Betrayal cuts deep, but so does justice. When I found out about my husband’s infidelity, it felt like my entire world had shattered. The late nights, the unexplained absences, the sudden secrecy with his phone—it all made sense now. He wasn’t just distant; he was with someone else. The man I had trusted, the one I had built a life with, had been lying to me all along.

At first, I cried. I grieved the love I thought we had, the loyalty I had foolishly believed in. But as the days passed, my pain morphed into something else. A quiet rage. If he could lie so effortlessly, deceive me without a second thought, then why should I continue playing the faithful wife?

So, I made my move. I didn’t go looking for an affair—it found me. A chance meeting, a lingering touch, a spark that reminded me I was still desirable, still wanted. Unlike my husband, I didn’t sneak around with guilt. No, I did it with purpose. Each stolen moment was a small act of retribution, a reminder that he wasn’t the only one capable of breaking the rules.

And then, the day came. He found out. The look on his face—shock, hurt, disbelief—was almost poetic. “How could you?” he asked, as if his own betrayal had never happened.

I simply smiled. “Now we’re even.”

Justice, after all, comes in many forms.