My Husband Visited His Mistress Every Week

Maya sent a few surveillance photos.

Though blurry, I recognized him—it was Ethan.

And there she was too: Olivia, smiling sweetly, oblivious.

I typed back: [Continue investigating, especially financial dealings.]

I decided it was time to go to Riverside Residences myself.

I told my mother‑in‑law I was just going out to relax. She nodded, worry etched on her face.

At the complex, I parked a short distance away and waited.

Soon, a white BMW Mini glided up. The window rolled down—it was Olivia, swiping her access card.

She hummed a cheerful tune as she drove into the basement. My hands shook.

From the car, I texted Maya:

[I saw her. Keep checking, focus on joint assets and any records of him using my money.]

Her reply came instantly:

[Understood! I’ll dig deep. Are you okay?]

I typed back, almost smiling: [Very good. I’ve never felt this good.]

Yes, my heart was broken—but I felt calm.

Now, it was their turn to face hardship.

I returned home, expressionless. My mother‑in‑law rushed up.

"Lila, where have you been? Are you okay?"

"Just out for some fresh air," I said softly, slipping into slippers. "A little tired. Don’t call me for dinner."

I retreated to the bedroom, closed the door, and slid down to the floor, back against the door.

In the darkness, my tears finally came.

For five years of love.

For endless days and nights of deception.

For the absurd dream of growing old together.

I cried until my body shook, then wiped my face and went to the bathroom. Cold water ran over my red, swollen eyes.

I whispered to myself: I’m vulnerable enough. Tears won’t undo my conscience.

Ethan wouldn’t be back for two days. Those two days had to be my preparation.

I opened my computer and began organizing the evidence:

Screenshots of taxi records, property ownership info, surveillance photos, Olivia’s social media images…

I categorized and encrypted everything.

I recalled our shared bank accounts, investments, and financial data.

My phone vibrated. Maya’s new message appeared:

[High-end restaurants near their company checked. Ethan’s spending pattern on Tuesdays and Thursdays is consistent—meals for two, substantial sums.]

[Olivia posted expensive gifts on social media; timing aligns with expenditures.]

[No hotel records found. Riverside Residences seems to be his long-term hideout.]

[Bank statements under review—will take time.]

With each message, my heart grew colder.

This wasn’t a fleeting affair—it was a carefully orchestrated betrayal.

The next day, I went to the bank and printed our joint account statements.

Large, unfamiliar expenditures caught my eye—marked “material costs” or “project deposits.” I photographed each page for evidence.

I called Attorney Harrison. Her voice was calm but precise:

"This proves he has been cohabiting with someone for a long time—very favorable for property division. If you find direct evidence that joint property funded a third party, you can reclaim it. And since there are no children yet, the focus should be on assets."

My heart clenched. A blessing? A curse?

"Keep tracking the flow of funds. Don’t alert him until he returns."

That evening, Ethan called.

"Honey, the meeting just ended. I’ll be back tomorrow. I missed your braised pork ribs."

"Okay," I said softly.

"I’ll make them for you when you get home."

The warmth of his words vanished the instant the call ended. My smile froze.