I never thought I would be the kind of woman who would seek revenge. But then again, I never thought my husband, Tom, would betray me either.

It started with small things—the late-night “work meetings,” the sudden change in his demeanor, the way he guarded his phone like it held the world’s secrets. Deep down, I knew something was wrong, but I ignored it, convincing myself that I was just being paranoid. That was until I found undeniable proof.

Lisa. Our neighbor. The woman I had invited into our home for coffee, the one I had laughed with over garden fences. She had been sleeping with my husband. The realization hit like a wrecking ball, shattering every illusion of trust I had left. Rage burned through me, hot and unforgiving. I wanted to scream, cry, destroy something—but most of all, I wanted him to feel what I felt.

And that’s when I saw Mark—Lisa’s husband. He was a good man, kind and dependable, with a quiet strength that I had always admired. But now, his eyes were filled with the same pain, the same betrayal. We didn’t need to say anything—we both knew.

One touch led to another, our grief intertwining, our anger fusing into something intoxicating and unstoppable. When I kissed him, it wasn’t just about desire—it was about taking back control, about proving that I could hurt them just as much as they had hurt me.

That night, as Mark and I lost ourselves in each other, I felt a strange sense of satisfaction. Was it right? Probably not. But in that moment, right and wrong didn’t matter—only the feeling of justice served in the most intimate way possible.