The hotel hallway smelled like expensive carpet cleaner and other people’s secrets. Jasmine adjusted the gift bags in her hands, the silver tissue paper crinkling as she shifted her weight from one heel to the other. Room 8:17. She’d confirmed it three times with the front desk, smiling that bright smile she always used when she wanted people to help her.

I’m surprising my husband for our anniversary, she’d said. The clerk had thought it was romantic. Her reflection in the brass room numbers showed a beautiful woman with smooth brown skin. Her hair in soft curls that had taken an hour to perfect. She wore Derrick’s favorite dress, the blue one that hugged her curves in all the right places.

10 years of marriage and she still wanted to look perfect for him. Still wanted to make him smile. That smile he’d given her on their wedding day. The bags were heavy with his favorite things. Expensive scotch. The watch he’d been eyeing for months. Tickets to the basketball game he’d mentioned wanting to see. She’d been saving for three months, skimming a little from each paycheck to pull this surprise together.

Derrick had been working so hard lately, so many late nights and weekend trips. He deserved something special. This boy’s weekend was supposed to be his chance to relax with his college friends. Golf, drinks, catching up on old times. He’d been talking about it for weeks, almost defensive when she’d said she’d miss him.

“You know, I need this Jazz,” he’d said. “Just the guys, no stress, no work talk. I’ll be back Sunday night refreshed.” But their anniversary fell on Saturday, right in the middle of his trip. And Jasmine had thought, why not surprise him? Why not show up, celebrate together for an hour, then let him get back to his friends? She’d driven 3 hours, giddy with excitement the whole way, imagining his face when he opened the door.

The way he’d laugh and pull her into a hug. Maybe they’d steal a quick moment alone before she drove back home. She knocked. Three sharp wraps against the heavy hotel door. Footsteps inside. Quick, light footsteps, not Derrick’s heavy walk. The door swung open. A woman stood there, young, maybe late 20s. Blonde hair messy around her shoulders, wearing an oversized white dress shirt, a men’s shirt, just the shirt and apparently nothing else.

The hem hitting mid thigh on her long pale legs. Jasmine’s brain stuttered. Wrong room. Must be wrong room. But the woman’s eyes went wide with recognition. Not confusion. Recognition. Oh my god. The woman breathed.

“I’m looking for Derrick Thompson,” Jasmine heard herself say. Her voice sounded strange. “Far away.”

“This is room 817, right?”

The woman’s mouth opened close. Her hand tightened on the door frame. Then Derrick’s voice came from inside the room.

“Megan, who is it? Come back to bed.”

The world tilted. Jasmine knew that voice. She’d heard it every morning for 10 years. Heard it whisper, “I love you,” a thousand times. Heard it promise forever on their wedding day.

Come back to bed.

The woman, Megan, looked over her shoulder, then back at Jasmine. Something like guilt flickered across her face, but not much. Not nearly enough.

“Is that my husband?” Jasmine’s voice was still calm. Strangely calm, like she was watching this happen to someone else.

Megan opened her mouth to answer, but Derrick appeared behind her.

He was shirtless, wearing only boxer shorts. His hair was messy. His eyes were still soft with sleep. Those eyes landed on Jasmine and she watched the exact moment his brain caught up to what was happening. His face drained of color.

“Jasmine, what? How?”

“Surprise!” Jasmine whispered.

The gift bag slipped from her fingers. The scotch bottle made a heavy thud against the carpet. The tissue paper drifted like snow. That watch, $1800 she’d saved so carefully, rolled from the bag and stopped against Derrick’s barefoot. He didn’t bend to pick it up. He just stared at her frozen.

Megan had the decency to step back from the door. Pulling the shirt, Derrick’s shirt, Jasmine realized the blue one she’d ironed for him before he left, tighter around herself.

Jasmine’s hands were shaking, but her mind was crystal clear. She felt her phone in her purse, felt the weight of it. Without thinking, operating on some instinct she didn’t know she had. She pulled it out, opened the camera, started recording.

