The signs were all there – deleted texts, mysterious receipts, the way David would leave the room to take calls. After twelve years of marriage, I recognized the patterns of deception. Certain I’d find evidence of an affair, I planted a recording device in his car.
The video showed a beautiful woman sliding into the passenger seat. My breath caught as David leaned in for what I assumed would be a kiss. Instead, she handed him a manila envelope. “Three targets this week,” she said briskly. David examined the contents – surveillance photos of strangers with prices scrawled beneath them.
“Make the accountant look like an accident,” David instructed. “The journalist needs to disappear completely.” They debated methods with chilling casualness, like discussing dinner plans. I sat paralyzed, my jealousy replaced by terror. The man I’d shared a bed with for over a decade wasn’t just breaking my heart – he was breaking the law in ways I’d never imagined.
That night, I packed a bag, took the evidence to the FBI, and checked into a hotel under a name David didn’t know. Sometimes, betrayal comes in forms far worse than adultery.
