Funded My Wife's Dream Cafe Only to Discover She Was Having an Affair With Her 'Mysterious'...

Funded my wife's Dram Cafe only to discover she was having an affair with her mysterious Serbian customer. After serving her divorce papers, she's begging me to come back. I'm a 30-year-old guy who's been married to my wife, 27, for the past 4 years.

When people hear about our timeline, they often raise their eyebrows, especially since she was only 23 when we tied the knot. My parents weren't thrilled either, telling us we should wait a few more years, but there was this connection between us that felt unreal, like we just understood each other perfectly. We only dated for about 15 months before getting married, which sounds crazy now that I say it out loud.

Back then, we were so sure we were soulmates. These days, with everything happening, I keep wondering if we rushed into something we weren't ready for. The jewelry business I run with my brothers has been one of the best things in my life.

We started in our parents' garage, literally making pieces by hand and selling them at local markets. Now we've got three stores in the city and an online shop that ships nationwide. Most people think running a business with family is a recipe for disaster—trust me, I've heard all the horror stories.

But my brothers and I have always been tight. Even as kids, we each handle different aspects of the business, and somehow we've managed to grow it without any major fights or drama. It's actually brought us closer together.

If anything, my wife always wanted to open this cozy little cafe that combines her two favorite things: coffee and books. She's basically what you'd call a hardcore bookworm. Before I met her, I used to roll my eyes at people who made reading their whole personality, posting quotes all over social media and carrying books everywhere.

Now I'm married to one of them. Funny how life works out. When she pitched the cafe idea, I wanted to help make her dream happen.

The rent in the fancy part of town where she wanted to open is insane, but I've been covering it because I knew it would give the business the best shot at success. The place has really taken off; there are always people in there reading, working on laptops, or having coffee dates. She's even started hosting book clubs and author meetups.

Seeing her happy in the business and doing well made all the financial support worth it—at least that's what I thought at the time. Everything started changing around March. Before that, we had a pretty normal marriage.

We'd go on date nights every Friday, watch movies together on weekends, and she'd always tell me about the interesting customers at her cafe. Usually, it was stuff like some writer working on their novel or a student who practically lived there during finals week. But this time was different.

She came home one evening and started telling me about this new customer at the cafe. The way she described him was weird. She kept going on about how handsome he was, how well he dressed, and how he had this mysterious vibe about him.

Now, we've always been pretty open with each other about finding other people attractive, like when she pointed out how hot the new girl at our gym was, or when I mentioned that one of her friends was pretty. It never bothered either of us because we trusted each other. But something about how she talked about this guy set off alarm bells in my head.

She almost sounded like a teenager with a crush, going on and on about his jawline and his accent. The whole thing reminded me of those romance novels she's always reading, you know, the ones with shirtless guys on the covers that she keeps telling me are actually really well written. There's this one book she made me read once about some Russian assassin who falls in love with his target in a laundromat.

She described this new guy the exact same way she talked about that character—all mysterious and brooding and perfect. The whole thing just felt off, but I tried to brush it aside. The next day, she couldn't wait to tell me more about him.

Turns out his name was Ivan and he was from Serbia. She learned his whole life story. Apparently, he used to run this successful car dealership back home but moved to the States for better opportunities—classic American Dram stuff.

He was job hunting at local dealerships while getting settled in. The way she described their conversation, it seemed like they talked for hours. My wife's always been friendly with customers, but this felt different.

She kept mentioning how he was having a hard time adjusting to American life, and I could tell she felt this need to help him out. The more she talked about Ivan, the more details I learned. He was this tall, blonde guy who dressed like he walked out of a fashion magazine, despite supposedly struggling to find work.

She went on about his accent, how he loved these specific genres of books. What got me was how she described every little detail about him, like she was writing one of her romance novels. The way she talked about his mysterious European charm and how he was so cultured—it was getting weird.

My wife has always been the type to get excited about meeting new people who share her interests, but this felt more like she was creating this perfect fantasy character in her head. After a few weeks, the Ivan updates started dying down. She wasn't coming home every day with new stories about him, which honestly was a relief, but I knew he was still coming to the cafe regularly.

She'd mention him casually here and there. One day, I decided to surprise her with lunch—partly because I wanted to be nice and partly. .

. Because I was curious about this guy, sure enough, there he was in the corner reading some book. I hate to admit it, but he was exactly how she described him: tall, good-looking, well-dressed.

