I FOUND MEN’S LUBRICANT IN MY WIFE’S BAG. I DIDN’T MAKE A FUSS, I JUST SECRETLY REPLACED IT WITH…

 

I found men’s lubricant in my wife’s bag. I didn’t make a fuss. I just secretly replaced it with super glue. What happened next? You know how they say hindsight is 2020? Well, let me tell you something. Sometimes foresight can be pretty damn clear, too. Especially when your guts been screaming at you for months that something’s off.

 But did I listen? Hell no. I was too busy being the good husband, the trusting fool, the guy who actually believed his wife when she said she was working late for the fourth time that week. It was a Tuesday night, which should have been my first red flag because nothing good ever happens on a Tuesday.

 I was sprawled on our king-sized bed, the one we’d picked out together at that overpriced furniture store where the salesman had the audacity to suggest we’d make beautiful memories on it. Yeah. Well, turns out Marissa was making memories. All right, just not with me.

 I was drifting in that weird half asleep state where you’re not quite unconscious, but your brains already started playing those bizarre pre-dream movies when I heard the shower kick on again. This was her second shower of the day, which struck me as odd because Marissa wasn’t exactly what you’d call a cleanliness freak.

 Don’t get me wrong, she wasn’t gross or anything, but she was more of a shower every other day, unless I’m going somewhere important kind of woman. So, two showers in one day. My subconscious filed that away under things that make you go. The water was still running when something caught my eye. Her handbag sitting on the chair by our dresser, looking like it had exploded.

 The thing was unzipped and half its contents were spilling out onto the floor like some kind of suburban crime scene. Lip gloss, receipts, hair ties, and what looked like half these travel size section scattered across our hardwood floor. Now, I’m not usually the type to go rifling through my wife’s purse.

 That’s like the cardinal sin of marriage right up there with leaving the toilet seat up and forgetting anniversaries. But the mess was bothering me and I figured I’d be the considerate husband and clean it up before she came out and started stress cleaning at midnight like she sometimes did when work got crazy. So there I was playing good Samaritan, picking up tampons and breath mints and wondering why women need 17 different lip products that all look exactly the same when my hand brushed against something that definitely didn’t belong in the normal wife stuff category.

 It was small, cool to the touch, and had that sleek metal feeling that screamed expensive and purposeful. I pulled it out and held it up to the lamplight. A silver tube, maybe four and long, with this minimalist design that looked like something Apple would make if they got into the personal lubricant business.

 The whole thing was covered in Japanese characters, bold and black against the silver metal. It looked expensive, the kind of thing you don’t just pick up at the local CVS between buying milk and cough drops. My first thought was medical. Maybe she had some kind of issue she was embarrassed to talk about. Women’s health stuff can be complicated.

 And God knows Marissa wasn’t great at discussing anything that made her uncomfortable. But then again, if it was medical, why was it Japanese? And why hadn’t she mentioned it? Curiosity officially killed the cat. I grabbed my phone and opened up the camera to scan the text. Google Translate is a beautiful thing when you’re sitting in your bedroom at 11:30 at night questioning everything you thought you knew about your marriage.

 The translation hit my screen, and I swear I felt my blood temperature drop about 10°. premium men’s personal lubricant. Long-asting formula, men’s lubricant, not women’s, not couples, men’s. And it wasn’t new. The tube was maybe half empty with that slightly worn look that comes from regular use.

 I turned it over in my hands, my brain trying to process what I was looking at while my gut was already three steps ahead. Screaming warnings I didn’t want to hear. My wife had never bought anything like this for us. Hell, we barely used regular lubricant. And when we did, it was the basic stuff from the drugstore that came in those clinical looking bottles.

 This thing looked like it cost more than our weekly grocery budget, and it sure as hell wasn’t something she’d picked up for our bedroom activities. I sat there staring at this tube like it might suddenly sprout legs and explain itself. Maybe there was a logical explanation. Maybe she’d bought it as a gag gift for someone’s bachelor party.

 Maybe it belonged to a friend who had left it in her purse by mistake. Maybe I was overthinking things because I’ve been watching too many true crime documentaries lately. But then my eyes drifted over to her tablet, sitting innocently on the desk where she’d left it after working on some presentation slides earlier.

 The screen was still glowing, showing her home screen with all those neatly organized app folders she was so proud of. Everything had cute little names like fun stuff and work tools and groceries. Wait, groceries. I’d never seen Marissa use a grocery app in my life. The woman who made me drive to three different stores because she insisted on getting the good brand of everything suddenly had a grocery folder on her tablet.

 That was like finding out your vegan friend had a secret hamburger stash. My hands were shaking as I tapped on the folder. Inside was a single app I’d never seen before. Some kind of messaging platform with an icon that looked deliberately generic. My thumb hovered over it for what felt like an hour but was probably 30 seconds. This was it.

 This was the moment where I either found out I was being paranoid or I found out my entire life was a lie. I opened it. The chat history loaded and right there at the top was a conversation with someone named Leo. The profile picture was just a silhouette, but the messages. Jesus Christ. The messages. Can’t wait to see you Thursday.

 Got us the usual room at the Marriott. Bring that stuff. I like the silver one. Makes everything so much better. Going to do things to you that your husband never could. I scrolled up, my vision getting blurry around the edges as weeks of messages revealed themselves.

 Detailed descriptions of hotel rooms, explicit photos I definitely didn’t want to see, and references to that exact brand of lubricant currently sitting in my sweating palm. The timestamps were like a punch to the gut. Every late night at the office, every girl’s night out, every I’m too tired tonight, honey. All of it, all of it was lies. The shower was still running.

 And I could hear Marissa humming some pop song like she didn’t have a care in the world. Like she hadn’t just blown up our entire marriage with a half empty tube of Japanese lubricant in a secret chat app hidden in a fake grocery folder. I looked at the tube again, then at the messages, then back at the tube. My hands had stopped shaking and started moving with a clarity I didn’t know I possessed.

 I walked quietly to the kitchen, opened the junk drawer, and pulled out the tube of industrial-grade Superloo I bought for a home repair project last month. If Marissa wanted to play games with expensive foreign lubricants, then by God, I was going to give her an experience she’d never forget. The shower finally stopped.

 You know that feeling when you’re watching a horror movie and you want to scream at the dumb blonde not to go into the basement? Well, imagine being the dumb blonde. Except instead of a basement, it’s your own marriage. And instead of a serial killer, it’s your cheating wife who’s about to get the surprise of her lifetime. I just finished my little arts and crafts project in the kitchen.

 Let’s call it extreme home makeover lubricant edition. When I heard the bathroom door open, the sound of bare feet patting across our hardwood floors made my heart race, but not in the romantic way it used to. More like the I’m about to watch my life implode in real time way.

 I scrambled back to bed, clutching the doctorred tube of Japanese love juice like it was the holy grail of marital revenge. My hands were steadier now, which was weird because you’d think discovering your wife’s secret affair would make you shakier, not calmer. But there’s something about having a plan, even a completely insane plan, that brings a certain zen-like focus to a man’s soul.

 Marissa emerged from the bathroom like she was auditioning for a shampoo commercial, all wrapped up in that fluffy white towel I bought her for Christmas 2 years ago. the same towel that used to make my pulse quicken when it accidentally dropped during her post-shower routine. Now it just looked like a costume she was wearing to play the role of Faithful Wife.

 “Hey babe,” she said, and I swear her voice had that fake sweet quality that women use when they’re trying to cover up something. “You know the tone? The same one they use when they’ve accidentally spent 300 bucks at Target but only went in for laundry detergent. You look tired. Tired lady.

 I just found out my entire marriage is a sham, and you think I look tired?” I wanted to laugh, but instead I just nodded and made some non-committal grunt that could have meant anything from, “Yeah, long day do I know you’re screwing some guy named Leo.” She patted over to the kitchen. Our kitchen in our house that we bought together when we still believed in things like forever until death do us part.

 I could hear her moving around, opening cabinets, running the faucet. The domestic sounds of a woman who was probably planning her next ren while pretending to be a caring wife. A few minutes later, she came back with a tall glass of milk, holding it out to me like it was some kind of peace offering. “Here, drink this,” she said, settling onto the edge of the bed.

“It’ll help you sleep better. You’ve got that early morning meeting tomorrow, right?” And there it was, the early morning meeting, the one I’d mentioned casually over dinner, the one she’d filed away in her cheating little brain, as the perfect opportunity for another late night adventure.

 Because nothing says devoted spouse like drugging your husband so you can sneak out for some extracurricular activities. I took the glass, studying her face in the dim light. She looked so sincere, so concerned about my sleep schedule. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she actually gave a damn about my well-being.

 But I did know better now, didn’t I? Thanks, honey, I said, taking a small sip. It tasted normal, but then again, I wasn’t exactly an expert on what sleeping pills tasted like in milk. Could have been ambient. Could have been benadryal. Could have been nothing at all. But the fact that she was suddenly so concerned about my sleep when she’d never given two craps about my insomnia before.

