Brutal Revenge: Husband Removed My Affair Partner In One Move After Caught Us Cheating. Audio Story

[Music] Growing up in a small, rural town, I was always the quiet, observant one. The vast open fields and the endless horizon offered plenty of time to think, dream, and develop a sharp eye. As a teenager, I spent countless hours with my father's old hunting rifle, aiming at tin cans and small game. It wasn't just a pastime; it became an obsession to perfect each shot, to understand the subtleties of wind, distance, and timing. When I joined the military, those skills found purpose. As a sniper, I honed my abilities to near perfection. The hours of

lying in wait, patient and invisible, taught me not just the art of the shot, but the discipline of focus. But life outside the military wasn't kind. The transition from soldier to civilian was a harsh one, especially with the burden of a dishonorable discharge hanging over my head. A single lapse in judgment—a punch thrown in anger at the wrong superior—cost me everything I had built. Lost and aimless, I drifted until an unconventional opportunity presented itself: an outlet for my skills and a way to carve out a new life, even if it meant walking in the shadows.

These moments bring me back to the desert. It's fitting, I suppose, as my crosshairs currently rest on a figure framed perfectly in the distance. I am not a terrorist, nor a common criminal; yet here, in this moment, I am the villain. My target is a middle-aged banker, perspiring heavily despite the air conditioning, oblivious to the world outside his hotel room. He lies entangled with a younger colleague. My mission: to ensure his story ends tonight. The contract came through encrypted channels; the payment settled in cryptocurrency. I don't know who hired me, nor do I care. By

the time the authorities piece together what happened, I'll be nothing but a ghost, leaving behind no traceable steps. I keep watching through the scope. I'm not a voyeur, but I need the right moment to fire. For various reasons, I can't take the shot while they're still in the act. Usually, when the guy finishes, he either rolls over or gets up, and that's my cue. I adjust the scope slightly, scanning the visible part of the room through the window. Aside from the couple, there's no one there. I glance at her. She's a beauty. The contract specifies

she's not to be injured— not physically, at least. I can't predict how witnessing her lover's head explode as he heads to the bathroom might scar her mentally. I look away briefly to stay alert; getting too focused on the target could put me in danger. I'm here alone, without backup or cover, so I have to ensure my position is secure. It is. I'm on a rooftop across the street from the hotel where the banker is staying. I return to the scope. They're close to finishing. I shift my position and confirm nothing in the environment has changed.

Then it happens: he arches his back, cries out in climax, trembles a few times, and then goes still. As expected, he gets up and heads to the bathroom. I complete the task with precision, disappearing into the night before anyone notices. By the time law enforcement arrives, I'm miles away. I stash my gear in one of several storage units I maintain under different names, all prepaid in cash. On the drive home, I reflect once again on how I ended up in this line of work. How did I become a hitman, specializing almost exclusively in cheating spouses?

The shooting part is simple. I've always been good with a rifle. Growing up on a farm, I hunted regularly and developed a knack for precision, especially with rifles. I could make shots no one else could—almost instinctively. When I enlisted in the Marines and went to sniper school, I learned the technical aspects: trajectory, wind resistance, ballistics. But I rarely needed those skills. I could make shots by instinct that even seasoned snipers struggled to replicate with their calculations. I likely would have had a stellar career in the Marine Corps, but then something happened that changed everything and

set me on this path: a cheating spouse. Gabrielle was a petite, dark-haired French girl I met in a bar while on leave. She was lively, attractive, and alluring in ways that stirred all kinds of thoughts. She spent the evening with my best friend Bobby and me, dancing with each of us in turn. By the end of the night, it was clear there was a spark between her and Bobby. With a forced smile, I did the only thing a good friend could: "Good luck, Bobby," I said with a grin that didn't reach my eyes, then headed

back to base alone. After that, whenever they went out, they were inseparable. I often found myself the third wheel, or she'd bring along a friend to keep me company. After three months, Bobby showed me the engagement ring he bought her. "Wow, Bobby," I said, inspecting the sizable diamond. "That's a rock! Are you sure you're ready for this?" "When you know, you know," he laughed, striking a mock wise pose. "I'm not letting her get away." The look Gabrielle gave when Bobby proposed that night stuck with me. I expected excitement, maybe joy, but for a moment, there

was a flash of calculation in her eyes before she put on the appropriate reaction. I didn't say anything; I didn't want to ruin his moment, but I couldn't shake my unease. As best man, I organized the bachelor party, and let me tell you, it was legendary. Half the platoon was there, and the night was a blur of drinks, laughter, and chaos. We had to carry Bobby back to his bunk, and he remembered almost nothing the next day. Naturally, there were dancers—what's a bachelor party without them?—but I ensured Bobby stayed out. Of trouble before planning the

party, I had even spoken to Gabrielle about boundaries. If she'd said no, I told the guys, then there wouldn't have been any. I didn't want Bobby divorced before he was married. The wedding was small, attended by her parents, a few friends, and some guys from our platoon. As I mentioned before, I was the best man. Two months later, we were deployed to the desert for a three-month tour. I'll never forget that patrol. Our mission was to search a village believed to harbor rebels. My spotter and I had scouted a vantage point where I could provide

