering happening behind the scenes. Miranda’s lawyer, some guy named Robert Peton, who apparently specialized in high conflict divorces, which is lawyer code for I represent terrible people, was trying to paint me as controlling, financially abusive, and emotionally distant.

They were building a narrative where Miranda was the neglected wife who’d made one mistake and I was the tyrannical husband who’d overreacted by locking her out and firing her boyfriend. It was creative fiction. I give them that much. They’re going to try to make you look like the bad guy. Jack warned me over coffee 3 days before our court date.

They’ll say you humiliated her publicly, that you abused your power as an employer, that you’re trying to punish her instead of working on the marriage. standard playbook for someone who got caught cheating. “Let them try,” I said, feeling calm in a way that probably should have worried me. “We’ve got 40,000 in receipts that say otherwise.

” “Oh, we’ve got more than that now,” Jack said, grinning like a kid who’d just discovered where his parents hid the Christmas presents. Clara found three more accounts Miranda opened in her name only. “She’s been siphoning money for over a year. Total damages are close to 70 grand. I felt my blood pressure spike. $70,000.

$70,000 of your money used to fund an affair hidden in accounts she thought you’d never find. Jack slid a folder across the table. Bank statements, transfer records, everything documented and notorized. She’s cooked, Darren. Absolutely cooked. The day of the hearing arrived with all the joy of a root canal. I wore my court suit different from my funeral suit specifically purchased for legal proceedings because apparently I needed a wardrobe category 4 days when your wife tries to rob you in front of a judge. Jack met me at the courthouse

steps looking sharp in navy blue and carrying a briefcase that probably cost more than my first car. Remember, he said as we walked through security, “Stay calm, answer questions directly. Don’t volunteer information. And for the love of God, don’t let them bait you into losing your temper.

I’m calm, I said, and I was. I’d moved past anger into something colder and more focused. I wanted justice, documentation, and my life back. In that order, the courtroom was smaller than I expected, more like a conference room with wood paneling and delusions of grandeur. Judge Katherine Morrison presided.

A woman in her early 60s with steel gray hair and the kind of expression that suggested she’d heard every lie humanity could produce and wasn’t impressed by any of them. She looked at both parties with equal skepticism, which I took as a good sign. Miranda sat on the other side of the room with Peton wearing a conservative navy dress that screamed responsible wife who was wronged. She’d done her makeup to look tired but brave.

probably spent an hour achieving that barely holding it together aesthetic. She wouldn’t look at me, kept her eyes on her lawyer or the judge, playing the victim role to the hilt. Pimbertton started strong. I’d give him that. He painted a picture of Miranda as the devoted wife who’d sacrificed her own career ambitions to support my business, who’d endured years of emotional neglect while I focused on work instead of our marriage.

He claimed I was vindictive and controlling, that I’d publicly humiliated her by changing the locks and firing Gavin. He made it sound like I was some kind of monster who destroyed her life over a misunderstanding at a work party. “Mr. Holt refuses to communicate,” Pimbertton said, gesturing dramatically like he was in a TV courtroom drama.

He shut my client out of her own home, denied her access to marital funds, and used his position of power to destroy the career of a colleague simply out of spite. This is a man who values revenge over reconciliation. Judge Morrison looked at me over her glasses. Mr.

Holt, would you like to respond to these allegations? Your honor, I said, keeping my voice level. I’d like to address the public humiliation claim specifically. My wife humiliated herself when she spent the night in a hotel with another man and came home wearing his jacket with a hickey on her neck. I didn’t humiliate her publicly. She did that herself. I just provided better lighting by refusing to pretend everything was fine. I heard a snort from somewhere in the gallery. Noah had insisted on coming.

Said he wanted to watch mom get what she deserves, and I hadn’t had the heart to tell him no. Judge Morrison’s lips twitched slightly like she was fighting a smile. As for the locks, I continued, I changed them after discovering my wife had spent our money on hotel rooms and was having an affair.

That’s not vindictive, that’s self-preservation. And regarding Mr. Cross’s termination, he was fired for conduct unbecoming of an executive, specifically for sexually harassing the wife of his employer at a company function. That’s a fireable offense in any organization, your honor.

That’s a gross mischaracterization, Peton started. But Jack stood up with the folder of doom. If it pleased the court, Jack said, smooth as butter. We have documentation that directly contradicts Mr. Peton’s narrative. May I approach? Judge Morrison nodded. And Jack walked forward with printed bank statements, credit card receipts, hotel invoices, and transfer records.

He laid them out like a prosecutor presenting murder evidence. Each page, another nail in Miranda’s coffin. The judge started reading and I watched her expression go from neutral to skeptical to actively annoyed. Mrs. Holt, Judge Morrison said, looking up from the papers, “Can you explain why you charged $43,000 to your husband’s business account over a six-month period, including multiple hotel stays, expensive dinners, and transfers to an LLC owned by Mr.