 Yeah, that was suspicious as hell. I made a show of drinking about half the glass, then said it on my nightstand with a grateful smile. You’re the best, baby. I love you. The words felt like ash in my mouth, but her face lit up with what looked like genuine affection. That was the part that really got to me.

 Not just that she was cheating, but that she could look at me with those loving eyes while planning to slip out and get busy with some photographer named Leo. “I love you, too,” she whispered, leaning over to kiss my forehead like I was a sick child instead of the husband she was about to betray again. She climbed into bed beside me, and I could feel the warmth of her body through that towel.

 Once upon a time, that would have been my cue to make a move, to pull her close and show her how much I missed her during those long days at the office. Now it just felt like lying next to a stranger wearing my wife’s skin. “Get some rest,” she murmured, already turning away from me. “You need your energy for tomorrow.” “Oh, the irony.

” She was worried about my energy levels while planning to spend half the night burning calories with Mr. Photography. I wanted to ask her if Leo knew she was drugging her husband, if that was part of their kinky little game, but instead, I just mumbled something about being grateful and closed my eyes. The next hour was probably the longest 60 minutes of my life.

 I lay there listening to her breathing, waiting for it to settle into that deep, even rhythm that meant she thought I was out cold. Every few minutes, I’d let out a little snore or shift positions, really selling the whole heavily sedated husband performance. She was good. I’ll give her that.

 She waited a full hour before making her move, probably making sure whatever she’d slipped me had enough time to kick in. I felt the mattress shift as she carefully climbed out of bed, moving with the stealth of someone who’d done this dance before. I cracked one eye open just enough to see her silhouette in the darkness.

 She’d traded the towel for a black dress, the sexy one she usually save for our anniversary dinners. She was putting on makeup at the vanity, applying lipstick with the kind of care you reserve for special occasions. At exactly 12:45 a.m., I heard the soft click of our front door opening. Then the faint sound of voices in the hallway outside our apartment.

 My heart was pounding so loud I was sure the neighbors could hear it through the walls. I gave her exactly 20 seconds, long enough to think she was in the clear, but not long enough for them to disappear entirely. Then I slipped out of bed, grabbed my robe, and crept toward the door like some kind of suburban ninja. The hallway was dimly lit, but I could see them at the far end near the elevator.

 Marissa was pressed against the wall, and some tall guy had his hands on either side of her face, kissing her like she was the last woman on Earth. Even from a distance, I could see he was everything I wasn’t. Tall, muscular, probably 10 years younger than me. So, this was Leo. This was the man my wife thought was worth throwing away 15 years of marriage for.

 They broke apart, and I heard her whisper something that made him laugh. Then, they were walking toward the stairs, probably heading up to his place or maybe down to a car. Either way, they were moving with the confidence of people who thought they’d pulled off the perfect crime. I waited until I heard the stairwell door close, then made my decision.

 The same clarity that had guided me in the kitchen was back, telling me exactly what I needed to do. I was going to follow them. After all, a man deserves to see exactly what he’s losing, right? Let me tell you something about following your cheating wife through your own apartment building at 1:00 in the morning.

 It’s like being the star of the world’s most depressing reality show. Keeping up with the adulterers, coming to a streaming service near you, featuring yours truly as the clueless husband who’s about to get a front row seat to his own personal howl. I crept down the hallway like some kind of discount private investigator.

 My bare feet silent on the carpet that we’d all chipped in to replace last year during the building’s community improvement phase. Funny how community improvement doesn’t cover preventing your neighbors from screwing your wife. But I guess that’s not really a maintenance issue, is it? The stairwell door was still swinging slightly when I reached it, which meant they hadn’t gone far.

 I pressed my ear against the cold metal, listening for footsteps, voices, anything that would tell me which direction they’d gone. That’s when I heard it. a soft thud from somewhere above me followed by what sounded like muffled laughter. They were going up to the fourth floor, which was interesting because as far as I knew, we didn’t know anyone on the fourth floor.

 But then again, apparently there were a lot of things about my wife’s social circle that I didn’t know. I eased the door open and started climbing, keeping to the outer edge of each step because that’s where they’re less likely to creek. Don’t ask me how I knew that. Probably too many episodes of Criminal Minds during those nights when Marissa claimed she was too tired for anything but sleep. The fourth floor hallway was identical to ours, except everything was flipped like a mirror image.

 Same beige walls, same industrial carpet, same fluorescent lighting that made everyone look like they were dying of consumption. I could hear voices coming from apartment 4C, which was directly above our spare bedroom. How’s that for cosmic irony? The guy my wife was cheating with lived right above us, probably listening to us argue about whose turn it was to take out the trash while planning his next romantic ren with my supposedly devoted spouse. I pressed myself against the wall next to 4C. Feeling like a character in some

low-budget thriller where the budget was so tight they couldn’t afford actual sets. The door was cheap hollow core construction, the kind that lets you hear everything from a normal conversation to a sneeze to apparently the sound of your marriage dissolving in real time. I can’t believe you live right above him, Marissa was saying.

 And I could hear the excitement in her voice. The same tone she used to use when we’d sneak away for weekend trips back when she still pretended to find me exciting. Makes it more fun, doesn’t it? This was Leo’s voice. Deep, confident with just a hint of an accent I couldn’t place. Probably European. Women always go crazy for European guys.

 Like having a different passport automatically makes you better in bed. God, yes. Sometimes I can hear him watching TV down there and I just think about you up here waiting for me. I wanted to vomit or punch something or both. Instead, I just stood there like a massochist listening to my wife discuss how much she enjoyed the geographic convenience of cheating on me. Did you bring what I asked for? Leo’s voice again closer to the door now. Of course.

 I could practically hear her smiling. I brought what you like. The good stuff. The good stuff. My specially modified tube of Japanese lubricant now featuring the kind of industrial adhesive that could probably hold a space shuttle together. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud.

 There was some rustling, probably Marissa digging through her purse, followed by what sounded like someone opening a tube. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure they could hear it through the wall. Perfect, Leo said. You know how much I love it when you come prepared. Oh, buddy, I thought. You have no idea how prepared she is tonight. I heard footsteps moving away from the door deeper into the apartment.

 The voices became muffled, but I could still make out the general tone. Playful, flirtatious, building toward what they thought was going to be another successful night of adultery. I pressed my ear harder against the door, straining to hear what was coming next. Part of me wanted to kick the door down and confront them right then and there to see the look on their faces when they realized their little secret was out.

But the other part of me, the part that had carefully replaced the contents of that tube, wanted to wait and see how this played out. The apartment went quiet for a few minutes, which probably meant they were getting down to business. I imagine Leo lying back on whatever cheap furniture he had in there, probably feeling pretty damn pleased with himself for landing a married woman who lived one floor down and brought her own supplies. Then I heard Marissa’s voice. Just relax. This is going to be amazing. Famous last

words, sweetheart. For about 30 seconds, there was nothing but the kind of sounds you’d expect from two people who thought they were about to have the time of their lives. Some movement, some heavy breathing, the general audio backdrop of two adults about to discover that Karma has a really twisted sense of humor. Then everything changed.

 What the? Leo’s voice sharp and confused. Wait, something’s wrong. Marissa said, and I could hear the first note of panic creeping in. What did you do? Leo again, his voice rising. What the hell did you put on me? I don’t understand. Marissa sounded genuinely confused, which would have been funny if it wasn’t so pathetic. It’s the same stuff as always. The silver tube, the Japanese brand you like. Well, something’s wrong with it.

 I can’t. We can’t. Oh god, we’re stuck. And there it was. The moment I’ve been waiting for. The sweet sound of two cheaters realizing that their night of passion had turned into a medical emergency. I pressed my face against the door, grinning like a psychopath, listening to their panic escalate. Don’t pull. Marissa hissed. You’re making it worse. How can I not pull? We’re literally glued together.

 That’s impossible. It’s lubricant, not glue. Oh, my sweet wife. If only you knew how wrong you were. The next few minutes were like listening to the world’s most satisfying comedy show. They tried everything. Water from the kitchen sink, soap from the bathroom, even what sounded like cooking oil. Nothing worked. The industrial-grade Superloo was doing exactly what it was designed to do.

 Create a permanent bond between two surfaces. In this case, those surfaces happen to be my cheating wife and her boyfriend. We need to call someone, Leo said, his voice tight with pain and embarrassment. Call who? What are we supposed to say? I don’t know. A doctor. An ambulance. Oh god, this is humiliating.

 You ain’t seen nothing yet, honey. After about 40 minutes of increasingly desperate attempts to separate themselves, they finally admitted defeat. I heard Leo make the call. Yes, we need an ambulance. It’s It’s hard to explain. We’re kind of stuck together. I decided that was my cue to leave.