overwatch for the team. It wasn't perfect; there were areas I couldn't see, but it was the best option available. Bobby had been acting strange all day—unusually anxious and short-tempered, even with me, which was out of character. "What's wrong with you?" I asked, concerned about his erratic behavior. "Nothing," he replied with a forced grin. "Just itching to get going." That was the last conversation I ever had with Bobby. He didn't come back from that patrol. I didn't see what happened since his position was out of my sightline, but his team reported that when they encountered the

enemy, Bobby stood up, shouted something like "Go, you fools!" and charged, firing his M16 from the hip like he was in a movie. He didn't make it three meters before they cut him down. As his best friend, it fell to me to gather his belongings for shipment back to the U.S. That's when I found the letter: "Dear Bobby, I know this is the coward's way, but I have to tell you that I've been seeing someone else, and we've fallen in love. I'm leaving you so we can be together. I want you to know I truly

loved you, but the time apart made me realize I'm not in love with you. You deserve better. It's best if we end things so you can find someone who loves you the way you deserve. Please don't hate me. John says you have a month left on tour, so by the time you return, I'll be moving out. I won't ask for anything in the divorce and hope we can remain friends if you can forgive me. Best wishes, Gabrielle." "Damn witch!" I yelled after reading it. Everything about Bobby's behavior suddenly made sense, and I knew there had

to be consequences. My tour was cut short so I could escort Bobby's body back to the U.S. When we unloaded the coffin, Gabrielle approached it, tears streaming down her face. She placed her hand on the casket, but I stopped her. "Don't you dare," I said, my voice cold. "What do you mean?" she asked, shocked. "You betrayed him!" I hissed, stepping between her and the coffin. She recoiled, stunned, and that's when I noticed the officer with her. It was Colonel John Edwards. My stomach churned as I saw him draping an arm over her shoulders in a

gesture of comfort. "What the hell?" I snapped, unable to hold back my rage. "Are you the one she left him for?" "Stand down, Marine," the colonel ordered, his tone commanding. "How dare you!" I shot back. "You sent a Dear John letter to an active duty soldier right before a mission! What did you think would happen?" "That's enough!" he barked. I couldn't contain myself. My first punch landed squarely on his throat, dropping him to his knees. A kick to the groin sent him to the ground, and I followed with four strikes to his face before security

restrained me. My satisfaction came later when we were both court-martialed—him for misconduct, me for attacking a superior officer. He was discharged without pension, and I spent a year in military prison, leaving with a dishonorable discharge. After my release, I couldn't move on. It took me a year to track down Gabrielle, who had relocated to Canada and was living with a French Canadian businessman. I didn't know what happened to Colonel Edwards; he disappeared from the picture. I considered simply shooting her from a distance. It would have been easy—no security, no cameras—but she wouldn't understand why, and

I wanted it to be personal. I wanted her to know who and why. She made it easy. One night, she was at a dance with friends. True to form, she was cheating. The guy kissing her wasn't her businessman. I watched from the bar as he whispered in her ear, and they moved toward the exit. I followed, circling the building, and saw them heading to an SUV in the parking lot. I waited by my car to see if they'd drive off, but when he opened the back door, I knew it was happening right there. Quietly, I

approached. As I got closer, I saw Gabrielle bent over the back seat with the guy behind her. I didn't want to eliminate him; I had no issue with him. I quickly strangled him until he collapsed unconscious on the ground. It took her a few seconds to realize the movement had stopped. When she turned, she saw me standing there, pointing my Glock 9 at her. Her eyes widened in recognition, and she opened her mouth to speak. I cut her off. "Bobby says hi, witch." I acted swiftly, ensuring the mission's completion before stepping away unnoticed. Before the

sound of gunfire reached the bar, I was already gone. Crossing back into the United States in under four hours, avenging Bobby gave me an idea. Surely, many people were dealing with infidelity at this very moment. Some might seek reconciliation; others would opt for divorce. But there would always be those seeking a more permanent solution, and I had the skills to provide it. That's how I became a hitman, specializing in cheating spouses. Overall, it's an easy job. These are ordinary people, unaware. They've been marked and without any personal security. After about four years in the business,

earning significant money, I met Juliana. She was the finance manager at a car dealership where I went to buy a new car. Bright, sharp, and a captivating conversationalist, she was stunning—just under 5 ft tall in heels, with legs that seemed endless, jet black hair, and a figure that could stop traffic. From the start, there was chemistry. While discussing financing, I decided to test the waters. "Would you like to have dinner with me sometime?" I asked. She smiled, her eyes lighting up. "I'd love that." In less than 30 minutes, we had a date planned. A year

and a half later, after a whirlwind courtship, Juliana and I were married in a lavish ceremony with over 200 guests, including her family and friends, my parents, and a handful of military buddies. To the world and to Juliana, I was a successful financial manager working from home. I explained my frequent trips as client meetings, which made for a perfect cover. Life with Juliana was great; she supported my finance work even when I traveled. She always welcomed me home passionately, and our closeness was frequent and enthusiastic—sometimes daily. Juliana rarely went out alone and always maintained proper

