The laptop pinged while Oliver was in the bathroom. Curious, I glanced at the screen: an email from his company inviting him—and his wife—to a New Year’s party. But Oliver always claimed guests weren’t allowed.

When I asked, he lied. “Just work stuff. No plus-ones.”

Suspicion bloomed. On New Year’s Eve, after he left, I put on white and followed him.

At the venue, the receptionist looked puzzled. “He already checked in with his wife,” she said. I looked across the room and saw Oliver—arm-in-arm with a woman I’d never seen.

I walked away.

The next morning, a call: Oliver had crashed his car. At the hospital, a doctor explained he needed surgery—but his insurance had lapsed. As his wife, I could authorize it.

I went in. He was pale, injured, vulnerable. “Please, Jen,” he whispered. “It’s not what you think.”

But I knew exactly what it was.

“You lied. Let her handle it,” I said coldly. I left.

Days later, he called. “She’s gone. I’m alone.”

I blocked his number.

Oliver lost everything—his affair exposed, his career unraveling. But I didn’t feel pity. I felt freedom.

For years, I was the loyal wife.

Now, I was in charge of my life.