“Don’t.” Derrick started forward. “Jasmine, wait. Let me explain.”

“Explain what?” She was still recording, getting everything. The hotel room behind them. The rumpled bed visible through the doorway. Megan in his shirt. Derrick half naked.

“Explain why your colleague is answering your hotel room door wearing your clothes during your boy’s weekend.”

“It’s not what it looks like.”

“Really?” Jasmine heard the laugh that came out of her mouth. Sounded wrong. Broken. “Because it looks like you’re having an affair. Is that not what this is?”

Megan crossed her arms, looking uncomfortable, but also defiant, like she had a right to be there, like Jasmine was the one intruding.

“How long?” Jasmine asked, zooming in on Derrick’s face. She wanted to capture the guilt there, the fear. She wanted evidence of this moment when her marriage died. “How long have you been sleeping with her?”

“Babe, please put the phone down.”

“How long?”

Derrick’s jaw clenched. “6 months.”

6 months. Half a year. While she’d been planning anniversary surprises. While she’d been skimming from her paychecks to buy him gifts, while she’d been loving him, trusting him, believing in him.

Jasmine stopped recording, took three photos. Derrick and Megan, frozen there like the cheaters they were. Then she put her phone back in her purse, picked up her car keys, and looked her husband of 10 years directly in the eyes.

“I want you out of my house by the time I get home,” she said. Her voice didn’t shake. She was proud of that. “Everything gone.”

“Jasmine—”

She turned and walked toward the elevator. Didn’t run. Didn’t cry. Just walked. Her heels clicking against the carpet with steady, even beats.

Behind her, she heard Derrick call her name again. Heard him coming into the hallway.

“Don’t follow me,” she said without turning around. “Don’t call me. Don’t come home. My lawyer will contact you.”

The elevator doors opened like a miracle. And she stepped inside, pressed the lobby button, watched Derrick standing in the hallway, still half naked, still looking panicked, getting smaller and smaller as the door slid shut.

Only when the elevator started moving did her knees buckle.

Only then did the first sob tear through her chest.

Only then did Jasmine let herself break.

But even as tears streamed down her face, even as her heart shattered into pieces she wasn’t sure could ever be put back together, one thought was absolutely clear.

She was done.

She was done being the fool.

She was done being the woman who believed lies.

She was done with Derrick Thompson.

And whatever came next, she would face it with her eyes wide open.

The drive home was a blur. Jasmine didn’t remember getting into her car. Didn’t remember leaving the hotel parking lot. She came back to herself somewhere on the highway doing 70 in the middle lane with tears she didn’t feel crying still wet on her face. She pulled over at a rest stop.

Sat in the parking lot with her engine running and her hands gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles achd. Other cars came and went. Families on road trips. Couples holding hands. Normal people living normal lives where their spouses weren’t sleeping with other people at hotels.

Her phone buzz. Derrick. She declined the call.

It bust again and again. Text messages started flooding in. Please let me explain. It was a mistake. I love you. She means nothing to me. Please come back so we can talk.

Jasmine stared at the messages. She means nothing to me. 6 months of sleeping with someone who meant nothing. 6 months of lies and sneaking around in secret hotel rooms. That was supposed to make it better.

Her fingers moved across the screen. She didn’t block his number. Not yet. She might need these messages later. Some distant part of her brain whispered. Evidence documentation. She just turned her phone to silent and put it face down on the passenger seat.

She needed to think, needed to plan. Crying in a rest stop parking lot wasn’t going to fix anything.

What did she know? Derrick was having an affair with someone named Megan. 6 months. That woman had known exactly who Jasmine was when she opened that door, which meant Derrick had talked about his wife. Probably complained about her. Probably told this Megan things that should have stayed between husband and wife.

What else? This was at a hotel. He’d claimed was for a boy’s weekend, which meant his friends either didn’t know or worse, they were covering for him.

How many of those weekend golf trips had really been golf?

Jasmine pulled out her phone again, opened her banking app with shaking fingers. Their joint checking account showed up first. Normal balance, nothing strange, but there was a credit card linked to the account that she rarely looked at. Derrick handled most of the bills. She trusted him with that. Trusted past tense now.