 After all, I didn’t want to be standing in the hallway when the paramedics showed up. That would be awkward for everyone involved. But as I headed back toward the stairs, I couldn’t help but smile. Phase one was complete. Sometimes the universe has a sense of humor that’s so twisted, so perfectly calibrated to deliver maximum irony that you almost have to believe in some kind of cosmic justice.

 Because there I was, patting back down to my apartment in my bathrobe, listening to the muffled sounds of panic from 4C. Feeling like I just witnessed the greatest act of divine intervention since Moses parted the Red Sea, I slipped back into my apartment and positioned myself in the hallway right by our front door, where I had the perfect vantage point to watch the show.

Our peeppole gave me a fisheye view of the elevator and most of the hallway, which meant I was about to get front row seats to what was undoubtedly going to be the most entertaining medical emergency in the history of our building. The sounds from upstairs had escalated from whispered panic to full-blown crisis mode.

 I could hear Leo’s voice through the ceiling now, getting louder and more desperate with each passing minute. “This isn’t working. Nothing’s working. Stop yelling,” Marissa hissed back. But even her whisper was loud enough to carry through the thin walls. The neighbors are going to hear. Oh, honey.

 The neighbors were definitely going to hear and see and probably record everything on their phones because this was 2024 and nothing stayed private anymore. Especially not when it involved two naked people glued together like some kind of pornographic arts and crafts project. I heard footsteps in the hallway above. Then the sound of Leo’s door opening. Yes, we called about an emergency.

 His voice was strained, talking to someone on his phone. We’re on the fourth floor, apartment 4C. And please, please be discreet. Discreet, right? Because there’s a discreet way to handle two adults who’ve managed to superglue themselves together during an extrammarital affair. This was going to be about as discreet as a fireworks show in a library.

 About 10 minutes later, I heard the elevator ding, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps and equipment being wheeled down the hallway. The paramedics had arrived, and they were not traveling light. I could hear multiple voices now, all trying to maintain that professional medical comm that healthcare workers use when they’re dealing with something completely ridiculous.

 So, if I understand correctly, one of the paramedics was saying, his voice carrying easily through the cheap construction. You two are attached. It was an accident, Leo said quickly. Some kind of reaction with the product we were using. Product? That’s what we’re calling it now. Not the lubricant I was using to cheat on my wife.

 Just product like they were testing out a new kind of shampoo and had an unexpected allergic reaction. What kind of product? The paramedic asked and I could hear the barely suppressed amusement in his voice. These guys had probably seen everything, but this was definitely going to be a story they told at the bar for years to come.

 Personal lubricant, Marissa said, her voice so quiet I almost couldn’t hear it. It’s a Japanese brand. We’ve used it before without any problems. Ma’am, I need you to speak up and I’m going to need to see the packaging if you still have it. There was some rustling, then Leo’s voice. Here it is. But I don’t understand what went wrong. This has never happened before.

 I wished I could see the paramedic’s face when he examined my handiwork. The tube looked completely normal from the outside. Same silver casing, same Japanese lettering, same professional packaging. It was only the contents that had been upgraded from Love Potion to permanent adhesive. Sir, I hate to break it to you, but this isn’t lubricant anymore.

 This is industrial adhesive. Someone’s replaced the contents. The silence that followed was absolutely delicious. I could practically hear the gears turning in their heads as they tried to process what they’ just been told. Someone had sabotaged their affair supplies. But who and how and why? That’s impossible, Leo said. Finally, the tube was sealed.

 It came straight from Marissa’s purse. Well, unless you two decided to experiment with construction materials tonight, someone definitely tampered with this. The question is, who had access to it? Oh, the delicious irony. They were literally stuck together, unable to move while trying to figure out who could have possibly known about their little secret.

 I almost felt bad for them, almost. We need to get you to the hospital, the paramedic continued. This kind of adhesive isn’t going to come apart on its own, and we’re going to need some specialized equipment to separate you safely. Can’t you just, I don’t know, use some kind of solvent? Marissa asked desperately.

 Ma’am, this stuff is designed to bond metal to concrete. It’s not coming off with soap and water. We’re going to need to be very careful here to avoid causing permanent damage. Permanent damage. Those words hung in the air like a death sentence. I wondered if either of them was thinking about the metaphorical permanent damage they’d already caused or if they were too focused on the literal permanent damage they might be facing. How are we going to get them downstairs? Another voice asked.

 They can’t exactly walk to the elevator like this. We’re going to have to use a stretcher and transport them together. It’s going to be awkward. Awkward was putting it mildly. I was imagining the logistics of getting two grown adults who were stuck together in the most intimate possible way down four flights of stairs and into an ambulance.

 This was going to require some serious creative problem solving. I need both of you to try to stay as still as possible. The lead paramedic said any movement could make the situation worse. We’re going to cover you with a sheet and get you onto a stretcher, then transport you to the emergency room. What about privacy? Leo asked.

 There are going to be people in the hallway, neighbors with cameras. Sir, I understand your concern, but right now our priority is getting you medical attention, privacy as well. It’s going to be challenging under the circumstances. I heard more movement upstairs, the sound of equipment being positioned, and the general bustle of medical professionals trying to figure out how to handle a situation that definitely hadn’t been covered in their training manual. Then came the moment I’ve been waiting for.

 The sound of Leo’s apartment door opening, followed by multiple sets of footsteps in the hallway above. They were bringing them out. I positioned myself at my peep pole, ready for the show of a lifetime. This was better than pay-per-view, better than any reality TV show, better than Christmas morning. This was just as served cold and with a side of public humiliation.

 The elevator dinged and I heard the mechanical were of the stretcher being wheeled out. Through my peep hole, I could see the paramedics maneuvering something large and sheet covered toward the elevator. The sheet wasn’t quite big enough to cover everything, and I caught a glimpse of two sets of legs at very odd angles.

 Behind them came a small crowd of neighbors who’d been drawn out by the commotion. Mrs. Patterson from 3B had her phone out. Naturally, the college kids from 2A were trying to look nonchalant while obviously recording everything. Even cranky Mr. Henderson from the first floor had emerged from his cave to see what all the fuss was about.

 The elevator doors closed and the building fell silent except for the excited chatter of neighbors discussing what they just witnessed. I waited another few minutes, then cracked my door open and stepped into the hallway. Crazy night, huh? Mrs. Patterson said, still clutching her phone. Did you see what happened? I shook my head, putting on my best confused neighbor expression.

I heard the sirens, but I was asleep. What’s going on? Two people got stuck together somehow, she said, her eyes bright with gossip. Had to take them both to the hospital on the same stretcher. Stuck together? How? Well, she leaned in conspiratorally.

 From what I heard, they were, you know, intimate and something went wrong with some kind of product they were using. I made appropriate shocked noises and headed back inside where I poured myself a very large, very well-deserved glass of scotch. Phase two was complete. You know what they say about the walk of shame? Well, apparently when you’ve been surgically separated from your affair partner after being super glued together, like some kind of perverted science experiment, it’s less of a walk and more of a shuffle.

 A very careful, very painful shuffle that makes you look like you’ve been hit by a truck driven by karma herself. I was sitting at our kitchen table the next morning, sipping my coffee and reading the news on my tablet like any normal husband whose wife hadn’t spent the night glued to another ma

n’s anatomy. When I heard the key in the lock, it was around 10:30 a.m., which meant they’d been at the hospital for roughly 9 hours. 9 hours of what I could only imagine was the most humiliating medical experience in the history of emergency medicine. The door opened slowly, like whoever was on the other side was afraid of what they might find. Or maybe they were just moving carefully because every step probably felt like walking on broken glass.

Either way, it was Marissa who appeared first. And Jesus Christ, she looked like she’d been through a blender. Her hair was a disaster. That perfectly styled look from last night had been replaced by something that screamed, “I’ve been in a hospital bed for 9 hours trying to explain to medical professionals why I’m attached to a man who isn’t my husband.

” Her makeup was completely gone, leaving her face pale and drawn with dark circles under her eyes that made her look like she’d aged about 10 years overnight. But it was the way she was moving that really sold the whole I’ve made some very poor life choices aesthetic. She was shuffling like each step was agony.

 Her legs slightly apart in a way that suggested sitting down was going to be an adventure for the foreseeable future. Her dress, that sexy black number she’d put on to seduce Leo, was wrinkled and stained with what looked like hospital grade antiseptic. Morning, honey,” I said, not looking up from my tablet. “How was your night? You came in pretty late.

” She froze in the doorway like a deer caught in headlights, probably trying to remember whatever story she’d prepared during the ambulance ride. There was an emergency at work. A client crisis. I had to stay late to handle it. An emergency. A client crisis. Well, she wasn’t wrong.