Things really started getting weird one night when she came home late; she had this weird dreamy smile on her face, you know, the kind teenagers get after their first kiss. When I asked what was up, she told me Ivan had walked her home. They'd spent hours talking about books and life, and then he supposedly asked her out on a date.

She said she told him she was married, and he apologetically held her hand before saying good night. The part that really got to me was her reaction. She was practically glowing, like getting asked out by another man while married was some kind of achievement.

When I asked why she was so happy about it, she actually said, "It's like something out of a book. " I kept thinking about how often they'd see each other at the café; she'd be there six days a week, and he was a regular customer. Plus, our apartment was only a few blocks away.

What really bothered me was how she seemed to enjoy his attention. She didn't shut him down completely or mention that these walks home needed to stop. Instead, she was acting like this was some exciting subplot in her life.

I wanted to tell her to find a new regular café for him to hang out at, but I didn't want to come across as the jealous, controlling husband. I kept telling myself I was overreacting; after all, she did tell him she was married. She could have hidden that if she wanted to, but there was this nagging feeling in my gut that wouldn't go away.

Maybe it was because my last girlfriend before my wife had an innocent friendship with a coworker that turned into a full-blown affair. I spent the next few days trying to convince myself that this was all in my head. My wife loved me; we had a good marriage.

She was just being friendly with a customer who shared her interests. But every night when she came home, I found myself wondering if he walked her home again. The worst part was I couldn't even talk to my brothers about it; they'd either tell me I was being paranoid or they'd want to go have a chat with Ivan themselves.

So I kept quiet and watched, waiting to see what would happen next. About a week after the walking home incident, my wife walked in with this huge bouquet of flowers—not just some cheap grocery store flowers either; these were fancy roses from that expensive florist downtown. She's humming to herself while arranging them in our wedding vase, then she casually drops that they're from Ivan.

Apparently, he'd gotten a job at some car dealership and bought flowers for a co-worker's birthday. According to her, he just happened to have extra flowers and thought she deserved them because she worked so hard. The whole thing was obviously ridiculous.

Who spends that kind of money on expensive flowers just to give extras to their local café owner? I couldn't believe how she was playing dumb about the whole situation, like she was this innocent girl who had no idea why a guy would give her flowers—the same guy who'd already asked her out and held her hand, by the way. When I straight up asked if she could tell Ivan had feelings for her, she gave me this response that made me want to scream.

“Oh yeah, it’s obvious he likes me, especially after asking me out, but these flowers are just friendly. ” Meanwhile, I'm sitting there remembering how last month she got mad at me for liking some girl's Instagram post from five years ago. Let me tell you something about guys: we don't buy flowers for women who reject us, especially married women, as some friendly gesture.

That's not how it works. Ivan wasn't being friendly; he was playing a long game. He probably figured if he couldn't get her with the direct approach, he'd wear her down with these innocent gifts and attention.

Based on how my wife was acting, his strategy was working perfectly. The whole thing reminded me of how my cousin's marriage fell apart. His wife had this friendly personal trainer who kept giving her protein shakes and workout gear as professional courtesies.

Six months later, she was living with him. I could see the same pattern starting here, but my wife was too caught up in her romantic fantasy to notice, or maybe she just didn't want to notice. My feeling proved right just two days after the flower incident.

My wife was supposed to be home by 6:30, like usual, but 7:30 came and went with no sign of her. By 8:00, I’d called twice with no answer. Now, she'd been late before; sometimes the café got busy or she'd have inventory to deal with, but something felt different this time.

I kept checking our security camera, expecting to see her walking up to the house. I even checked her location on Find My iPhone, but it was turned off. My mind started going to dark places.

She finally walked in around 8:45, practically bouncing off the walls with excitement. Instead of apologizing for being late or explaining why she hadn't answered her phone, she launched into the story about her amazing evening. Turns out she'd taken Ivan on a whole tour of downtown.

They went to the art museum because he'd always wanted to see it, then grabbed pizza at Tony's because he'd never had real American pizza before. The way she described every detail of their little adventure, it was like listening to someone describe a first date. My wife, who usually just wants to order takeout and watch Netflix after work, suddenly had.

. . Energy for a 3-hour excursion with this guy—what really got me was how she didn't seem to think any of this was wrong.

She was telling me, her husband, about her romantic evening with another man like she was telling her best friend about a crush. I thought about all the times she’d said she was too tired to go out to dinner with me after work or how she always complained that the museum was too crowded. But apparently, she had plenty of energy for museum trips and pizza dates with Ivan.