boundaries when interacting with others, even at dances. I had no doubt she loved me just as I loved her. My contracts came through the dark web. I never met clients in person; I only communicated online and required undeniable proof of infidelity. Clients never knew when or where the target would be eliminated. Payments were made to a virtual account, released only upon completion of the contract. If I couldn't fulfill a job, I refunded the money—though that hadn't happened yet. With no personal connections to the sufferers and payment in untraceable cryptocurrency, law enforcement never came close to

me. Most of my targets were men, about 10 to 1. When men cheated, women often wanted them dead; when women cheated, their partners usually wanted the other man eliminated. Of course, there were exceptions, but I had no moral qualms about the work. Clients paid well, and I believed cheaters got what they deserved. Life continued smoothly. After three years of marriage, Juliana and I had our first child, followed by another just 18 months later. We provided a stable home, and our kids grew up well, eventually attending college fully paid for. As the kids left home, Juliana,

feeling the emptiness, returned to work at the dealership. Meanwhile, I worked mostly from home with occasional business trips. I decided it was time to retire; one or two more contracts would fully fund my pension. I was tired of the life. Scanning the job board I used for contracts, I saw two available jobs—one nearby and another across the country. I chose the local contract, thinking it would be my penultimate job. The target was a man named Peter Miller. The attached dossier was detailed. Peter was a group insurance salesman covering three states, including mine, and traveled frequently.

He was married to Janine with three young children: Paul, Mary, and Siobhan. Reports from private investigators included evidence of him having affairs with four different women. He was currently staying at a hotel less than 50 miles away for a week. The dossier listed the hotel and even his room number. It noted he often traveled with a woman who wasn't his wife, though it was unclear if he had company this time. The photos in the dossier were typical pictures of Peter, his wife, and his kids. I always found it odd that photos of the children were

included, but they always were. The research was thorough. I Googled the hotel, confirming Peter's room was on the fifth floor, east side. A quick check of Google Earth showed an unfinished building down the block; from its upper floors, I'd have a clear line of sight into Peter's room, as the surrounding buildings were only three stories high. That evening, I informed Juliana of my upcoming business trip. "I have to leave for a trip next week," I said. "I'll head out Monday morning and be back by Thursday, maybe Friday." Juliana glanced up from her book. "I thought

you were done with those trips," she remarked, her tone curious rather than accusatory. "This might be the last one," I replied, "but if this doesn't pan out, there could be one more." She nodded, then smiled. "That means we'll have the whole weekend together." We didn't spend the entire weekend in bed, but it was a close call. After a fantastic Friday night, we spent Saturday running errands before enjoying dinner at our favorite restaurant. The rest of Saturday night and most of Sunday were dedicated to each other in bed. On Monday morning, I left the house, drove

to the airport, and parked my car. From there, I walked about a mile to a nearby warehouse where I kept an inconspicuous car for jobs like this—a gray Toyota sedan that was utterly forgettable, registered under a fake ID strong enough to pass police scrutiny. It was perfect for my purposes. I positioned myself on the seventh floor of an abandoned construction site, my rifle trained on the target's hotel room window. Just after noon, the man entered the room. He fiddled with his belongings for a while, made a brief phone call, and then left. I didn't follow

him; I knew he'd return, so I settled in to wait. With the sight abandoned, I wasn't worried about being discovered. He returned after 6:00 p.m., visibly hurried. He went straight to the bathroom to shower, then walked back to the bedroom. Nothing unusual, but his physique didn't explain his appeal to women—thin and uninspiring. It was clear his charm must lie in his words rather than his body. After about 30 minutes, he dressed and left again. I ate. Some food and waited, confident he'd return with a companion. I planned to snap photographic proof of his infidelity before

putting a bullet in his skull. The contract was silent on the woman's fate, so I'd spare her. I didn't know if she was a cheater or just a lonely woman drawn to this man; without that knowledge, I had no reason to liquidate her. It was past midnight when the lights in the room flicked on again. Looking through my scope, I saw the target enter with a tall, dark-haired woman. She pinned him against the door and dropped to her knees almost immediately. From my angle, a couple of floors above, I could only see his torso down,

as her back was to me. I wasn't concerned; they'd eventually move further into the room. Still entangled, they undressed as they moved toward the bed. By the time they reached it, she was down to her underwear, and he was completely without clothes. He pushed her onto the bed, kissing her as she reclined. From my vantage point, I could see only the tops of their bodies. Then she tilted her head back, and I adjusted my aim to focus on her face. In that moment, I had to summon all my self-control to stop myself from pulling the

trigger. Instead, I activated the camera linked to my scope and captured a digital photo. For the next three hours, I recorded photos and videos as the couple had sex. They didn't bother closing the blinds or turning off the lights, making themselves visible to anyone on the street. Finally exhausted, they had one last session before falling asleep. When the lights went out, I leaned back, my heart racing and my mind in chaos. I opened the first photo I'd taken through the scope. The woman was arching her back, her eyes wide with pleasure. I zoomed in, studying