 There had definitely been an emergency, and it had definitely created a crisis, just not the kind she was implying. That sucks, I said, finally looking up with my best concerned husband expression. You look exhausted. And is that are you walking funny? Did you hurt yourself? The look on her face was priceless. Here she was trying to maintain the illusion that she’d spent the night dealing with spreadsheets and conference calls while simultaneously trying to explain why she looked like she’d been in a medieval torture device. I I fell at the office down some stairs, twisted my back, fell

down some stairs. Right. That was definitely one way to describe being surgically separated from your lover after a superglue incident. I had to admire her creativity, even if her execution was lacking. Oh no. Did you go to the hospital? You should probably get that checked out. I did, she said quickly. I mean, I went to urgent care.

They said it was just a strain. Gave me some some medication for the pain. She was limping toward the bedroom now, probably desperate to get out of that dress and into something that didn’t smell like medical disinfectant and poor decisions. But before she could escape, there was another knock at the door. I got up to answer it, even though I had a pretty good idea who it was going to be.

Sure enough, there was Leo, looking like he’d gone 12 rounds with a heavyweight boxer who specialized in hitting people in the crotch. He was tall. I’ll give him that. probably 6’2 with the kind of lean muscle that comes from regular gym sessions and a metabolism that hasn’t been destroyed by 15 years of marriage and stress eating.

 His hair was dark and messy in that carefully casual way that takes about an hour to achieve. And under normal circumstances, he probably would have been what most women would call handsome. These were not normal circumstances. His jeans were unbuttoned at the top, hanging loose around his waist, like he couldn’t bear to have anything touching his skin down there.

He was moving with the same careful shuffle as Marissa and his face had that grayish pore that comes from spending all night in fluorescent lighting while medical professionals discuss your genitals in clinical terms. A hi, he said his voice. Is Marissa here? We need to we need to talk about what happened last night.

 What happened last night? Like it was some kind of natural disaster that had befallen them rather than the predictable result of adultery meeting industrial adhesive. Sure, come on in, I said, stepping aside with a friendly smile. Marissa just got back from work. She had some kind of emergency that kept her out all night.

 Leo’s eyes widened slightly, and I saw him glance toward the bedroom where Marissa had disappeared. He was probably wondering if she’d already spun some elaborate cover story, and if so, what version he was supposed to stick to. Right, he said slowly. The work emergency. You know how it is, I continued, closing the door behind him.

 Crisis management, damage control, trying to fix things that have gone completely wrong. Sometimes these situations require very delicate handling. I was laying it on thick, but I couldn’t help myself. The guy was standing in my living room, probably still feeling the effects of whatever industrial solvent they’d used to separate him from my wife.

 And he had no idea that I knew exactly what kind of emergency had kept them both busy all night. Marissa emerged from the bedroom wearing sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. The kind of outfit that screamed, “I am not okay and I don’t want anything touching my body right now.

” When she saw Leo standing in our living room, her face went through about 17 different expressions in the span of two seconds. “Leo,” she said, her voice carefully controlled. “What are you doing here? We need to discuss the situation from last night.” They were both speaking in code, trying to have a conversation about their medical emergency without actually saying anything that might tip me off.

 It was like watching two people try to discuss a bank robbery using only words you’d find in a children’s book. “Maybe you should sit down,” I suggested helpfully. You both look like you’re in pain. The look they exchanged was pure panic. Sitting down was obviously not on the agenda for either of them, which meant the hospital visit had been even more traumatic than I’d imagined.

 “Actually, I think I need to lie down,” Marissa said quickly. “The pain medication is making me dizzy and I should probably get going,” Leo added. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Of course, she’s okay,” I said, putting my arm around Marissa’s shoulders. She winced when I touched her, but tried to play it off as fatigue. My wife is tough.

 She can handle anything life throws at her. Leo nodded awkwardly and headed for the door, moving like a cowboy who’d spent too many hours in the saddle. I I’ll call you later about the project. Sure, Marissa said weakly. The project. After he left, Marissa collapsed onto the couch with a groan that she tried to disguise as a yawn.

 I think I’m coming down with something, she said. Maybe you should sleep in the guest room tonight. I don’t want you to catch whatever I have. Oh, I was pretty sure what she had wasn’t contagious, unless stupidity and adultery were communicable diseases, which, come to think of it, might explain a lot about human behavior.

 Of course, honey, I said, bringing her a glass of water. You just rest. I’ll take care of everything, and I would, starting with planning phase three. They say revenge is a dish best served cold, but I’ve always been more of a serve at blazing hot with a side of public humiliation kind of guy.

 Besides, when your cheating wife is already walking like she’s been kicked by a mule, why not add a little spice to her recovery process? I spent the rest of that afternoon playing the role of devoted husband with the kind of Oscar worthy performance that would have made male street weep with envy. I brought Marissa pillows, adjusted the thermostat, asked if she needed anything every 20 minutes, and generally behaved like a man whose biggest concern was his wife’s mysterious work-related injury. She was milking it for all it was worth.

 Of course, every movement was accompanied by a was. Every position change required a dramatic intake of breath, and she developed this pathetic little whimper that she deployed whenever she thought I wasn’t looking directly at her. It was like watching a onewoman production of The Suffering Wife performed by someone who’d never actually experienced real suffering, but had watched a lot of soap operas. “I think I need to eat some

thing,” she said around 400 p.m., speaking from her position on the couch where she’d been arranged like some kind of wounded princess. “But my stomach is really sensitive right now. Maybe something light. Oh, her stomach was sensitive. How interesting. I wondered if that had anything to do with the stress of spending 9 hours in a hospital explaining to medical professionals why she was anatomically connected to a man who wasn’t her husband, or if it was just a side effect of whatever painkillers they’d given her.

 Of course, baby, I said, already heading toward the kitchen. I’ll make something special. You just rest. Something special indeed. I’ve been planning this meal since she’d shuffled through our front door, looking like a walking advertisement for the consequences of adultery.

 It was going to be a symphony of spice, a carefully orchestrated assault on her already compromised digestive system. I started with lamb skewers, but these weren’t your garden variety barbecue fair. I marinated the meat in a blend that would have made a jalapeno pepper file a restraining order. Ghost pepper powder, Carolina reaper flakes, a habanero sauce, and enough seed to strip paint.

 Then I added some Thai bird’s eye chilies for texture and a generous helping of wasabi paste because why the hell not. While the lamb was absorbing its payload of thermal warfare, I moved on to the garlic prawns. Now I love garlic as much as the next guy, but this was garlic with a purpose. I used about 10 cloves where a normal recipe would call for two.

 Then added garlic powder, garlic salt, and some black garlic I’ve been saving for a special occasion. The prawns were swimming in enough garlic to ward off every vampire in a five-state radius. But the piece to resistance was the chili crab. I’d ordered it from that Singaporean place downtown.

 The one that advertises their authentic volcanic heat and makes you sign a waiver before they’ll serve you their spiciest dishes. This wasn’t just food. This was a weaponized dining experience that came with its own fire extinguisher. “Smells amazing in there,” Marissa called from the living room, her voice still carrying that pathetic wounded quality.

 “What are you making?” Just some of your favorites, I called back, grinning as I arranged everything on a platter that looked like it belonged in a five-star restaurant. I know you’ve been stressed lately, so I wanted to do something special. Stressed, right? Nothing quite like being surgically separated from your lover to really ramp up those stress levels. I brought the feast out on a tray complete with cloth napkins and our good silverware.

 The presentation was beautiful restaurant quality plating that disguised the fact that I’d essentially created a meal designed to torture someone with compromised internal geography. Oh wow, Marissa said, struggling to sit up straighter on the couch. This looks incredible. You really didn’t have to go to all this trouble.

 No trouble at all, I assured her, settling the tray on the coffee table within easy reach. I know how much you love spicy food. And after the night you’ve had, I figured you could use some comfort food. That was the beauty of my plan. Marissa did love spicy food. Under normal circumstances, she could handle heat that would send most people running for milk.

 But these weren’t normal circumstances, were they? Her entire digestive system was probably already in revolt from stress, painkillers, and whatever hospital food they’d forced on her during her extended stay in medical hell. She took her first bite of the lamb, and I watched her face like a hawk studying a field mouse. For a split second, her expression was pure appreciation.

 The meat was perfectly cooked. The flavors were complex and well balanced, and under any other circumstances, it would have been a genuinely excellent meal. Then the heat hit. It started as a slight widening of her eyes, followed by a pause in her chewing, then a very careful swallow that suggested she was already regretting her life choices.

 But she was committed now, trapped by the need to maintain her everything is fine facade. “This is really good,” she said, reaching for her water glass with movements that were just a little too quick to be casual. “Very flavorful.” “Flavorful, that was one way to put it.

” She gamely worked her way through the prawns, each bite requiring more water and longer pauses. The garlic was doing its job. I could see beads of sweat forming on her forehead despite the fact that our apartment was kept at a comfortable 72°, but it was the chili crab that really sealed the deal. She took one bite and I watched her entire body tense like she’d been hit with a cattle prod.

