Chapter 2

The rain hammered against our windows like bullets, each drop echoing the chaos in my mind.

I hadn't slept, hadn't moved from the armchair in our living room since Jonathan retreated to his study hours ago.

When his phone rang at 2 AM, cutting through the storm, I knew exactly who it was before he even answered.

"Madeline? Are you okay, sweetheart?" His voice was soft, tender in a way he hadn't spoken to me in months, maybe years.

I crept closer to his study door, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floor.

"Don't worry about the storm, baby. I'm coming over right now."

Baby. He called her baby.

"No, no, don't apologize for calling. You know I'd do anything for you."

The call ended, and I heard him gathering his keys, his wallet, probably the cologne he only wore for special occasions.

This was my chance, and I wasn't going to waste it.

I slipped into his study the moment I heard his car pull away, my fingers trembling as I typed in Lily's birthday on his computer password prompt.

The screen unlocked immediately.

Twenty-seven thousand, four hundred and thirty-two messages.

My hands shook as I opened the chat thread, each message a dagger straight through my heart.

"First time cooking for you tonight. Hope it's not terrible! I'm so nervous! ?"

"You're already perfect, Madeline. Don't change a single thing about yourself."

The timestamp showed our wedding anniversary. Our fucking seventh wedding anniversary.

"Are you okay after this afternoon? I was worried I was too rough with you."

"I'm perfect, just a little sore. Are you thinking about tonight when you go home to your wife?"

"Don't think about that. Think about us, about what we have together."

I kept scrolling, bile rising in my throat, each message revealing the depth of his betrayal, the careful construction of his double life.

"She doesn't suspect anything, does she?"

"Katherine? No way. She's too busy with Lily and her writing to notice what's happening right under her nose."

Too busy with our daughter and the career I'd put on hold for his dreams.

I plugged in a USB drive with shaking hands and began copying everything—every photo, every message, every goddamn piece of evidence of his systematic destruction of our marriage.

The timestamps went back exactly two years, to that business trip that "saved our marriage" because he came back "more committed than ever" and "ready to be the husband you deserve."

All lies. Every single word had been a calculated deception.

When the files finished copying, I sat back in his leather chair and stared at the proof of my utterly destroyed marriage glowing on the computer screen.

But proof was power, and I was going to need all the power I could get for what came next.

Because Jonathan Morrison had just made the biggest mistake of his life, and he didn't even know it yet.