She clicked into the credit card statement, scrolled through the charges. There two months ago, hotel reservation, different city. The weekend he’d said he was visiting his college roommate. And there 3 months ago, expensive restaurant. The night he’d said he was working late on a big project.

For months ago, jewelry purchase $600. She’d never received jewelry. Had never seen a charge like that on their statements. Had he bought gifts for Megan with their money? With the money Jasmine earned from her job at the medical office, the paycheck she deposited into their shared account like a good wife, her stomach turned.

She barely got her car door open before she threw up in the parking lot, heaving until there was nothing left, until she was just shaking and sweating and spitting bile onto the pavement.

A woman walking past with two kids looked over with concern. You okay, honey?

“I’m fine,” Jasmine managed. “Just car sick.”

The woman didn’t look convinced, but kept walking.

Jasmine closed her door, drank some water from the bottle in her cup holder, and leaned her seat back. She needed to get home. Needed to figure out what to do next. But she couldn’t drive like this. Couldn’t think like this. She set a timer for 20 minutes and closed her eyes. Not to sleep, just to breathe, just to exist in this new reality where her marriage was over and her husband was a stranger.

When the timer went off, Jasmine felt calmer. Oh dear. like all the tears and the throwing up had hollowed her out and now there was just space, space to think clearly, she sat up, fixed her makeup in the mirror, even though her eyes were still red, tied her hair back, started her car.

The rest of the drive home, she made a list in her head. Things she needed to do, steps to take. She couldn’t fall apart. Not yet. Not until she was safe.

First, document everything. The photos and video from the hotel were already backed up to her phone’s cloud storage, but she needed more copies. Email them to herself. Save them to a USB drive. Make sure they couldn’t disappear.

Second, change passwords, bank accounts, email, everything. Before Derrick thought to lock her out of anything.

Third, find a lawyer, a good one, someone who would fight for her. She didn’t know anything about divorce lawyers, but she knew someone who would. Her friend Kayla had been through a messy divorce three years ago. Kayla would know who to call.

Fourth, protect herself financially. She didn’t know exactly how to do that, but the lawyer would. She couldn’t let Derrick drain their accounts or hide assets while she was figuring things out.

Fifth, find somewhere to stay. She told Derrick to be out of the house by the time she got home, but that was stupid. He wouldn’t listen. And even if he did leave, she didn’t want to be in that house. Didn’t want to sleep in that bed they’d shared. Didn’t want to see his things and remember when she’d been happy. Kayla, she’d call Kayla.

The familiar streets of her neighborhood appeared. Their house was the blue one on the corner with the white shutters. Jasmine had picked those shutters. Had spent a weekend painting them by hand because they couldn’t afford to hire someone. Derrick had helped and they’d laughed when they got more paint on each other than on the wood. That had been 5 years ago.

Had he been faithful then? Or had there been others before Megan?

She pulled into the driveway. Derrick’s car wasn’t there. Good. She hadn’t really expected him to listen to her, but maybe the shock had actually gotten through to him.

Inside, the house was exactly as she’d left it that morning. Coffee cup in the sink. Work badge on the counter where she’d forgotten it. The anniversary card she’d written to Derrick sitting on the kitchen table, still in its envelope. She’d planned to leave it at the hotel with the gifts. Planned to make him smile.

Jasmine picked up the card, tore it in half, dropped it in the trash. Then she went upstairs, pulled out her suitcase, and started packing.

Kayla’s apartment smelled like lavender candles and safety. Jasmine sat on the couch with a glass of wine she hadn’t touched while Kayla paced back and forth, occasionally pausing to curse Derrick’s existence.

6 months, Kayla said for the third time. That lying piece of and at a hotel, he couldn’t even be creative about it.

“The worst part is I bought him gifts,” Jasmine said. Her voice was flat. She cried herself out during the drive. Now there was just this strange numbness. “Spent 3 months saving money for a man who was spending our money on another woman.”