Gavin Cross.” Miranda opened her mouth, closed it, looked at her lawyer in panic. Peton shuffled his papers like the answer might be hiding in there somewhere. Your honor, those were legitimate business expenses related to my client’s work in corporate marketing at the Belgrave Grand Hotel 11 times in 4 months on Friday and Saturday nights. The judge’s eyebrow climbed toward her hairline.

That’s an interesting business model counselor. The courtroom got very quiet. I could see Miranda’s carefully constructed victim narrative crumbling like a sand castle at high tide. She tried to speak, but nothing came out except a small squeaking sound that might have been the death rattle of her credibility.

Then Judge Morrison asked the question that made everything worth it. Mrs. Holt, were you aware that Mr. Gavin Cross was employed by a company owned by your husband? Silence. Dead. Absolute silence. Miranda stared at her hands, at the table, at anything except the judge or me. Her lawyer looked like he wanted to be literally anywhere else, maybe on fire, possibly dead.

The seconds ticked by, and her silence said everything that words couldn’t. I’ll take that as a yes, Judge Morrison said dryly. Or at least you should have known, given that you were having an affair with him and using marital funds to support said affair. Pimbertton tried to salvage something.

Your honor, my client made mistakes certainly, but she still deserves equitable division of assets and spousal support. Counselor, Judge Morrison interrupted. Your client stole $70,000 from the marital estate to fund an extrammarital affair. She’s not getting rewarded for that behavior. Here’s my ruling. What followed was the most beautiful 15 minutes of my life.

Judge Morrison awarded me the house, full ownership, no buyout required. She awarded me the business, both the custom smoker division and the subsidiary, free and clear. She awarded me full legal custody of the kids with Miranda getting supervised visitation until she could demonstrate stable housing and financial responsibility.

She ordered Miranda to repay the $70,000 she’d stolen, plus legal fees, plus court costs. And as for assets Mrs. Holt will retain,” the judge said, looking at the property list with barely concealed amusement. “She’ll keep her personal belongings, her yoga equipment,” and she paused, squinting at the paper. “A 2008 Toyota Corolla that Mr. Holt indicates he was planning to donate to Goodwill.” Noah’s laughter echoed through the courtroom.

I didn’t even try to hide my smile. Miranda looked like she’d been slapped with a legal textbook. Her face pale and shocked, tears running down her face in rivers that ruined her carefully applied makeup. We walked out of that courthouse into crisp December sunshine.

Jack clapped me on the back, already talking about filing fees and settlement paperwork. Noah gave me a high five and said, “Dad, that was better than any movie I’ve ever seen.” “Justice usually is,” I said, feeling lighter than I had in months. My phone buzzed. A text from Marcus. Mom’s crying to Aunt Denise about having to drive the Corolla. This is the best day ever. Yeah, it really was.

News travels fast in a small business community. But news about a guy getting paid a dollar for his wife and then legally destroying both her and her boyfriend that spread through Nashville like wildfire in a fireworks factory. I first realized I’d become local legend when I stopped at my usual gas station 3 days after the court hearing and the cashier, a kid named Tyler, who normally just grunted and took my money, looked up and said, “Yo, you’re that smoker guy, the one who fired his wife’s boyfriend. Dude, that’s epic.” I didn’t know whether to be flattered or

concerned that my marital implosion had become entertainment for 19-year-old gas station employees. Uh, yeah, that’s me, bro. Everyone’s talking about it. My manager saw the court documents online. Someone posted them on Facebook. That part where the judge gave your ex the corolla you were going to donate to Goodwill. Comedy gold, man.

Absolute legend status. He handed me my change and my receipt with something approaching reverence. My mom wants to know if you’re single, by the way. She’s divorced, too. Loves barbecue. Tell your mom I appreciate the interest, but I’m not emotionally ready to date someone who could have given birth to me.

I said, grabbing my coffee and escaping before this conversation could get weirder. But Tyler wasn’t wrong about everyone talking. My phone had been blowing up for days with calls from people I hadn’t heard from in years, all wanting to check in and see how I’m doing, which is code for, “Give me all the details so I can gossip about it at work tomorrow.

” High school buddies I hadn’t spoken to since graduation were suddenly my best friends. Cousins I’d forgotten existed crawled out of the woodwork to express their support. Even my uncle Ray, who’d been living off the grid in Montana for a decade, somehow heard about it and sent a telegram, an actual godamn telegram that said, “Well, done stop. That dollar bill move was poetry. Stop.” The story had apparently achieved meme status in certain circles.

Someone had created a fake motivational poster with my face and the caption, “Respect the man with grease on his hands. He probably signs your paycheck.” It was being shared in business groups, entrepreneur forums, and apparently several Reddit threads dedicated to epic revenge stories. I was simultaneously mortified and deeply amused.

