The Price of Betrayal: A Husband's Revenge

ad stolen my future. She had stolen five years of my life, feeding me a slow-drip poison of false hope and

nto the bedroom. I had been st

, her voice full of that practiced, gent

flinched, an involuntary jerk away from her. Her hand stopped, hov

a source of comfort, now felt like a brand. Th

t," she whispered, trying again to soothe

at kind of dark, obsessive love for one man could drive her to meticulously and cruelly dismantle the life

my shirt buttons. I nodded along to her empty reassurances. But inside, I was a detached observer, watching her

It was a space I rarely entered. In the bottom drawer of her filing cabinet, locked a

It was a scrapbook. A

of him at galas, looking handsome and successful. There were even candid shots I'd never se

hings I had drawn before the accident. But something was wrong. In the bottom right corner, where my signature should have been, it was different. She had painstakingly trace

om our wedding day. Olivia and me. But she had taken a craft knife and carefully, crudely, cut

re in Chicago. I realized with a sickening lurch that every single location was a place Mark had won an award, or a place he had publicly stated he love

splacing the pain. This had to end. I wasn't