her face. In those familiar eyes, my blood ran cold. The eyes staring back at me belonged to Juliana, my wife. Thoughts flooded my mind—I couldn't proceed with the hit. One of the key elements of my work was avoiding any connection to the sufferers or their partners. If I eliminated them now, I'd be the first person the police questioned. My alibi wouldn't hold under scrutiny. Beyond that, I wasn't ready to decide what to do about Juliana. The anger surging through me made it tempting to shoot her on impulse, but I knew that wouldn't solve anything. I

needed to think about her, about our children, and about the consequences of my actions. Whatever choice I made, I'd have to live with it for the rest of my life. The thought crossed my mind: if I abandoned the contract, someone else might take it and be less discerning about sparing the idiot's partner. I also had to consider whether this was a setup. Could someone have orchestrated this situation for me to catch Juliana cheating just to mess with me? I doubted it was law enforcement; they wouldn't risk putting someone in my sights knowing I could act

immediately. But it could be someone connected to a past contract, seeking revenge. No, I had to finish the job, but it had to look random or natural to avoid any follow-up from the authorities. Juliana could wait. I packed up my gear and stored it in my designated storage unit; I wouldn't be using it for this job. While there, I grabbed some extra electronic equipment. Back at the hotel, I found their cars and discreetly placed GPS trackers on both. The next morning, after they left, Juliana returned to my house, and he went about his usual activities.

I used the opportunity to enter his hotel room with an electronic key card. A thorough search revealed nothing surprising—just some blood pressure meds and Viagra in his luggage. I installed several hidden cameras around the room. I had four days to finish the contract, and since I told Juliana I wouldn't be back until Thursday or Friday, there was no need for frequent communication. I booked a room at the hotel using one of my fake IDs; staying legally would simplify things. I also noticed the hotel's surveillance cameras were only at the entrance and in the elevators—none in

the stairwells or hallways near the rooms. Throughout the day, I tracked their movements while making preparations. Juliana went to work, hit the gym, and then returned home. Later, the man's tracker indicated he was heading toward my house. I silently fumed, vowing that if she let him inside, I'd eliminate them both without caring about the consequences. Thankfully, he stopped about five blocks away. Just after 6:00 in the evening, Juliana called. "Hey, baby," she said. "Hi, honey, I missed you last night. I thought you'd call." I replied, "Sorry, I fell asleep in front of the TV, and

when I woke up, it was late." She said smoothly, "I thought so; that's why I didn't bother you." I clenched my fist. This was the first time I knew Juliana had lied to me. There had likely been others, but I hadn't caught them until now. "How's the meeting going?" she asked sweetly. An unexpected complication came up. "Someone showed up at the meeting who raised some questions. I think I can close the deal, but it might take a little longer than expected. Once it's done, though, no more business trips," I said, forcing my voice to remain

calm. "So you'll be back Friday instead of Thursday?" she asked, her tone sounding almost pleased. "You don't sound too disappointed," I said, my words dripping with sarcasm. "Oh no, not at all," she replied warmly. "I'm just happy this is your last trip. If it takes one extra day, it's worth it. What are your plans tonight?" I asked, keeping her talking, "I just got back from the gym, so I'm going..." "To relax in front of the TV," she said casually, "then I'll go to bed early. Well, remember what my mom always said: 'If you're not in

bed by 11, you have to go home,' I joked. She laughed softly. "I'll call you tomorrow night. I miss you. Good night." I ended the call without saying more; she didn't seem to notice. My next call was to a chemist friend who sometimes supplied me when I needed unconventional methods. I told him I needed something that would mimic a heart attack. By the time I returned to the hotel after picking it up, the target was back in his room. I accessed the camera feed and saw him on the phone. "Hi, Jewels," he said cheerfully, making

me win. Juliana hated when people shortened her name, yet she let this guy call her "Jewels." It was a small thing, but it stung. "No, I just got back. Give me an hour, and I'll meet you downstairs. Say, 7:30. I'll make you forget all about that poor a-hole you married," he added with a smug grin. After listening to her response, he softened: "No, no, Juliana, I didn't mean to upset you. Baby, please." He stared at his phone in frustration. "Crap," he muttered. I smiled grimly; it seemed his night of fun had hit a snag. Moments

later, my phone rang. It was Juliana. "Hi, baby," she said. "How are you?" "I'm fine. What's up?" I asked, masking my irritation. "Nothing," she replied quickly. "I just realized I didn't say 'I love you' earlier, and I wanted to make sure you knew." Her voice sounded slightly off, almost upset. "Are you okay?" I asked cautiously. "You sound different." "I'm fine," she insisted too quickly. "I just miss you, that's all." Her phone beeped, signaling another call. Glancing at the camera feed, I saw Peter on his phone again. It was clear he was calling her. "Why don't

we talk for a bit?" I suggested. "It'll almost feel like I'm there." I waited to see what choice she would make: keep talking to me or return to her lover for more sweet talk and another night together. She chose poorly. "No, I'm just being silly," she said quickly. "Listen, my mom's trying to call. I just wanted to tell you I love you. Good night." Before I could stop myself, the words escaped: "Good night, Jules," I said coldly. I hung up, wondering if she had caught the icy tone in my voice. Back in Peter's room, his