But the real surprise came when my business phone started ringing off the hook. Kelly had to start screening calls because we were getting so many inquiries. restaurants, backyard barbecue enthusiasts, competition pit masters, even a few celebrities assistants calling on behalf of their bosses who’d heard about the guy from Nashville who roasted his wife. Everyone wanted a Holt custom smoker.

Not just because they were quality products, which they were, but because they wanted to support the guy who’d become the folk hero of wronged husbands everywhere. Darren, you’ve got another one. Kelly said, poking her head into my workshop where I was finishing a custom offset smoker for a client in Atlanta.

Gentleman from Memphis wants a premium smoker. Said he read about you in some business blog and respects a man who handles his problems with class and fire. His words, not mine. What blog? I asked, setting down my welding torch. She pulled out her phone and showed me an article titled Tennessee entrepreneur turns personal betrayal into business boom, a masterclass in professional revenge.

It had been published 2 days ago on some small business website and apparently had gone viral in the barbecue and small business communities. The article detailed my story with surprising accuracy and ended with a quote from some business professors saying, “I demonstrated the power of maintaining professional standards and personal dignity in the face of adversity.

I’m being used as a case study in business schools now,” I asked. Not sure if I should be proud or horrified. “Looks like it,” Kelly said, grinning. “Also, you’ve got three more orders from people who specifically mentioned the article. your business has literally tripled in the last week. We’re going to need to hire more welders. She was right.

Within 10 days of the court hearing, my order backlog had gone from 2 months to 6 months. I was getting requests for custom smokers from all over the Southeast with some people willing to wait up to a year for a whole custom smoker. The irony wasn’t lost on me. Miranda had always been embarrassed that I built barbecue pits for a living.

Thought it was too bluecollar, not sophisticated enough. Now that bluecollar business was making more money than ever and I was getting featured in business publications while she drove a 2008 Corolla with a bumper sticker that said, “My other car is also disappointing.” That’s when inspiration hit.

I was in my workshop at 2:00 in the morning, my traditional emotional processing time. When I realized I could turn this whole disaster into something productive, something that honored the men and women everywhere who’d been betrayed but kept their dignity. something with a little sass and a lot of marketing potential. The next morning, I called Noah into my office.

My son had taken a gap year before trade school and was working for me part-time, learning the business and discovering that he had a real talent for social media marketing. He could make a 30-se secondond video of me welding steel look like a scene from an action movie. I’ve got an idea, I said, pulling out the sketches I’ve been working on.

New product line, premium smokers, top-of-the-line materials, custom features. We’re calling it the loyalty series. Noah looked at the designs, then at me, and started grinning. Dad, that’s brilliant.

What makes it different from your regular line? Each one comes with a custom engraving, I said, showing him the mockup right here on the front panel. Tasteful, but visible. Don’t get burned. He burst out laughing. That’s savage. I love it. We could market it as premium smokers for people who value loyalty and quality. Play up the whole relationships might fail, but good craftsmanship lasts forever angle. Exactly. And we price them higher.

These are statement pieces for people who want their smoker to have a personality. Within a week, Noah had created an entire marketing campaign around the loyalty series. He shot videos of me building the smokers, talking about craftsmanship and integrity, never directly mentioning my divorce, but letting the subtext do all the heavy lifting. He created an Instagram account that showed the process, the details, the final products.

He even got one of those influencer guys, some pitm from Texas with half a million followers to feature one of our smokers and talk about how quality and loyalty never go out of style. The loyalty series sold out before we even finished building the first batch. We had pre-orders for 30 units at 5 grand each with people specifically requesting the don’t get burned engraving.

Noah was handling social media, creating content, responding to comments, and generally being better at marketing than anyone I could have hired. The twins, Marcus and Maya, had responded to the divorce in their own ways. Marcus had started boxing at the local gym, channeling his anger into something productive.

He’d come home with bruised knuckles and a smile, telling me that hitting things was therapeutic, and he understood why I liked welding when I was pissed off. He’d already had three amateur matches and won two of them. The kid had his mother’s determination and my stubbornness, which made him basically unstoppable.

Maya had thrown herself into environmental activism with the fervor of someone who needed a cause to focus on besides family drama. She’d organized a creek cleanup, started a recycling program at school, and was currently lobbying the city council about solar panels for public buildings.

She told me that at least the planet’s problems have solutions, unlike mom’s personality disorder. I didn’t correct her because honestly, she wasn’t wrong. Hazel had been the hardest. My 12-year-old baby girl had always been sensitive, the kind of kid who cried during commercials about abandoned puppies. The divorce hit her hard, and I’d gotten her into therapy with Dr.