Kayla sat down hard beside her. “Okay, we’re not going to let him get away with this. First thing tomorrow, we’re calling Monica Vance. She handled my divorce and she’s ruthless. She’ll make sure you get everything you deserve.”

“I don’t even know what I deserve anymore.”

“Everything. You deserve everything.” Kayla squeezed her hand. “But tonight you need to sleep. Guest room’s all yours. I already put fresh sheets on the bed.”

Jasmine nodded, but she didn’t move toward the guest room. Instead, she pulled out her laptop.

“I need to do something first.”

She logged into their joint email account, the one they used for bills and household stuff. Her fingers were steady now as she searched through Derrick’s sent messages. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but she’d know it when she found it.

There. An email from 4 months ago sent to someone named Megan L. with the subject line, “Can’t wait to see you.” Jasmine’s stomach turned, but she clicked it open. Read the message. It was explicit detail. Everything Derrick had apparently been doing with Megan while telling Jasmine he was working late.

She forwarded it to her personal email. Kept searching. More emails. Hotel confirmations under Derrick’s name, but always for one guest. Restaurant reservations. And then there three weeks ago, an email confirmation for jewelry. A diamond bracelet, $600, shipped to an address Jasmine didn’t recognize.

She Google mapped the address. Apartment complex on the other side of town. Megan’s place most likely.

“You finding stuff?” Kayla asked quietly.

“Too much stuff.”

Jasmine opened a new document and started making a timeline. Every hotel visit she could find evidence of. Every expensive dinner. Every suspicious charge. She cross-referenced it with her memory.

When had Derrick said he was working late? When had he claimed to be at boys weekends or visiting friends? Nearly every work event in the last 6 months had been a lie. Nearly every weekend trip.

Her husband had been living a double life, and she’d been too trusting to see it. But trust wasn’t stupidity. She’d had no reason to doubt him. They’d been happy. At least she thought they’d been happy.

Had Derrick been happy? Or had he been bored, looking for excitement, willing to throw away 10 years for someone new?

It didn’t matter now. What mattered was protecting herself.

Jasmine logged into their bank accounts and credit cards, changed every password, set up alerts for any new charges or withdrawals. Then she transferred half of everything in their joint accounts to her personal checking account. The one she’d opened when she was 20 and kept all through their marriage. The one that only had her name on it.

Derrick would be furious when he noticed. She didn’t care.

“Smart,” Kayla said, watching over her shoulder. “Very smart. He can’t drain the accounts if you get there first.”

“I keep thinking about what else he might have done,” Jasmine said. “What if there are other accounts I don’t know about? What if he’s been hiding money?”

“That’s what Monica will help you find. She has investigators, forensic accountants. If Derrick’s been hiding assets, they’ll find them.”

Jasmine nodded. She felt cold, detached, like she was watching someone else’s life fall apart from a safe distance. Maybe that was shock. Maybe it was survival. Either way, she was grateful for it. She could cry later. Right now, she needed to be smart.

Her phone buzzed. Derrick again. She’d gotten 17 calls and 32 texts since leaving the hotel. She scrolled through them without opening the message threads.

I’m so sorry.
Please talk to me.
Where are you?
I need to explain.
This is crazy, Jasmine. You can’t just leave like this. We need to talk about this like adults.

That last one made her laugh. A short bitter sound. Adults. After 6 months of sneaking around, lying, cheating, spending their money on someone else, he thought they could just talk about it.

She took a screenshot of all the messages, sent them to her email. More evidence for the pile.

“He doesn’t get it,” Jasmine said. “He actually thinks I might forgive him.”

“Do you?” Kayla asked carefully.

Jasmine looked at her friend. Kayla had forgiven her ex-husband twice before finally divorcing him. Had tried counseling, second chances, all of it. And she’d told Jasmine once late at night with too much wine that her only regret was not leaving the first time. That every chance she’d given him had just been another chance for him to hurt her.

“No,” Jasmine said. “I don’t forgive him. I won’t forgive him. This marriage is over.”

