I loved him once. I loved him with the kind of devotion that made me blind to all the warning signs—the late nights, the whispered phone calls, the sudden distance between us. I told myself it was just stress, that every marriage had rough patches. But deep down, I already knew the truth. And when I finally found the proof, my heart shattered into a million pieces.

His betrayal changed everything. The pain was suffocating, but I refused to let it consume me. I wouldn’t be the weak, broken wife he expected me to be. If he could lie to me so effortlessly, if he could share his body and heart with another woman, then why should I stay loyal to a marriage that no longer existed?

So, I decided to even the score.

It wasn’t planned, but when I met someone who looked at me like I was the only woman in the world, something inside me woke up. I let myself feel again—desired, wanted, free. What started as an act of revenge soon became my liberation.

Then, he found out. The man who had destroyed my trust now stood before me, furious and betrayed. “How could you?” he demanded, as if his own infidelity had never happened.

I met his gaze, unshaken. “Now we’re both unfaithful,” I said coolly. “But only one of us regrets it.”

And that person wasn’t me.