 Her face went red, then white, then an interesting shade of green that I’d never seen on a human being before. “I need,” she started, then stopped. Probably because speaking required breathing, and breathing was currently not her friend. “More water?” I asked helpfully, already refilling her glass. The crab is pretty intense.

 I probably should have warned you, she nodded desperately, downing the entire glass in three gulps. But the damage was done. I could practically see the heat working its way through her system, adding insult to injury in places that were already tinder from her medical adventure. Maybe I should lie down, she said weakly. I think the medication is interacting with the food. Of course, I said, all concern and sympathy.

 You should probably get some rest. I’ll clean up here. She struggled to her feet, moving even more carefully than before, and shuffled toward the bedroom like a woman walking through a minefield. Every step looked like agony, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.

 As she disappeared down the hallway, I heard my phone buzz with a text message. It was from my buddy Rick, who worked at the hospital. Dude, you’re not going to believe the case that came into the ER last night. Two people glued together during sex. Had to bring in a specialist to separate them. Funniest I’ve ever seen. I typed back, “No way. That’s crazy.

 Are they okay?” Physically, they’ll be fine eventually, but the guy developed an infection at the separation site. Had to admit him for four antibiotics. The woman went home, but she’s going to be uncomfortable for a while. An infection. Leo’s situation had gotten worse, which meant phase 3 was going to be even more effective than I’d planned.

 I finished cleaning up the kitchen, then prepared my next surprise. Hidden in our medicine cabinet behind the aspirin and band-aids was a tube of recovery ointment that Marissa would probably need for the next few days. It was a perfectly innocent looking product designed to soothe irritated skin and promote healing.

 It was also about to be replaced with something that would turn her recovery process into a whole new level of hell. I unscrewed the cap and emptied the contents into the sink, then refilled the tube with capsain cream, the stuff they used to treat arthritis pain, the same active ingredient that makes pepper spray so effective. It looked identical to the original ointment.

 Same color, same consistency. But when Marissa applied it to her tinder areas tomorrow morning, she was going to discover that some mistakes have consequences that just keep on giving. I put the tube back exactly where I’d found it and headed to bed. Phase 3 was locked and loaded.

 You know that moment in horror movies when the victim finally realizes they’re not dealing with a random accident, but with someone who’s been planning their demise all along? Well, I got to witness that exact moment in real time. And let me tell you, it was more satisfying than a perfectly aged scotch on a cold winter night. It started around 6:00 a.m. with a scream that could have woken the dead. Not just any scream.

 This was the kind of primal, gut-wrenching shriek that comes from someone who’s just discovered that their day is about to go from bad to please kill me now. It came from our bathroom, followed immediately by what sounded like someone trying to put out a fire with their bare hands. I was already awake, of course, had been for about an hour, lying in our guest bed, listening for the exact moment when Marissa would apply what she thought was soothing recovery ointment to her already traumatized anatomy. The anticipation had been killing me, like

waiting for the finale of the world’s most twisted reality show. “Jesus Christ,” she screamed, and I heard something crash in the bathroom. Probably the tube of ointment hitting the tile floor as she realized that what was supposed to heal her was instead setting her on fire from the inside out.

 I gave it exactly 10 seconds, long enough for the capsain to really get to work, but not so long that she’d start to suspect I wasn’t coming to help before I jumped out of bed and ran toward the bathroom like the concerned husband I was pretending to be. Marissa, what’s wrong? I called through the door, which was locked. Smart woman. She developed trust issues about people seeing her in vulnerable positions.

Wonder why that might be. Something’s wrong with the medicine. She gasped between what sounded like hyperventilating. It’s burning. Oh god, it’s burning. What medicine? The ointment from the hospital. Yes. No, I don’t know. Make it stop. I could hear water running, which meant she was probably trying to rinse off the cream.

Unfortunately for her, caps as oil-based, which means water just spreads it around. It’s like trying to put out a grease fire with a garden hose. You’re just making the problem worse. Honey, open the door. Let me help you.

 The lock clicked and the door swung open to reveal a scene that would have been hilarious if it wasn’t so perfectly orchestrated. Marissa was bent over the sink, splashing water on herself with the desperation of someone trying to escape hell. Her face was red and streaked with tears. Her hair was soaked, and she was making these little whimpering sounds that would have tugged at my heartstrings if I still had anywhere she was concerned. “I can’t make it stop,” she sobbed.

 “The burning won’t stop. Something’s wrong with that tube.” I looked at the fallen tube on the floor, my handiwork scattered across the bathroom tiles. That’s weird, I said, picking it up and examining it like I’d never seen it before. This is the same brand you always use, isn’t it? I don’t know. Maybe they changed the formula. Maybe it’s expired.

 I don’t care what it is. Just make it stop. The beauty of capsain is that it doesn’t just burn. It creates this deep penetrating heat that feels like it’s coming from inside your bones. And once it gets on sensitive tissue, especially tissue that’s already been traumatized by, say, emergency medical separation procedures, it turns into the kind of pain that makes you question every decision you’ve ever made.

 We need to get you to the hospital, I said, wrapping a towel around her shaking shoulders. This isn’t normal. You might be having some kind of allergic reaction. I can’t go back there, she whispered. Not again. Not after last night. Aha, there it was. the admission that last night had been something more than a work emergency.

 She was so focused on the burning sensation between her legs that she’d let her guard down and revealed that she had reasons to avoid the hospital beyond simple embarrassment. Honey, this is serious. You’re in real pain and I’m worried about infection or complications from your fall yesterday. Her fall, right? We were still maintaining that fiction even though she was currently experiencing what felt like napal being applied to her most intimate areas.

 I can’t, she said again. But I could see the resolve cracking. The pain was winning the battle against her pride, which was exactly what I’ve been counting on. “Look at me,” I said, taking her face in my hands with all the tenderness of a devoted husband. “I love you.

 I’m not going to let anything happen to you, but this isn’t something we can handle at home.” The drive to the hospital was a symphony of suffering. Marissa couldn’t sit properly in the passenger seat. She was half lying, half crouching, trying to find a position that didn’t make the burning worse. Every bump in the road sent her into fresh waves of agony. And she was gripping the door handle so hard I thought she might rip it off.

 How did this happen? She kept asking, “How did this happen?” If only she knew the answer to that question. If only she understood that every moment of pain she was experiencing was a direct result of choices she’d made, lies she’d told, and trusts she’d broken. But that level of self-awareness was probably beyond her capabilities right now.

 We pulled up to the emergency room entrance, the same one she’d been wheeled out of less than 12 hours earlier, still attached to her lover, like some kind of pornographic Siamese twin. The irony wasn’t lost on me, and I had to suppress a smile as I helped her out of the car.

 The triage nurse took one look at Marissa’s condition and immediately escalated her to a private room. Being a repeat customer definitely had its advantages, especially when your previous visit involved being surgically separated from someone who wasn’t your spouse. Dr. Martinez, the same physician who’d overseen the separation procedure, walked in with an expression that suggested he was either having the strangest week of his medical career or he’d entered some kind of alternate universe where people’s sex lives had declared war on basic anatomy. Mrs.

Thompson, he said, consulting his chart back so soon. What seems to be the problem? Marissa tried to explain about the ointment, the burning, the reaction she was having. Dr. Martinez listened with the kind of professional patience that comes from years of dealing with medical mysteries, but I could see the concern growing in his eyes as he examined her.

 “This level of inflammation is severe,” he said finally. “The tissue damage from yesterday’s procedure, combined with what appears to be a chemical burn, has created a potentially serious situation. Chemical burn. Those words hung in the air like a death sentence. Are you certain about the ointment you used?” he asked.

 Because this reaction is consistent with exposure to capsain or a similar irritant. Marissa looked confused, which was understandable since she had no idea that her loving husband had been conducting chemistry experiments with her recovery supplies. I used the same tube I always use, she said weekly. But something was wrong with it. Dr.

 Martinez nodded thoughtfully. Given the extent of the damage and the risk of infection, I’m going to recommend surgical intervention. We need to remove the affected tissue before necrosis sets in. Necrosis? That was a word that commanded attention. It meant tissue death, permanent damage, the kind of consequences that don’t just heal with time and good intentions. Surgery.

Marissa’s voice was barely a whisper. I’m afraid so. The combination of yesterday’s trauma and today’s chemical exposure has created a situation where conservative treatment isn’t going to be sufficient. We need to excise the damaged tissue and give you the best chance for proper healing. I squeezed her hands supportively.

 Whatever you think is best, doctor, we just want her to be okay. The consent forms were brought in, and I watched Marissa sign away pieces of herself with trembling hands. She was crying now, not just from the physical pain, but from the dawning realization that her body was going to be permanently changed by the events of the last 24 hours.