Saying it out loud made it real. Made it final. Something inside her chest cracked open again and fresh tears spilled down her face. But even crying, even hurting, she was sure she was done.

Kayla handed her tissues and didn’t say anything. Just sat there while Jasmine cried. And when the tears finally stopped, when Jasmine was empty again, Kayla asked,

“What else do you need to do tonight?”

Jasmine wiped her eyes, looked at her laptop screen.

“I need to find a private investigator tonight. I need to know everything. Every lie, every affair, if there were others before Megan.” Her voice was steady again. “I need to know what I’m dealing with, and I don’t trust Derrick to tell me the truth.”

Kayla pulled out her own laptop. “Monica will have someone, but if you want to get started now, I can help you look.”

They worked together in Kayla’s living room until midnight. Found a private investigator named Ryan Keller who specialized in infidelity cases. His website promised discretion, thoroughness, and results. His reviews were all from satisfied clients who’d caught their spouses in lies.

Jasmine sent him an email explaining what she needed. Attached the photos and video from the hotel, listed all the suspicious charges she’d found, asked for a full background check on Derrick and Megan, surveillance if necessary, and a complete audit of Derrick’s activities for the last year.

She’d probably spent thousands on this. Money they didn’t really have. Money she should save for the divorce lawyer and the deposit on a new apartment and all the other costs of rebuilding her life.

But she needed to know. Needed the truth. All of it.

“Done,” she said, closing her laptop.

“Now what?” Kayla asked.

“Now you sleep,” Kayla said firmly. “Tomorrow we call Monica. Monday you meet with the investigator. One step at a time. But tonight you’ve done enough.”

Jasmine wanted to argue, wanted to keep digging, keep searching, keep finding evidence until she had every piece of Derrick’s betrayal documented.

But exhaustion was pulling at her. The adrenaline that had kept her moving all day was fading, leaving her hollow and heavy.

She let Kayla guide her to the guest room. Let her friend hug her good night. Lay down on the unfamiliar bed in unfamiliar pajamas and stared at the ceiling.

Her marriage was over. Her husband was a cheater. Her life was about to change in ways she couldn’t predict.

But she wasn’t helpless. She wasn’t going to be a victim.

She was going to fight.

Was going to make sure Derrick faced consequences for what he’d done.

Was going to protect herself and her future.

And somehow, eventually, she was going to be okay.

She had to believe that. Had to hold on to it because if she didn’t believe she could survive this, the weight of it would crush her.

Monica Vance’s office looked like money and power. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Mahogany desk that probably cost more than Jasmine’s car. Framed degrees on the wall from universities Jasmine had only dreamed of attending.

And Monica herself, fifty-something, silver hair cut in a sharp bob, wearing a suit that said she didn’t lose cases.

“Tell me everything,” Monica said, sitting back in her leather chair. “Start from the beginning.”

Jasmine told the story. The surprise trip to the hotel, the woman answering the door in Derrick’s shirt, the seven-month affair, the credit card charges and hidden expenses, the emails. All of it spilled out in a rush that left her breathless.

Monica listened without interrupting, took notes on a legal pad.

When Jasmine finished, Monica set down her pen and looked at her with eyes that had probably seen a thousand stories just like this one.

“First, I’m sorry this happened to you,” Monica said. “Infidelity cases are always painful. But you’ve done something very smart by documenting everything. Those photos, the video, the emails — that’s solid evidence. It gives us leverage.”

“Leverage for what?”

“For getting you what you deserve in the divorce settlement. Our state follows equitable distribution. That means assets are divided fairly, not necessarily equally. Your husband’s adultery won’t automatically hand you everything — but if we can prove he wasted marital assets on his affair, which it appears he did, we can argue for reimbursement.”

Jasmine nodded. Hearing it from a professional made it real.

“How much did he spend on her?” Monica asked.

“I can prove about three thousand so far. Hotels, dinners, jewelry. But there’s probably more.”

“We’ll find it. I work with a forensic accountant. He’ll go through everything. If Derrick hid money or misused funds, we’ll uncover it.”

