He thought he could cheat and get away with it. He lied, he deceived, and he expected me to stay, to forgive, to accept my role as the loyal, heartbroken wife. But he underestimated me. I wasn’t going to cry myself to sleep while he indulged in his double life. No, if he could betray me so easily, then he deserved to feel that same sting—the slow-burning realization that he wasn’t as untouchable as he thought.

At first, I played my part perfectly. I acted as though I knew nothing, letting him believe his secret was safe. Meanwhile, I was already setting my plan in motion. I didn’t choose just anyone—I found someone who reminded me of what it felt like to be wanted, to be seen. A man who desired me, not as a wife to neglect, but as a woman to cherish. And when the moment was right, I let myself go.

I didn’t just cheat—I mirrored his every move. The late-night texts, the unexplained absences, the lingering scent of someone else’s cologne. When he finally noticed, his panic was almost amusing. He confronted me with anger, demanding answers he had no right to ask. I simply looked at him and smiled.

“How does it feel?” I asked.

That was the moment he realized—he wasn’t the only one who could play this game. And unlike him, I wasn’t sorry.