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.