“I also hired a private investigator,” Jasmine said. “Ryan Keller.”

Monica’s mouth curved slightly. “Good choice. I’ve worked with him before. If there’s more, he’ll find it.”

“What if there were other affairs?” Jasmine asked quietly.

“Then we document those too. A pattern of behavior strengthens your position.”

Monica leaned forward.

“Here’s what I need from you. Full financial access. A list of every marital asset. And from now on, no emotional conversations with him. Keep communication brief. Factual. If he wants to negotiate, he talks to me.”

Jasmine thought about the furious texts from Derrick after he noticed the money transfer.

“He’s already angry about the money I moved,” she said.

“Let him be angry. Half of it was yours. But don’t move anything else without telling me. We want every action defensible in court.”

Court. Divorce court.

Ten years ago she’d believed in forever.

Now she was signing a retainer agreement. Writing a check she could barely afford.

But she felt steadier walking out of that office than she had in days.

Her phone rang before she reached her car.

Ryan Keller.

“Ms. Thompson,” he said professionally. “I wanted to give you a preliminary update.”

“Already?”

“I’m efficient. And your husband wasn’t careful.” Papers shuffled. “The affair with Megan Collins started approximately seven months ago. They met through work. She’s a marketing consultant at his company. I’ve confirmed email exchanges going back to their first meeting.”

Jasmine closed her eyes. “Anything else?”

A pause.

“Yes. There was a previous affair. About two years ago. Different woman. Lasted roughly four months. Her name is Lauren Diaz.”

The parking garage spun slightly.

“Two years ago?”

“Yes. I’m still compiling details. But this suggests a pattern.”

“Keep digging,” Jasmine said. “I need everything.”

When she hung up, a text from Derrick flashed across her screen.

We need to talk. I love you. Don’t throw away 10 years over one mistake.

One mistake.

Years of lies. Multiple women. Thousands of dollars.

One mistake.

She deleted the message. Started her car. Drove into the bright afternoon sunlight.

He thought this was just about Megan. Thought if he apologized enough, she might forgive him.

He had no idea she knew about Lauren.

No idea she had lawyers and investigators building a case.

He thought she was the naive wife.

He was wrong.

Derrick came home three days after the hotel incident. Jasmine heard his key in the lock at 7:00 p.m. right as she was setting the table for one.

She’d spent those three days at Kayla’s apartment gathering evidence, meeting with Monica, building her case. But that morning, Monica had given her specific instructions.

“Go home,” Monica had said. “Act normal. Let him think he still has a chance. The more comfortable he gets, the more likely he is to make mistakes.”

So Jasmine had come home. Had cleaned the house. Had cooked dinner like she’d done a thousand times before. Had put on sweatpants and one of Derrick’s old college T-shirts — the one she used to wear when she felt safe.

Now she stood in the kitchen listening to Derrick’s footsteps in the hallway and reminded herself to breathe.

He appeared in the doorway. He looked terrible. Unshaven. Dark circles under his eyes. Clothes wrinkled.

“Jasmine,” he said. Just her name. But there was relief in it. Hope. Desperation.

She didn’t move toward him. Didn’t hug him. Just stood there.

“We need to talk,” Derrick said.

“I know.”

He stepped closer. She stepped back. He noticed. Pain flashed across his face.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “God, Jasmine, I’m so sorry. I know I messed up. I know I hurt you. But please… please let me explain.”

This was the moment she could explode. Could tell him she knew about Lauren. Could serve him papers right there.

But Monica’s voice echoed in her mind. Let him think he has a chance.

“Sit down,” Jasmine said.

They sat across from each other at the kitchen table. The space between them felt like an ocean.

“Talk,” she said.

“It started six months ago.”

“Seven,” Jasmine corrected quietly. “Ryan Keller says it started seven months ago.”

Derrick froze. “Who’s Ryan Keller?”

“The private investigator I hired.”

The color drained from his face.

“You hired an investigator?”

“You hired a girlfriend,” she said calmly. “I hired help.”

Silence stretched.