phone rang again. His grin returned as he answered, "Hi, baby." "Yes, I'm so sorry. I know you hate it when I say bad things about him. It's just my insecurity. I just want to be the best lover for you and make you feel as good as you make me feel." He paused, nodding. "Okay, tomorrow then. How about dinner at Archie? Shall I book a table for seven?" "Yes. I love you too, Juliana. Good night." Hearing him tell her "I love you" sent another wave of fury through me. Was she in love with this man, or

was she just parroting the words? I'd find out soon enough. Shortly after, he called room service to order food and beers. It was time for me to act. I waited for the food to arrive and for the staff to leave. Once Peter had started eating, I knocked on his door, standing to the side so he couldn't see me through the peephole—not that I thought he'd check. When he opened the door, his face twisted in shock as he stared down the barrel of my silenced Glock. "Good evening, Peter," I said pleasantly. "Mind if I come in?"

His mouth opened, but no sound came out. I stepped forward, forcing him to retreat as the door closed behind me. "What do you want?" he stammered. "I have about $500 in my wallet. You can take it." I chuckled softly. "So rude," I said, shaking my head. "I just want to have a nice chat." "What chat? About what?" he asked, his confusion obvious. "Well, you see, my employer—someone you're quite familiar with—wants some answers," I said. "Your wife, Janine, has a few questions. I already have plenty of information, but there are gaps to fill. If you lie

to me, I'll find out, and I'll shoot you." Peter turned pale. "I... I don't—" "Relax," I interrupted. "I don't want to shoot you. That sounds like too much effort. Your wife would prefer to ruin you financially rather than have you dead. She thinks your kids might miss you if you were gone, but she wants the truth. And make no mistake: she'll find every woman you've been with and let their husbands know. If you tell me everything now, I'll leave this room without turning it into a crime scene. Sound fair?" I grabbed one of the beers

he'd ordered, opened it, and took a sip. "Is this the best they've got here?" I said, wrinkling my nose. Peter's eyes darted toward the door, but hopelessness settled on his face. "If I tell you everything, you won't shoot me?" he asked cautiously. "I won't shoot you," I confirmed. "I'll leave, and you can move on with your life. But I suggest you call your wife after I'm gone. Maybe if you grovel, she'll forgive you for the kids' sake." Defeated, Peter slumped into a chair. "What do you want to know?" "There are four women I already know

about," I said, listing their names and where they lived. His stunned expression confirmed my information was accurate. "But I need more details about one: Juliana. She works at a car dealership. Tell me everything—how you met, how long it's been, the whole story." Peter hesitated, but the realization that he had no choice set in. He began haltingly, "I met Juliana four months ago." I went to her dealership to sell insurance, and we hit it off. She's gorgeous, charming, and has an amazing body. I couldn't resist; I asked her to lunch, and she said yes. I swallowed

nervously and continued. After lunch, she surprised me by suggesting dinner that same night. She told me her husband was out of town. That evening, we ended up at my hotel; she gave me a night I'll never forget. I grimaced but motioned for him to go on. "How often did you see her?" I asked. "Eight or nine times," he admitted. "Whenever her husband was away, she'd call. If I could make it, I'd come. I even canceled dates with my other girlfriends for her. She's better than any of them." He grinned briefly, lost in the memory, but

sobered when he saw my expression. Nervously, he finished his beer and glanced at the mini bar. "Can I have another?" he asked hesitantly. I nodded. "Help yourself," I said, "but let’s keep this civil. It'd be unfortunate if I had to shoot you over a misunderstanding." Peter chuckled nervously, grabbed another beer, and sat back down. I pressed further. "So, Juliana was calling the shots? Do you think she's done this before?" He shrugged. "Probably. She's too skilled to be new at it, but she never let me insult her husband. She wouldn't even tell me his name. Once,

I called him an a-hole, and she ripped into me. That's why she didn't meet me tonight; she's still mad." I frowned. "Interesting that she's so protective of him while doing what she's doing." Peter laughed. "She's got this strange split personality. One part is the devoted wife who won't tolerate anyone disrespecting her husband. The other part is the woman who comes to me for fun. It's like she doesn't see any contradiction." I leaned back, processing his words. "I'm not sure her husband would share that perspective," I said quietly. Suddenly, Peter winced and clutched his chest. "You

okay?" I asked. "Just indigestion," he muttered. "Probably the beer." He rubbed his left arm absentmindedly, then began choking. His face turned purple, and sweat poured down his forehead as he clutched his chest with both hands. "Help me!" he gasped, panic in his eyes. "Peter," I said calmly, "look at me." He raised his head weakly, barely able to breathe. "You should have stayed away from Juliana," I said coldly. "Shek, my wife!" His eyes widened in shock just before rolling back into his head. He slumped over, motionless. I knew he was gone, though it would take another