Patricia Chan, a child psychologist who specialized in helping kids navigate parental separation. It was expensive, but watching my daughter struggle was worse than any price tag. Last week, Hazel had come home from therapy and found me in the workshop. She’d climbed up on my workbench, something I normally didn’t allow because safety regulations, and just sat there watching me work for a few minutes. Dr. Chun says I should tell you how I feel, she finally said.

I put down my tools and gave her my full attention. Okay, how do you feel? Sad that mom did what she did. Angry that she broke our family, but also she paused, choosing her words carefully. Proud of you. Proud of me. Yeah, Dr. Chun says you handled everything really well. that you stayed calm and didn’t say bad things about mom even though you could have. That you protected us and didn’t make us choose sides.

She looked at me with those serious eyes that made her seem older than 12. She says, “Not all dads do that.” She says, “Some dads make it worse, but you didn’t. I felt something in my chest crack open. Some pressure I didn’t know I’d been holding. I tried, sweetheart. I’m sorry you had to go through any of this. It’s not your fault,” Hazel said firmly.

It’s mom’s fault for making bad choices. Dr. Chun says we can’t control other people’s choices, but we can control how we respond. And you responded really good. Really? Well, I corrected automatically, then hugged her. Thanks, kiddo. That means a lot.

Later that night, after Hazel had gone to bed, I told Noah about the conversation. He’d smiled and said, “You know what? Dr. Chen’s right about the calm thing. You could have lost it. Could have done something stupid. Could have made it all worse, but you didn’t, sweetheart. I said, stealing Hazel’s phrase. Calm is the secret ingredient of revenge. Anyone can blow up.

It takes real control to stay cool and let idiots destroy themselves. Noah raised his coke can in a toast. To calm revenge and the loyalty series to quality craftsmanship and knowing your worth, I countered. We clinkedked cans and somewhere in Nashville, Miranda was probably crying to her sister about the unfairness of life while driving a Corolla with 180,000 m on it.

The smoke was clearing, the fire was steady, and life was finally starting to look like something I could build on. 6 months later, life had settled into something that actually felt like living instead of just surviving. Spring had arrived in Tennessee with all its obnoxious beauty. Flowers blooming, birds chirping, temperatures perfect for sitting on the porch and smoking meat while contemplating how dramatically life can change when you finally stop tolerating [ __ ] Miranda was working at a smaller marketing agency in Nashville,

some boutique firm that probably paid half what her old job did. According to Noah, who still occasionally talked to her because he was a better person than me, she was finding herself, which is what middle-aged people say when they’ve screwed up their lives and are trying to rebrand the consequences as personal growth.

She’d moved out of Denise’s place and into a one-bedroom apartment in a complex that advertised luxury living, but really just meant they had a gym nobody used and a pool that was always slightly green. The Corolla was still running somehow. Though Noah said it made concerning noises that suggested its days were numbered.

I felt bad for the car. It deserved better than being Miranda’s transportation punishment. Gavin had reportedly fled to Florida to sell boats and hide from the shame of being the guy who threw a dollar at his boss before sleeping with said boss’s wife.

According to the Nashville business gossip chain, which was more reliable than CNN and more vicious than TMZ, he was working at some marina in Tampa, selling fishing boats to retirees and probably lying about his previous career. Rumor had it his new boss was a guy named Frank Morrison, who happened to be my second cousin and knew the whole story.

I didn’t confirm or deny this, but I also didn’t correct people when they brought it up. Some things are better left to karma and family connections. My business was thriving in ways I’d never imagined. The Loyalty Series had become our flagship product with a waiting list that stretched into next year.

I’d hired three new welders, expanded the workshop, and even bought the property next door for future growth. Turned out that being known as the guy who handled his divorce with dignity and fire was excellent for business. Who knew? One evening in late April, I was sitting on my porch with a cold beer, watching smoke curl up from my personal smoker where a beautiful brisket was reaching perfection.

Noah came out and joined me, bringing his own beer because he was 18 and I figured if he was adult enough to watch his parents’ marriage implode, he was adult enough for a beer on the porch with his old man. “Dad,” Noah said after a few minutes of comfortable silence. “You really handled all that like a pro.” I grinned, watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of orange and pink.

Son, sometimes you don’t have to fight fire with fire. You just have to let idiots light the match themselves and stand back far enough to enjoy the show without getting burned. That’s going on a t-shirt, Noah said, laughing. The stars started appearing. The smoker was running steady.

And inside the house, I could hear the twins arguing about something meaningless while Hazel practiced piano. My home was filled with the sounds of actual life again. Messy, loud, imperfect, but real and honest. As for that dollar bill, it was framed in my office now, hanging right above my desk where I could see it every morning.

Right below it in a custom metal plaque I’d made myself was my company motto. Respect the man with grease on his hands. He probably signed your paycheck and business was damn good. If you think this is wild, you haven’t heard anything yet. The real madness lives in my audio book, Brutal Cheating Stories that shocked the world.