“It was stupid,” Derrick said finally. “It didn’t mean anything. Megan was just… there. We were working late. Things happened.”

“For seven months?”

He flinched.

“Hotel rooms just kept booking themselves?” she continued. “Jewelry just kept buying itself?”

“I know how it sounds—”

“Do you?” Jasmine leaned forward. “Do you know what it’s like to see another woman answer your husband’s hotel door wearing his shirt?”

He looked down at the table. “No.”

“But you did it anyway.”

She watched him carefully. He was still lying by omission. He was pretending Megan was the only one.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Jasmine said. “You’re going to tell me everything. Every detail. Every lie. Every dollar you spent. And if I find out later you left something out, this conversation is over.”

Derrick swallowed. He started talking.

He told her about meeting Megan at work. About coffee. About crossing lines. About the first hotel.

He claimed it was only her. Claimed he’d never done this before.

Jasmine let him lie. Let him think she didn’t know about Lauren Diaz.

“I’ll end it,” Derrick said finally. “I’ll cut contact. I’ll quit my job if I have to. Please, Jasmine. Please don’t leave me.”

Tears streamed down his face. Real tears.

It didn’t matter.

“I need time,” Jasmine said.

“Yes. Of course. Take all the time you need.”

“And you sleep in the guest room.”

He nodded immediately.

“And we’re going to counseling.”

Derrick looked surprised. Hope flickered. “Yes. Yes, absolutely.”

“I already scheduled an appointment,” she said. “Dr. Emily Carter. Next week.”

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you for giving me a chance.”

Another promise.

She pulled her hand back when he reached for it.

“I’m tired,” she said. “I’m going to bed.”

Upstairs, she locked the bedroom door and let herself shake.

She’d done it. She’d played her part.

Her phone buzzed.

Text from Monica: How did it go?

Jasmine typed back: He bought it. He thinks I’m considering reconciliation.

Monica replied: Good. Keep documenting. Ryan is still digging.

Jasmine stared at the wedding photo on her dresser. Smiling faces. Promises.

Maybe there had been real love once.

But love didn’t excuse betrayal.

She had two weeks to finish this.

Two weeks of pretending.

Then she would serve him.

And when he realized she’d known more than he thought — it would be over.

The day Jasmine served Derrick the divorce papers, the sky was bright blue and cloudless. Perfect weather, like the universe was celebrating her freedom.

She’d timed it carefully. Two weeks of pretending. Two weeks of counseling sessions where Derrick cried and apologized and promised to change. Two weeks of sleeping in separate rooms. Two weeks of gathering evidence.

Now Ryan Keller’s full report was complete. Monica Vance’s forensic accountant had finished his analysis. Everything was documented. Everything was ready.

Derrick was at his office. Jasmine knew his schedule by heart. He had a staff meeting at 10:00 a.m. His boss would be there. His colleagues would be there. Everyone would be there.

Perfect.

She’d hired a professional process server — a woman named Janet Brooks. Janet was waiting in the lobby of Derrick’s office building with an envelope containing divorce papers, evidence of his affairs, and a motion for exclusive use of the marital home.

Jasmine sat in her car in the parking garage across the street, watching her phone. She’d asked Janet to text her when it was done.

At 10:15, her phone buzzed.

Papers served. He looked shocked. His colleagues definitely noticed. Job done.

Jasmine let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

It was done.

Her phone rang thirty seconds later. Derrick. She declined the call. It rang again. She declined again.

Text messages flooded in.

What the hell?
You served me at work?
This is insane.
Call me right now.

Jasmine turned off her phone. She didn’t need to hear his reaction.

She drove to Kayla’s apartment.

Kayla opened the door before she knocked. “How do you feel?”

“Free,” Jasmine said. And she meant it.

Scared. But free.

The full investigation had revealed more than she expected. Not just Megan and Lauren. There had been a third woman — Rachel Kim, someone Derrick had met at a gym two years ago. That affair had lasted three months.

Three affairs in three years.