10 to 15 minutes for his body to completely shut down. I used that time to carefully remove any evidence of my presence. I turned on the TV at a low volume and arranged the food in front of it. When his body was found, it would look like he died of a heart attack while eating dinner and watching TV. Given his blood pressure medication and Viagra, I was confident an autopsy would attribute his end of life to natural causes. I checked his body one last time to confirm he was dead, then ensured the hallway was clear,

hanging a "Do Not Disturb" sign on his door. I returned to my room. The next day, Juliana called around 5:30 p.m. "Hey baby, how was your day?" she asked cheerfully. "Great," I replied. "I resolved one issue and I'm confident I can settle the last one soon." I had an idea. "Since this is my last business trip, how about we fly to Mexico for the weekend? I can pick you up at the airport, and we can celebrate. Maybe even extend it into a vacation. You probably need a break, and it's not like you really need that

job." Juliana laughed. "That sounds amazing! I'll talk to Barry tomorrow and see what he says. I'll call you tomorrow night so we can book tickets." "Perfect," I said. "What's your plan for tonight?" "Same as always," she replied. "I have some work to finish, and then I'll watch a show." I glanced at the clock, knowing she thought she had a dinner reservation at 7:00, and it would take at least 40 minutes for her to get there. "Dinner's ready," she said casually. "I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay?" "Okay, enjoy your dinner and cheat," I said. "Bye baby,

love you," she said. I hung up without responding. At 8:30, there was a knock on Peter's door. Since I'd placed the "Do Not Disturb" sign, housekeeping hadn't entered the room. I figured Juliana had gone to the restaurant, waited, and then come to find out why Peter was late. After 20 minutes, the knock came again. The door squeaked as a hotel employee entered, followed by Juliana. They found Peter slumped over his dinner, unmoving. The employee rushed to him while Juliana stood in the doorway, watching. "Is he dead?" she asked flatly. The employee checked his pulse but

didn't need to—Peter was clearly gone. "Yes, he's dead." Without a word, Juliana turned and left. By the time the hotel worker realized she was gone, she was already in the elevator, leaving the hotel. The police and paramedics arrived shortly after. Upon searching the room, they found his medications and concluded he'd suffered a fatal heart attack. His medical history and the circumstances of his end of life supported the conclusion. When questioned, the hotel worker explained that a woman had asked him to check on the man. He admitted seeing her visit earlier in the week, though he

didn't know her identity. The worker mentioned that Peter often entertained female guests whom he suspected were escorts, but he never reported it because Peter tipped generously. Once the investigation wrapped up, I retrieved my surveillance equipment, packed it away, and checked out of the hotel. Early the next morning, I returned to the parking lot and removed the... "GPS tracker from Peter's car. Before leaving on Saturday morning, I picked up Juliana from the airport, and we headed to the Villa I had rented. She squealed with delight as she looked around, especially when she saw the private pool

with sun loungers. "I'm going to change," she said excitedly. "Can we talk for a minute first, Jules?" I asked. She stopped and turned toward me. "You know I don't like it when you call me that," she said. "Why not?" I asked. "You didn't seem to mind when Peter called you that." Her face turned pale, but she tried to play it off. "Who's Peter? Do you know him?" "Peter, the insurance agent. The one you've been sleeping with for the past four months. The one you were with Monday night when you told me you were too tired

and fell asleep without calling," I said. "I don't know what you're talking about or what you think you've heard," she started. I placed a photo on the table between us—the one I had taken through the scope of her lying on her back, eyes wide. She sank into a chair. "Oh," she said softly. "Oh, is that all you have to say?" I asked, incredulous. She shrugged. "What do you want me to say?" "How long?" I asked. She looked me in the eye. "About four months. And I assume he wasn't the first," I said coldly. "Do we

really have to do this?" she asked. "Do what? Confront the truth about my cheating wife?" I shot back. "Insults, really? Can't you come up with something more original?" "Before you start, though, there is something you need to understand," she said. "Like what?" "Why you did this?" I asked. I was about to suggest she couldn't control herself, but I stopped and let her speak. She began hesitantly, "We've been married a long time, haven't we?" I nodded silently, waiting for her to continue. "How many times a week do you think we have sex on average?" she asked,

her voice measured but pointed. I paused to consider her question. "Well, it slowed down a bit with age," I admitted, but before I could elaborate, she interrupted. "Exactly," she said firmly. "At first, we were like teenagers—every day, sometimes multiple times. When that phase passed, we still had sex at least every other day, sometimes more, and the sex was incredible. You are the best lover I've ever had. But then you started going on business trips—sometimes for weeks at a time. I was used to having sex almost daily, and suddenly, you expected me to go without it

for long stretches." She exhaled deeply, steadying herself. "One night, when you were away, I decided to relieve some tension by going to the gym, but instead, I ended up going home with someone. It wasn't planned, but it satisfied the need you had awakened in me. The next day, I felt awful—terrified you'd find out, that you'd be hurt, that you might leave me. When you came back, I practically attacked you in bed every day for a week, trying to erase my guilt and make it up to you for something you didn't even know had happened. But

