Wife Exposes Mistress's Lies

I watched Lucian stride through the office doors of Carter Corporation, his tailored suit impeccable as always, carrying two coffee cups from Brew Haven—Genesis's favorite coffee shop. Five years of marriage, and today was our anniversary. Not that I expected him to remember.

My fingers paused over my keyboard as he approached, my heart foolishly skipping a beat. Could he possibly have remembered? His cologne wafted toward me—the one Genesis had gifted him last Christmas, not the one I'd given him.

"Morning," he said curtly, barely glancing my way as he passed my desk. Then he stopped, as if remembering something, and turned back. "Here." He thrust one of the lattes toward me, checking his watch impatiently.

I didn't reach for it. "I'm lactose intolerant, Lucian."

His brow furrowed momentarily before his face cleared. "Right." No apology. No acknowledgment of his mistake. Just that single word that somehow summarized our entire marriage—an afterthought.

I watched him pivot and continue down the hallway toward Genesis's office, both drinks still in hand. Of course. They weren't both for me. They were never for me. One had likely been for Genesis all along, and he'd simply made the mistake of offering me hers.

Five years of marriage, and he didn't know—or care to remember—that I couldn't drink milk. Such a small thing, yet it crystallized everything wrong between us. I turned back to my computer screen, the quarterly reports blurring as I blinked rapidly.

Not here. I wouldn't cry here.

---

That evening, I drove to First National Bank instead of heading home. The security guard nodded in recognition as I signed in and followed him to the vault. This visit was long overdue.

"Box 1028, Mrs. Carter," he said, inserting his key while I used mine.

"Thank you, Frank."

Inside the private viewing room, I opened the safe deposit box and removed a manila envelope I'd placed there five years ago, just weeks after our wedding. Inside were divorce papers—my insurance policy, my escape route, negotiated quietly with the Carter elders as part of my prenuptial agreement.

I spread the documents on the table, my finger tracing over the five signature lines at the bottom. Each represented twenty of Lucian's mistakes, twenty betrayals I had forgiven. The first signature—dated three years ago when he missed the birth of our son because he was with Genesis at a "client dinner." The second—when I discovered lipstick on his collar that wasn't my shade. The third—when he forgot my birthday but remembered to send Genesis flowers for hers. The fourth—when I miscarried our second child alone in the hospital while he was unreachable, again with Genesis.

And the fifth signature, added just last month—when he'd looked me in the eye and told me I was imagining things, that I was being paranoid about his relationship with Genesis. Gaslighting me when I'd seen them with my own eyes, his hand on the small of her back as they entered his private elevator.

One hundred betrayals. One hundred wounds. All meticulously documented, dated, and witnessed.

I slipped the papers into my briefcase. Tomorrow would change everything.

---

"What's this?" Lucian barely looked up from his computer screen the next morning when I placed the envelope on his desk. The morning sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his corner office, illuminating the dust particles between us.

"Divorce papers," I said quietly, my voice steadier than I expected.

He gave a short, dismissive laugh, finally glancing at the envelope but not touching it. "Another one of my parents' dramatic gestures? Tell them it's getting old."

"This isn't from your parents, Lucian. It's from me."

He leaned back in his chair, studying me with mild curiosity, as if I were an unexpected but ultimately unimportant development in his day.

"Do you see these signatures?" I opened the envelope and pointed to the five lines at the bottom of the document. "Each one represents twenty mistakes I've forgiven you for. Twenty betrayals. I've been keeping count for five years."

His expression shifted from curiosity to cold amusement. "Are you done being dramatic? Because I have actual work to do. Genesis needs me for the Henderson client meeting in five minutes."

Of course. Genesis needed him. She always did.

"Genesis," I repeated softly. "It's always Genesis, isn't it?"

He sighed heavily, already reaching for his phone. "We're not doing this again. I don't have time for your insecurities."

One hundred and one.