The financial audit had been just as bad. Derrick had opened a separate credit card in his own name. Used it for hotels, dinners, gifts. Twelve thousand dollars in debt.

On top of that, he’d siphoned money from their joint savings. Small amounts at a time. Two hundred here. Three hundred there. Always with excuses.

In total, over twenty thousand dollars of marital funds had gone toward his affairs.

Monica was arguing for full reimbursement. Plus Jasmine’s share of retirement accounts. Plus legal fees.

“What happens now?” Kayla asked.

“Now we wait.”

Derrick had thirty days to respond to the petition. Monica expected he would fight. Try to negotiate. Try to manipulate.

But the evidence was overwhelming.

Jasmine had also filed for exclusive use of the marital home. If granted, Derrick would have to leave.

“If he shows up here?” Kayla asked.

“I have a restraining order ready to file if he harasses me.”

Jasmine’s phone sat face down on the coffee table. Still off.

She knew when she turned it back on, there would be dozens of messages. Angry ones. Desperate ones.

But not today.

Today she could breathe.

The bombshell came during discovery.

Monica called an emergency meeting two weeks later. Ryan was there too.

“We found something,” Monica said.

Ryan slid a folder across the desk. “Phone records. Group messages.”

Jasmine flipped through the pages. Highlighted numbers. Text threads.

Derrick and his friends.

Jackson Torres. Nathan Price. Christopher Hayes.

Boys’ weekend group chat.

Jackson: Headed to Miami next weekend. Told my wife it’s a work conference.
Nathan: Nice. I’ve got Atlanta in two weeks.
Derrick: Vegas next month. Jasmine doesn’t suspect a thing.
Christopher: We’re all going to hell.
Nathan: Worth it though.

Jasmine’s hands trembled.

“They were all doing it,” she whispered.

“All of them,” Monica confirmed. “Covering for each other.”

Then Ryan added quietly, “There’s more. Megan Collins isn’t random.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s Jackson Torres’s sister-in-law.”

The room went silent.

“So they all knew,” Jasmine said.

“Yes.”

An entire network of lies.

“Do their wives know?” Jasmine asked.

“No,” Monica said. “But they should.”

Jasmine thought of the other women. Pregnant. Building homes. Living lies.

“I’ll tell them,” she said.

And she did.

She met with Maria Torres, showed her the evidence. Maria cried. Pregnant and devastated.

She contacted Lisa Price and Jennifer Hayes.

Within weeks, three more divorces were filed.

The entire friend group collapsed.

Six months later, Jasmine’s divorce was finalized.

She got the house. Half of Derrick’s retirement. Full reimbursement. Legal fees covered.

Derrick lost his job during the proceedings. Too much office drama. Too much exposure.

Megan was terminated as well.

The boys’ weekend circle dissolved.

And Jasmine?

She built something new.

Three months into the divorce, she had an idea.

Women needed help navigating betrayal. Needed strategy. Needed guidance.

She started a consulting business: Fresh Start Advisory.

Financial protection. Evidence documentation. Legal referrals. Emotional strategy.

Her first client came through Kayla. Then referrals. Then more.

Within a year, she hired staff.

Within two years, she was speaking at events.

Three years later, she stood at a packed bookstore signing copies of her book: Starting Again.

She spoke about survival. About choosing yourself.

She wasn’t the woman who’d been cheated on.

She was the woman who rebuilt.

After the event, a man approached her.

“Hi. I’m Evan Brooks. My sister went through your program. You helped her leave an abusive marriage. I run a nonprofit. Maybe we could collaborate.”

Coffee.

No pressure.

Jasmine smiled. “For work collaboration? Sure.”

Later, in her car, she looked at his business card.

Maybe she would call.

Maybe she wouldn’t.

Either way, she was complete.

Three years ago, she stood in a hotel hallway and watched her marriage end.

Now she stood in her own life — rebuilt.

Derrick had tried to break her.

He failed.

Jasmine didn’t win by destroying him.

She won by building something better.

She started her car.

Drove toward home.

Toward her future.

And this time, she was driving with her eyes wide open.