His betrayal shattered me. The moment I found out about his affair, it felt like the air had been knocked from my lungs. I had given him my love, my loyalty, my years—and he had thrown it all away like it meant nothing. The pain was unbearable, but one thing was certain: I refused to be the only one suffering.

Crying in the dark while he was out with her? No. Begging for answers he would only lie about? Never. Instead, I did what he never expected—I played his game, and I played it well.

It wasn’t hard. There was always someone watching, someone waiting for a moment, a chance. A man who had noticed what my husband never did—the way my lips curled when I smiled, the way my laughter filled a room. And when I finally let myself be seen, really seen, it was intoxicating. The thrill of stolen glances, whispered words, the way his touch sent a shiver down my spine—it was everything my husband had taken from me and more.

At first, it was about revenge, about making him feel the same sting of betrayal. But somewhere along the way, it became about me. About rediscovering the woman I had forgotten. The woman who deserved passion, attention, desire.

By the time my husband realized something had changed, it was too late.

Because I wasn’t his to hurt anymore. I had already won the game.