 How long will the recovery take? I asked, playing the concerned husband to perfection. Several weeks at minimum, Dr. Martinez replied. And there will be permanent changes. Some sensation may never return to normal. Permanent changes. some sensation may never return to normal.

 I filed those phrases away for future reference, feeling a deep satisfaction that had nothing to do with the sterile hospital environment and everything to do with justice finally being served. As they wheeled Marissa toward the operating room, she grabbed my hand one last time. “I love you,” she said, her voice thick with sedation and fear. “I love you, too,” I replied.

 And for the first time in months, I actually meant it. I love this version of her. vulnerable consequences facing finally paying the price for her betrayals. The surgery took three hours and when Dr. Martinez came out to speak with me, his expression was grave. We were able to remove all the damaged tissue, he said.

 But the extent of the excision was more significant than we initially anticipated. She’s going to need extensive follow-up care, and there will be permanent functional changes. I nodded solemnly, like a devoted husband receiving devastating news about his beloved wife. Inside, I was already planning phase 4.

 There’s something deeply poetic about serving divorce papers to your cheating wife while she’s lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to and for drip, and recovering from surgery that remove pieces of her body as a direct result of her own infidelity. It’s like the universe finally decided to get involved in writing the perfect ending to a really up love story.

 I’d spent the morning at my lawyer’s office finalizing documents that have been prepared with the kind of meticulous attention to detail that would make a Swiss watch maker weep with envy. Every clause, every stipulation, every legal maneuver designed to ensure that Marissa walked away from our marriage with exactly what she deserved. Nothing. Well, almost nothing. She’d get to keep the medical bills.

 The papers were tucked neatly into a manila folder as I walked through the hospital corridors, past the rooms full of people dealing with actual accidents and legitimate medical emergency. Unlike my wife, who was currently experiencing the long-term consequences of poor decision-making and industrial-grade adhesive, room 347 was private, which I’d specifically requested and paid for out of pocket.

 Call it a gesture of kindness. I wanted Marissa to have privacy for what was about to be the worst conversation of her life. The kind of privacy you need when your entire world collapses and you want to scream without disturbing the other patients. She was awake when I walked in, propped up on pillows and looking like she’d aged about 15 years in the past 2 days.

 The surgery had gone well according to Dr. Martinez. But recovery was going to be a long and uncomfortable process. Permanently uncomfortable in some ways. Hey, she said weekly, attempting a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. I was wondering when you’d get here. The nurses said visiting hours started at 10:00. Traffic was a nightmare.

 I lied smoothly, settling into the chair beside her bed. How are you feeling? Like I got hit by a truck. Then the truck backed up and hit me again. She shifted slightly and winced. The doctor says I’ll be here for another day or two, then several weeks of wreck recovery at home. Several weeks of recovery. That was optimistic. From what Dr.

 Martinez had told me privately, her recovery was going to involve a lot more than just taking it easy for a few weeks. We were talking about permanent changes to her anatomy, ongoing medical appointments, and the kind of complications that would serve as a daily reminder of her choices. About that, I said, pulling the manila folder from my briefcase. We need to talk.

 Something in my tone must have triggered her survival instincts because her expression shifted from drug adult confusion to sharp alertness. In about 2 seconds, she was suddenly very awake, very focused, and very aware that this conversation wasn’t going to be about get well soon flowers and chicken soup. “What’s that?” she asked, eyeing the folder like it might contain a bomb.

“Divorce papers,” I said, placing them on the rolling table beside her bed with the casual air of someone delivering a pizza. “I need you to sign them.” The silence that followed was so complete, I could hear the four drip, counting down the seconds.

 One drop, two drops, three drops, each one marking another moment in which Marissa’s brain tried to process what I just said. “What?” she finally whispered. And I have to say, her timing was perfect. The word came out just as a particularly strong dose of whatever painkiller they had her on hit her system, giving her voice this ethereal, disbelieving quality.

 divorce papers, I repeated, opening the folder and spreading the documents across the table like I was dealing cards. Pretty straightforward stuff. You keep nothing. I get the house, the cars, the savings, the investments. Our son stays with me full-time. She stared at the papers like they were written in ancient Sanskrit. I don’t understand why. Why now? I’m in the hospital. I just had surgery.

 Well, that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? I settled back in the chair, crossing my legs like we were discussing weekend plans instead of the complete destruction of her life. See, I know about Leo. I know about the affair. I know about the hotel rooms, the messages, the silver tube of Japanese lubricant that you’ve been using to enhance your extracurricular activities. The color drained from her face so quickly. I thought she might pass out.

Her mouth opened and closed a few times, but no sound came out. She looked like a fish gasping for air. if fish could experience existential terror. I know you’ve been drugging me, so you could sneak out for your little Ren View. I know about the encrypted messaging app hidden in your groceries folder. I know about Leo living right upstairs in 4C.

And I know that last night’s medical emergency wasn’t exactly the work-related accident you claimed it was. Each revelation hit her like a physical blow. I could actually see her deflating like someone was slowly letting the air out of her entire existence. How she managed to croak. Does it matter? The point is, I know.

 and now you’re going to sign these papers, take responsibility for your choices, and get the hell out of my life.” She tried to sit up straighter, which was a mistake given her current medical situation. The movement sent a wave of pain across her face that was almost worth the price of admission. “You can’t do this,” she said, and there was a note of desperation creeping into her voice. “Not like this.

 Not while I’m hurt and vulnerable.” “He hurt and vulnerable.” I laughed and it came out darker than I’d intended. “That’s rich. You were perfectly capable of making decisions when you were sneaking around behind my back. You were perfectly capable of planning hotel meetings and applying lubricant to other men, but now that there are consequences, suddenly you’re too hurt and vulnerable to face them. It wasn’t.

 It didn’t mean anything, she said, and I could see tears starting to form in her eyes. Leo means nothing to me. It was just It was just physical. It was a mistake. A mistake. I let the word hang in the air between us. You know what a mistake is, Marissa? A mistake is forgetting to pick up milk on the way home. A mistake is double booking a dinner reservation.

 What you did was make a series of deliberate choices over a period of months. Each one designed to betray the trust of the man who loved you. The tears were flowing freely now, and she was making those little hiccuping sounds that people make when they’re trying to cry quietly.

 Under different circumstances, I might have felt sorry for her, but these weren’t different circumstances. “Please,” she whispered. “We can work through this. We can go to counseling. I’ll do anything to make this right. Anything. I leaned forward, genuinely curious. Would you undo the affair? Would you give me back the nights I spent alone while you were with him? Would you take back the lies, the deception, the complete destruction of everything we built together? She opened her mouth to answer, but I held up a hand to stop her.

 Because if you can’t do any of that, and we both know you can’t, then there’s nothing to work through. There’s just cleanup. I stood up and moved the papers closer to her bed. Sign them, Marissa. accept that this is over and try to maintain some dignity in how it ends. She stared at the papers for a long moment, then looked up at me with something that might have been hope.

 What about our son? You can’t keep him from his mother. Watch me. I pulled out my phone and showed her the screen. I’ve got video of you and Leo being wheeled out of the building on the same stretcher. I’ve got screenshots of your message history. I’ve got documentation of your drug use. Oh, yes. I had that milk tested.

Ambient, in case you’re wondering. Her face went white again, but this time it was tinged with something that looked like genuine fear. Any custody battle is going to involve a lot of uncomfortable questions about your judgment, your lifestyle choices, and your fitness as a parent.

 “Are you really sure you want to go down that road?” She grabbed the papers with shaking hands and tore them in half. “I’m not signing anything,” she said. And for a moment, there was a flash of the old Marissa, defiant, stubborn, convinced she could fight her way out of any situation. “You want a divorce? Fine. But I’m not going to just roll over and let you take everything.

 I smiled and pulled another set of papers from my briefcase. I was hoping you’d say that. What’s that? Plan BC. If you won’t sign the generous settlement I’m offering, we go to court. And in court, all of this becomes public record. The affair, the circumstances of your medical emergency, the drug use, everything.

 Is that really what you want? She stared at the second set of papers, and I could see the exact moment when she realized she was completely there was no way out. No clever legal maneuver, no lastminute rescue, just the cold, hard reality of consequences finally catching up to choices. But instead of accepting defeat gracefully, she did something I didn’t expect. She started to laugh.

 Not happy laughter, the kind of broken, hysterical laughter that people make when their sanity finally gives up and goes home. It started as a giggle, then built into full-blown cackles that echoed off the hospital room walls. “You think you’ve won,” she said between gasps. You think you’re so smart, so clever, but you have no idea what you’ve done. Enlighten me.

Leo isn’t going anywhere. Even if we get divorced, even if you take everything, he’ll still be there. And there are others, too. Do you really think he was the first? Do you really think this was some kind of isolated incident? The words hit me like a slap across the face, but I kept my expression neutral.

