Two days later, I sat in my car outside his office building. The clock on the dashboard read 5:45 PM, a time when he was usually home. I watched as he emerged, not alone but with her, the woman I had seen in the photos. They walked together, oblivious to the world, to me. My heart pounded in my chest, a mix of anger and betrayal threatening to consume me. I gripped the steering wheel, my resolve hardening.
« It’s time, » I whispered to myself, pulling out the file I had prepared. It contained everything—the call logs, the texts, the emails. Evidence of his betrayal meticulously documented, each page a testament to his deceit. I had thought about confronting him, but a part of me feared the confrontation, feared the end of the life I had known.
That night, I placed the file on his desk, a silent accusation waiting for him. When he returned home, I watched his expression as he saw it. He paused, a flicker of recognition in his eyes, then looked at me with a mixture of guilt and defiance. « We need to talk, » I said, my voice steady, betraying none of the turmoil within.
He sat across from me, the file unopened between us. « Is this necessary? » he asked, trying to maintain a facade of control. I nodded, my eyes never leaving his. « It’s time for the truth, » I replied, feeling a strange sense of calm.
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