deep down, I knew it would happen again the next time you left. And it did." She looked down briefly before meeting my eyes again. "Over time, I had to accept it as the new normal, but I created some rules for myself." Her voice softened as she explained, "First, I never did it when you were home—not because I thought you'd catch me, but because I didn't need anyone else when you were here. You've always been my first and best lover. Second, I never brought anyone into our house. I wouldn't disrespect you like that, and I never

allowed anyone to speak badly about you. If a man even hinted at disrespecting you, I ended things immediately. Third, I got tested regularly for STDs—not because I was afraid of getting caught, but because I refused to put you at risk. I also made sure I couldn't get pregnant; I used an IUD and birth control implants. When we decided to have children, I stopped all of that. If you want proof, I have DNA tests for the kids." She leaned closer, her voice trembling slightly but resolute. "Yes, I've done this the entire time we've been together. You

turn me on so much that I can't go without. A day or two is fine, but beyond that, I needed an outlet—that's all that ever was, physical. I've never had feelings for any of them. The only man I've ever loved is you. When you told me this was your last business trip, I was overjoyed. I thought I wouldn't need second-rate substitutes anymore because I'd finally have the best at home." Her voice cracked, and she looked away for a moment before finishing. "The irony is, what might have been my last time with someone else turned out

to be the time I got caught." "Your last time?" I asked skeptically. "Those photos are from Monday. You said you can't go more than two days without sex. Do you expect me to believe you didn't go out Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday?" She chuckled lightly. "On Tuesday, he called to say he was back at the hotel, but he started badmouthing you again. I told him it was over, and I wouldn't see him. Later, he called to apologize. I forgave him but said I was done for the night. We planned to meet on Wednesday instead. He even

offered to take me to dinner as an apology." "So, the call you got on Tuesday while we were talking," I asked, "wasn't from your mom?" For the first time, she looked genuinely guilty. "No, it wasn't," she said softly. "I hated lying to you." “To stop doing it,” I replied coldly. Her eyes widened. “Wait, you called me Jewels during that call? I remember thinking it was odd. Did you already know then? The photos were sent to me Tuesday morning,” I explained, along with transcripts of earlier calls. She sighed heavily. “I’m so sorry you had to find

out like this. It must have been awful.” “Let’s stay on track,” I said firmly. “You didn’t see him Tuesday, but what about the rest of the week?” Her expression shifted, and she nodded slightly. “We were supposed to have dinner Wednesday night,” she admitted. “You mean when you were supposedly watching your show?” I asked with thinly veiled sarcasm. “I really did watch it; it’s a good series, but I wasn’t fully focused,” she confessed. “That evening meeting him was just fulfilling a physical need for me. It was like going out for lunch with a friend. I need

to eat, and if you’re not there, I’ll go with someone else. I know it’s hard for you to understand, but that’s how I viewed it. And I never called it making love; that’s something I’ve only done with you.” “You’re stalling,” I said bluntly. “Stop dancing around what actually happened Wednesday.” “I’m not stalling,” she said, her tone defensive. “As I said, we were supposed to meet for dinner, but he never showed. I waited at the restaurant for 45 minutes. I was furious. I’ve never been stood up before, so I went to his hotel. His car was

in the parking lot, so I knew he was there, but he didn’t answer the door. I asked the manager to open it, and we found him face down in his steak—dead as a worm. The doctors said he’d been taking blood pressure meds and mixed them with Viagra, which you should never do. It probably caused a massive heart attack.” “Back,” I said dryly, “at least he didn’t die while he was entertaining you; that would have been inconvenient.” Her eyes widened slightly, then she chuckled bitterly. “I never thought of that. It would have caused such a mess.

His poor wife would have found out everything.” “I think she already knew,” I said. “In fact, I suspect she’s the one who sent me the photos.” Juliana nodded slowly. “At least I don’t have to wonder if you’ll be seeing him again,” I remarked, and she gave a faint reply smile. “I won’t apologize for what I did,” she said. “It was something I needed to do. But I am deeply sorry for hurting you and for the way you found out. I was counting the days until your business trips ended so I wouldn’t have to do this

anymore, but as long as you kept leaving, I knew it would continue. All I could do was minimize the risks and hope that if you ever found out, your love for me would be strong enough to understand.” “Why didn’t you just come to me?” I asked. “We could have worked something out. I could have handled things differently, maybe even taken you with me on trips.” She shook her head. “I didn’t want to be the kind of wife who nitpicks about how you provide the lifestyle we have. You love your work, and we’ve had an amazing

life together. I didn’t plan this; it just happened. By the time I realized how far it had gone, it was too late to take it back.” I stared at her for a long time, lost in thought. “So what happens now?” I stood and went to the kitchen, opening a bottle of wine and pouring us each a glass. I set the bottle on the table and handed her one. I sat back down and drained half of mine in one gulp. “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I need to think carefully. We’ve been together for so long,

and I thought you loved me as much as I loved you. Yes, we had a great bed life, and yes, we were intimate often, but you weren’t the only one who struggled. When I left, I also went without sex for weeks, even months. I had opportunities to have lunch with other women, but I stayed true to our vows. I can’t understand how you could let your physical need override everything—our promises, our marriage, our life together. Was it just for sex? Are you going to claim some kind of sex dependence? Do we need to send you

to therapy?” She started to speak, but I raised a hand. “No, please let me finish. I let you explain, so give me the same courtesy.” I refilled her glass and then mine. “I have so many questions. How can you separate sex and love so easily? I always thought men were the ones who could do that, not women. If you’re being honest about not loving any of them, then you risked everything for bad sex. How do you think that makes me feel? And what about the future? Men’s sex drives decrease with age while some women’s increase.