 Others, “Oh, honey,” she said, and her voice was pure poison. Now, you have no idea how long this has been going on. Leo was just the most recent, the most convenient, but there have been others, lots of others. And there it was, the final revelation that turned my carefully planned revenge from a surgical strike into something much more comprehensive.

 I looked at my broken, hospitalized, soon to be ex-wife and realized that phase 4 was going to be much more extensive than I’d originally planned. There’s something deeply poetic about serving divorce papers to your cheating wife while she’s lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to and for drip, and recovering from surgery that remove pieces of her body as a direct result of her own infidelity.

 It’s like the universe finally decided to get involved in writing the perfect ending to a really up love story. I’d spent the morning at my lawyer’s office finalizing documents that have been prepared with the kind of meticulous attention to detail that would make a Swiss watch maker weep with envy. Every clause, every stipulation, every legal maneuver designed to ensure that Marissa walked away from our marriage with exactly what she deserved. Nothing. Well, almost nothing. She’d get to keep the medical bills.

 The papers were tucked neatly into a manila folder as I walked through the hospital corridors, past the rooms full of people dealing with actual accidents and legitimate medical emergencies. Unlike my wife, who was currently experiencing the long-term consequences of poor decision-making and industrial-grade adhesive, room 347 was private, which I’d specifically requested and paid for out of pocket. Call it a gesture of kindness.

 I wanted Marissa to have privacy for what was about to be the worst conversation of her life. The kind of privacy you need when your entire world collapses and you want to scream without disturbing the other patients. She was awake when I walked in, propped up on pillows and looking like she’d aged about 15 years in the past 2 days. The surgery had gone well, according to Dr. Martinez.

 But recovery was going to be a long and uncomfortable process, permanently uncomfortable in some ways. “Hey,” she said weekly, attempting a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I was wondering when you’d get here.” The nurses said, “Visiting hours started at 10:00. Traffic was a nightmare.

 I lied smoothly, settling into the chair beside her bed. How are you feeling? Like I got hit by a truck.” Then the truck backed up and hit me again. She shifted slightly and winced. The doctor says, “I’ll be here for another day or two, then several weeks of recovery at home.” Several weeks of recovery. That was optimistic from what Dr. Martinez had told me privately.

 Her recovery was going to involve a lot more than just taking it easy for a few weeks. We were talking about permanent changes to her anatomy, ongoing medical appointments, and the kind of complications that would serve as a daily reminder of her choices. About that, I said, pulling the manila folder from my briefcase. We need to talk.

 Something in my tone must have triggered her survival instincts because her expression shifted from drug adult confusion to sharp alertness. In about 2 seconds, she was suddenly very awake, very focused, and very aware that this conversation wasn’t going to be about get well soon flowers and chicken soup. “What’s that?” she asked, eyeing the folder like it might contain a bomb.

“Divorce papers,” I said, placing them on the rolling table beside her bed with the casual air of someone delivering a pizza. “I need you to sign them.” The silence that followed was so complete, I could hear the four drip, counting down the seconds.

 One drop, two drops, three drops, each one marking another moment in which Marissa’s brain tried to process what I just said. “What?” she finally whispered. And I have to say, her timing was perfect. The word came out just as a particularly strong dose of whatever painkiller they had her on hit her system, giving her voice this ethereal, disbelieving quality.

 divorce papers,” I repeated, opening the folder and spreading the documents across the table like I was dealing cards. “Pretty straightforward stuff. You keep nothing. I get the house, the cars, the savings, the investments. Our son stays with me full-time.” She stared at the papers like they were written in ancient Sanskrit. “I don’t understand why. Why now? I’m in the hospital.

 I just had surgery. Well, that’s kind of the point, isn’t it?” I settled back in the chair, crossing my legs like we were discussing. weekend plans instead of the complete destruction of her life. See, I know about Leo. I know about the affair. I know about the hotel rooms, the messages, the silver tube of Japanese lubricant that you’ve been using to enhance your extracurricular activities. The color drained from her face so quickly, I thought she might pass out.

Her mouth opened and closed a few times, but no sound came out. She looked like a fish gasping for air. If fish could experience existential terror, I know you’ve been drugging me, so you could sneak out for your little ren. I know about the encrypted messaging app hidden in your groceries folder. I know about Leo living right upstairs in 4C.

 And I know that last night’s medical emergency wasn’t exactly the work-related accident you claimed it was. Each revelation hit her like a physical blow. I could actually see her deflating like someone was slowly letting the air out of her entire existence. How? She managed to croak.

 Does it matter? The point is I know. And now you’re going to sign these papers, take responsibility for your choices, and get the hell out of my life. She tried to sit up straighter, which was a mistake given her current medical situation. The movement sent a wave of pain across her face that was almost worth the price of admission.

 “You can’t do this,” she said, and there was a note of desperation creeping into her voice. “Not like this. Not while I’m hurt and vulnerable.” “He hurt and vulnerable.” I laughed and it came out darker than I’d intended. “That’s rich. You were perfectly capable of making decisions when you were sneaking around behind my back.

 You were perfectly capable of planning hotel meetings and applying lubricant to other men. But now that there are consequences, suddenly you’re too hurt and vulnerable to face them. It wasn’t. It didn’t mean anything, she said, and I could see tears starting to form in her eyes. Leo means nothing to me. It was just It was just physical. It was a mistake. A mistake.

 I let the word hang in the air between us. You know what a mistake is, Marissa? A mistake is forgetting to pick up milk on the way home. A mistake is double booking a dinner reservation. What you did was make a series of deliberate choices over a period of months. Each one designed to betray the trust of the man who loved you.

 The tears were flowing freely now, and she was making those little hiccuping sounds that people make when they’re trying to cry quietly. Under different circumstances, I might have felt sorry for her, but these weren’t different circumstances. “Please,” she whispered. “We can work through this. We can go to counseling. I’ll do anything to make this right. Anything.” I leaned forward, genuinely curious.

 Would you undo the affair? Would you give me back the nights I spent alone while you were with him? Would you take back the lies, the deception, the complete destruction of everything we built together? She opened her mouth to answer, but I held up a hand to stop her.

 Because if you can’t do any of that, and we both know you can’t, then there’s nothing to work through. There’s just cleanup. I stood up and moved the papers closer to her bed. Sign them, Marissa. Accept that this is over and try to maintain some dignity in how it ends. She stared at the papers for a long moment, then looked up at me with something that might have been hope. What about our son? You can’t keep him from his mother.

Watch me. I pulled out my phone and showed her the screen. I’ve got video of you and Leo being wheeled out of the building on the same stretcher. I’ve got screenshots of your message history. I’ve got documentation of your drug use. Oh, yes. I had that milk tested. Ambient, in case you’re wondering.

 Her face went white again, but this time it was tinged with something that looked like genuine fear. Any custody battle is going to involve a lot of uncomfortable questions about your judgment, your lifestyle choices, and your fitness as a parent.

 Are you really sure you want to go down that road? She grabbed the papers with shaking hands and tore them in half. “I’m not signing anything,” she said. And for a moment, there was a flash of the old Marissa, defiant, stubborn, convinced she could fight her way out of any situation. “You want a divorce? Fine, but I’m not going to just roll over and let you take everything.” I smiled and pulled another set of papers from my briefcase.

 I was hoping you’d say that. What’s that? Plan BC. If you won’t sign the generous settlement I’m offering, we go to court. And in court, all of this becomes public record. The affair, the circumstances of your medical emergency, the drug use, everything.

 Is that really what you want? She stared at the second set of papers, and I could see the exact moment when she realized she was completely there was no way out. No clever legal maneuver, no lastminute rescue, just the cold, hard reality of consequences finally catching up to choices. But instead of accepting defeat gracefully, she did something I didn’t expect. She started to laugh.

 Not happy laughter, the kind of broken, hysterical laughter that people make when their sanity finally gives up and goes home. It started as a giggle, then built into full-blown cackles that echoed off the hospital room walls. “You think you’ve won,” she said between gasps. You think you’re so smart, so clever, but you have no idea what you’ve done. Enlighten me. Leo isn’t going anywhere.

 Even if we get divorced, even if you take everything, he’ll still be there. And there are others, too. Do you really think he was the first? Do you really think this was some kind of isolated incident? The words hit me like a slap across the face, but I kept my expression neutral.

 Others, “Oh, honey,” she said, and her voice was pure poison. Now, you have no idea how long this has been going on. Leo was just the most recent, the most convenient, but there have been others, lots of others, and there it was, the final revelation that turned my carefully planned revenge from a surgical strike into something much more comprehensive.

 I looked at my broken, hospitalized, soon tobe ex-wife and realized that phase 4 was going to be much more extensive than I’d originally planned. You know what they say about the internet never forgetting? Well, turns out that’s especially true when your cheating wife and her lover get carded off to the hospital in the most humiliating position imaginable, and half your building has smartphones with HD video capability. Mrs. Patterson from 3B had really outdone herself.

