The morning after I uncovered my husband’s affair, I packed every suit, watch, and pair of shoes he owned into 2 suitcases and wheeled them into his office during the Monday staff meeting. “You wanted him? Take him,” I told his young intern. The room fell silent… until she pressed a thick envelope into my hands and said, “He never told you who’s really been paying for all of this.”

As I wiped down the counters, a small, square notification banner slid across the upper right corner of his screen. It was a calendar reminder synced from his private email.

Dinner with T. Lane — 7:30 PM (Thursday)

Following the text was a single, glaring, bright red heart emoji.

I stopped wiping the counter. The rag slipped from my fingers. I stared at the screen, my heart hammering a violent, erratic rhythm against my ribs.

T. Lane. Tessa Lane.

Tessa was the twenty-four-year-old marketing intern Adrian had hired six months ago. She was vibrant, loud, and constantly draped in designer clothes she couldn’t possibly afford on an intern’s salary. I had met her once at a company holiday party. She had looked at me with a thinly veiled, condescending pity, treating me as if I were a dusty, outdated piece of antique furniture.

I stepped up to the kitchen island. I didn’t hesitate. I clicked the notification banner.