Am I supposed to come home one day and find some young guy in our bed because I can’t keep up? How can I live with myself knowing our entire marriage was a lie? Dozens, maybe hundreds, of men over the years. You say you got tested, but that doesn’t eliminate the risk. You could have given me something deadly—HIV, even. You could have eliminated us both. Where would that leave our children?” Her face tightened, and she began absent-mindedly rubbing her left arm. I smiled grimly. “Peter was a piece of trash,” I said, “but he caught feelings for

you. He told me he even canceled dates with other women whenever you called.” Her eyes widened in shock. “When did you talk to Peter?” “Oh,” I said, my tone chilling. “We had a chat the night he died.” I wanted to make sure you’d never see him again. Panic crept into her face. “What did you do to him?” she asked, her voice trembling. I leaned forward, my voice low and cold. “What happened to him was a consequence of his actions, and now you understand the price of betrayal.” I sat there in silence after my revelation, letting

the weight of my words sink into the space between us. Juliana froze, her face an unreadable mask, but her hands trembled slightly, her fingers clutching the stem of her wine glass as though it was the only thing tethering her to reality. The air felt heavy, oppressive, and in that moment, I saw the flicker of fear in her eyes—not fear of the truth, but fear of what I might do next. “I’ve given you everything,” I continued, my voice steady and devoid of the anger I thought I’d feel. “A home, a family, a life you said you

wanted, and yet it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough.” She opened her mouth to speak, but I raised my hand, silencing her before she could form an excuse. “Don’t... don’t you dare try to justify this anymore. You’ve said your piece, and I’ve listened. But now I need you to listen.” I stood and began to pace, the wine in my glass sloshing dangerously close to the edge. “You know, it’s funny. All these years, I thought I was the one living a lie. My job, my secrets—they were my burden to bear alone. I justified it because I told

myself I was protecting you, protecting us. But the real lie wasn’t my work; it was this—us, this marriage, this illusion of trust and loyalty you’ve so carefully constructed while systematically tearing it apart.” Her tears began to fall—silent streams down her face that she didn’t bother to wipe away—but I felt nothing for them: no sympathy, no regret, no pity. Just a hollow ache where love had once been. “I’ve eliminated men for less, Juliana,” I said, the words escaping before I could stop them. Her gasp was audible, a sharp intake of breath that seemed to echo in

the stillness. “And yet here you are, sitting across from me, alive and well. Do you know why?” She shook her head, her lips trembling too much to form a coherent answer. “Because I’m tired,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. “Tired of the lies, the betrayals, the endless cycle of hurt. Eliminating you might bring me satisfaction in the moment, but it wouldn’t fix what’s already broken. It wouldn’t undo the years of deception or the pain of realizing I’ve been a fool. And most of all, it wouldn’t heal the damage you’ve done to our family.”

At this, she broke down completely, her sobs racking her body as she buried her face in her hands. I watched her crumble, unmoved by her display of guilt or sorrow. In the past, I might have rushed to comfort her, to reassure her that everything would be okay, but not this time. “I’m leaving,” I said simply, the finality of the words hanging in the air. She looked up, her tear-streaked face a portrait of desperation and disbelief. “You can’t,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “What about the kids? What about us?” “There is no us,” I replied coldly.

“Not anymore. As for the kids, they’re adults now. They’ll understand in time, and they’ll still have you—at least until they find out who you really are. But me? I can’t stay. I won’t.” I set my glass down on the table with a deliberate motion, the sound of the glass meeting wood punctuating my decision. “I’ll be gone by morning. You’ll hear from my lawyer soon enough. Until then, consider this your warning: don’t follow me, don’t call, don’t try to find me, because if you do, Juliana, I’ll show you just how far my patience can stretch.” Her

sobs grew louder as I walked away, leaving her alone with her shattered world. Upstairs, I packed a single bag—essentials only. The rest could stay; I had no use for the trappings of a life that no longer felt like mine. By the time the sun began to rise, I was already on the road, The Villa shrinking in my rearview mirror until it was nothing more than a memory. A part of me wanted to look back to see if she was standing in the doorway watching me leave, but I didn’t. I couldn’t, because the man I’d been—the

husband, the father, the fool—was gone, and in his place was someone new, someone free. The road stretched out before me, endless and full of possibilities. For the first time in years, I felt the faint stirrings of hope—not for redemption, no, that was a luxury I didn’t deserve—but for something simpler, something purer: a chance to start over. And so I drove, leaving behind the wreckage of a life that was never truly mine. The future was uncertain, but one thing was clear: I would face it on my own terms, free from the shadows of betrayal and deceit.

For better or worse, this was my story now, and it was far from over.