 The woman who usually spent her time recording her cats doing mundane had somehow managed to capture the entire ambulance scene in glorious 4K detail. The video was a masterpiece of accidental cinematography. It had everything from the initial confusion of the paramedics to the moment when they realized they needed a bigger stretcher all the way through to the final shot of Leo and Marissa being wheeled out like some kind of pornographic sculpture.

 The best part, you could clearly see both their faces. I’d gotten a copy from Mrs. Patterson under the pretense of wanting to make sure Marissa was okay, which she bought because I perfected the concerned husband act over the past few days. What she didn’t know was that I had much bigger plans for her amateur film making than just checking on my wife’s well-being.

 Within six hours of getting the video, I’d created accounts on every major social media platform. Tik Tok, Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, Reddit, the whole digital ecosystem where shame goes to multiply like bacteria in a petri dish. The video was uploaded with carefully crafted captions that told just enough of the story to make it go viral without actually getting me sued for defamation. When cheating goes horribly wrong was the caption that really took off.

 Simple, direct, and guaranteed to make people hit the share button faster than you could say karma. A the internet, as it turns out, has an endless appetite for watching other people’s lives implode in spectacular fashion. Within 12 hours, the video had been viewed over half a million times. By day two, it was trending on three different platforms.

 By day three, it had spawned reaction videos, compilation clips, and even a few remix versions set to popular songs. But the real magic happened when people started recognizing them. Holy, that’s Leo from Flex Fitness was one of the first comments that got my attention.

 Apparently, Leo was some kind of Instagram fitness influencer with a decent following who marketed himself as a relationship coach and lifestyle guru. The irony was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Within hours, someone had doxed him completely. His full name, his gym, his Instagram account, his business website, everything laid bare for the internet to examine and judge. And judge they did.

 His gym fired him before the week was out. Apparently, being internet famous for getting glued to a married woman during an affair wasn’t the kind of publicity they were looking for. His Instagram account got flooded with comments ranging from helpful suggestions about better lubricant choices to detailed descriptions of what people thought should happen to cheaters.

 But Leo’s public execution was nothing compared to what happened to Marissa. Someone recognized her from the parent teacher conferences at our son’s school. Another person knew her from her book club. A third identified her from the local yoga studio where she’d been a regular for years. Once her identity was out there, it spread like wildfire through our social circles.

 Her phone started ringing constantly. Reporters, bloggers, random internet strangers who’d somehow gotten her number. She’d made the mistake of keeping all her social media accounts public, which meant everyone could see her carefully curated life of perfect wife and mother posts going back years.

 The contrast between her online persona and the reality of what everyone had just witnessed was comedy gold for the internet trolls. They started posting sideby-side comparisons. Marissa’s Instagram post about date night with my amazing husband next to a screenshot from the ambulance video. Her Facebook post about loyalty and trust in marriage paired with a still frame of her being wheeled away attached to another man.

Her friends started distancing themselves one by one. The book club mysteriously had scheduling conflicts every time she tried to join their meetings. The yoga studio suddenly couldn’t find her membership in their system. Even the grocery store cashiers started giving her looks that could freeze hell.

 But the real masterpiece came when I discovered something that made Leo’s affair look like amateur hour. Hidden in her tablet’s browsing history, I found evidence of something that made my blood run cold and my revenge plans expand exponentially. She hadn’t been lying about there being others. Lots of others. There was an entire network, a private group that operated through encrypted apps and exclusive websites catering to married people looking for discreet encounters. It wasn’t just casual cheating.

 This was organized systematic adultery with membership fees, background checks, and regular events. Marissa had been a premium member for over three years. Three years. The evidence was all there. Hotel receipts, membership confirmations, even reviews she’d written about other members. She’d been living a completely double life, and I’d been too stupid and trusting to see it.

But now, I saw everything, and more importantly, I had documentation of everything. I printed out every piece of evidence, organized it into a comprehensive file, and walked straight to the police station. Not because adultery was illegal.

 It’s not, unfortunately, but because the network itself was involved in some activities that definitely crossed legal lines. Tax evasion, for starters. The membership fees weren’t being reported as income by the organizers. Then there was the prostitution angle. Some members were paying others for services, which made it a commercial operation.

 And the real kicker, several members were using company credit cards and expense accounts to fund their activities, which meant embezzlement and fraud. Detective Morrison listened to my story with the expression of someone who’d thought he’d seen everything, but was rapidly discovering he was wrong. When I finished laying out the evidence, he just sat there for a moment, shaking his head. This is going to bring down a lot of people, he said finally.

 Good, I replied. It should. Within a week, the investigation had expanded to include the FBI. Apparently, the network operated across state lines, which made it federal jurisdiction. Assets were frozen, arrests were made, and suddenly Marissa wasn’t just dealing with public humiliation. She was looking at potential criminal charges.

 The local news picked up the story, and our little suburban scandal became a cautionary tale about modern marriage and digital infidelity. Marissa’s picture was on the evening news, identified as a key figure in a multi-state adultery ring. She stopped leaving the house entirely, stopped answering her phone, stopped responding to emails or texts.

 She’d become a prisoner in her own home, afraid to face a world that now knew exactly who she really was. And Leo, he disappeared entirely, skipped town, closed his social media accounts, vanished like he never existed. Smart move, actually. The internet has a long memory, but it gets distracted easily if you remove yourself from the equation.

But Marissa couldn’t disappear. She had too many connections, too many responsibilities, too much evidence tying her to everything. She was trapped and she knew it. Phase 4 was exceeding all expectations. 3 weeks later, Leo made the mistake of coming back.

 I was sitting in my living room enjoying my morning coffee and the kind of peaceful silence that comes from having a house to yourself when I heard the familiar sound of raised voices from the front yard. Through the window, I could see Leo standing on our porch, gesticulating wildly at Marissa, who was blocking the doorway like she was protecting Fort Knox instead of our suburban hole. The guy looked like he’d been living rough, unshaven, clothes wrinkled.

 That desperate edge that comes from having your entire life implode on social media. Apparently, disappearing hadn’t worked out as well as he’d hoped. The internet may have a short attention span, but debt collectors and angry gym owners have much longer memories. You owe me 20 grand. He was shouting loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

Medical bills, lost income, legal fees. This is all your fault. Marissa’s voice was sharp and bitter when she replied. My fault. You’re the one who suggested using that stuff in the first place. I didn’t tell you to bring goddamn superglue. There it was. The admission I’ve been waiting for. Even better, Mrs.

Patterson was already on her balcony with her phone out, probably live streaming the whole thing. Some people never learn. The argument escalated quickly from there. Leo shoved past Marissa into the house and she followed him, their voices carrying through the thin walls as they continued their blame game inside our home, my home technically since the divorce papers had finally gone through.

 I could hear them moving around upstairs, probably in what used to be our bedroom. Leo’s voice was getting louder, more aggressive, while Marissa was fighting back with the kind of vicious anger that comes from having nothing left to lose. Then I heard the slap, then the crash, then more shouting, followed by what sounded like furniture being thrown around.

 I waited exactly 5 minutes before calling my contact at the police department. Hey, Detective Morrison. Yeah, it’s happening again. Same address. Domestic disturbance, possible assault. You might want to send a couple units. The police arrived just as Leo came stumbling out of the house, clutching his face where Marissa had apparently connected with something heavy.

 She followed him onto the porch, screaming obscinities that would have made a sailor blush. That’s when Leo made his second mistake of the day. He shoved her. Marissa went down hard on the concrete steps, and that’s when the officers decided they’d seen enough. Leo was in handcuffs before he could explain that he was just trying to collect money he was owed.

 Marissa was cuffed 30 seconds later when she tried to attack the officers who were arresting her meal ticket. The beautiful thing about having a criminal investigation already open is that any new charges get added to the existing case file. Leo’s assault charge became part of the larger fraud investigation.

 Marissa’s disorderly conduct and resisting arrest joined her embezzlement charges. By the time the dust settled, they were both looking at serious jail time. The custody hearing was scheduled for the following week, but it turned out to be a formality. When one parent is in county lockup, awaiting trial, and the other parent has documentation proving systematic fraud and infidelity, family court judges tend to make decisions pretty quickly. I walked out of that courthouse with full custody. the house, the cars, and a clean slate.

Our son was staying with my sister during the proceedings, blissfully unaware that his mother had destroyed her own life through a combination of stupidity and greed. That night, I sat in my quiet house with a glass of 20-year-old scotch, listening to the absence of lies, manipulation, and betrayal. The place actually felt like a home again instead of a crime scene.

 My phone buzzed with a text from Detective Morrison. Case closed. Both defendants plead guilty. Marissa got 18 months. Leo got two years. Thought you’d want to know. I deleted the message and poured myself another drink. Sometimes justice isn’t blind. Sometimes it just takes a little help seeing clearly.