After letting her finish her story, I couldn't hold back anymore. I looked her straight in the eyes and asked if she was attracted to Ivan. The way her face changed when I asked that question told me everything I needed to know, even before she started stumbling over her answer.

Her reaction to my question was so over the top, it was almost comical. She got all defensive, doing that thing where she put her hand on her chest like I’d just accused her of murder. According to her, she was just being a good person by helping this poor, lost soul adjust to American life.

She went on about how Ian didn't know anyone here, how he was struggling to understand American culture, and how she was just trying to be welcoming. She even brought up how her grandparents were immigrants and how someone had helped them adjust when they first came to America. The whole time she’s explaining this, she’s pacing around our kitchen, reorganizing things that didn’t need to be reorganized, not making eye contact—all the things she does when she’s lying.

That’s when I told her she needed to stop seeing Ivan outside the café. You’d think I just told her to stop breathing. She completely exploded, turning it all back on me.

I was insecure; I was controlling; I was toxic and jealous. She brought up how I’d never had a problem with her other male friends before, conveniently ignoring that those guys were either gay or married themselves. Then she started crying about how I didn't trust her and how she couldn’t believe I thought she’d ever cheat.

The whole time, I’m thinking about how she’d hidden those texts from Ian the first time they popped up on her phone, or how she’d started putting her phone face down whenever she was around me. I managed to keep my cool, which wasn’t easy considering I wanted to throw something through a wall. I tried to make her see my side of things.

I asked her how she’d feel if some gorgeous Serbian woman started coming to my jewelry store every day, and I started taking her on private tours of the city. What if I bought this woman gifts and let her hold my hand? What if I started coming home late because I was showing her around town?

My wife just rolled her eyes and said that was different but wouldn’t explain how. Then she brought up this guy friend from her college days who’d had a crush on her, like somehow that was the same thing. By this point, I’d already seen enough red flags to start a parade, but watching her try to justify everything just confirmed what I’d been suspecting: something was definitely going on between them.

She actually tried to tell me I’d understand if the roles were reversed, right? Because she totally wouldn’t lose her mind if I started spending private time with some attractive woman who kept hitting on me. This is the same person who made me unfollow my ex from 10 years ago on Instagram and got upset when my female cousin hugged me too long at Christmas.

But apparently, I’m supposed to be totally cool with her playing tour guide for some guy who’s clearly trying to get with her. I know I said that we don’t fight if we find someone attractive in the beginning, but that only works if we speak to each other about it and don’t pursue it further, like what she did. I ended up sleeping on the couch that night, which honestly wasn’t surprising.

What was surprising was how quiet things got after that fight. She stopped mentioning Ivan completely—no more cute stories about what he was reading; nothing. She was coming home on time every night, and everything seemed to be getting back to normal.

I started to think maybe I had overreacted, that maybe she’d actually listen to me and set some boundaries. My brother even noticed I seemed less stressed when I was at work. I was finally starting to feel like I could breathe again.

Then came that random Tuesday afternoon when I decided to surprise her at the café. I had just finished a big sale at the jewelry store and thought maybe we could grab a late lunch together. But when I walked in, her employees were running the place, but she was nowhere to be seen.

Now, my wife practically lives at that café; she’s there from open to close, running everything herself. She doesn’t take lunch breaks, doesn’t do errands during business hours—nothing. She’s always said a good boss needs to be present.

I asked one of her employees where she was, but they just gave me some vague answer about her stepping out for a bit. Something in my gut told me to wait and watch instead of making a scene, so I went back to my car across the street and sat there, telling myself I was being paranoid. That’s when I saw them: my wife and Ivan walking up the street together, arms linked like they were on a date.

She was laughing at something he said, leaning into him like she used to lean into me. They looked like a couple—not a café owner and her customer, not just friends, but a real couple. I sat there gripping my steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white, watching my wife act like a completely different person with this guy she'd promised to stop seeing.

Right then, I knew our marriage was probably over, but I also knew I needed proof before I did anything about it. When I saw them together, it took everything in me not to lose it right there. My first instinct was to jump out of the car and confront them both, maybe even show Ivan what happens when you mess with another man's wife.

I've never been a violent person; the most aggressive thing I've done is yell at a ref during my nephew's basketball game. But seeing them together like that—so comfortable, so intimate—I had to grip my seat to stay put. I kept thinking about my business and how assault charges would affect everything my brothers and I built, so I just sat there watching them disappear into the café like nothing was wrong, like my whole—no, the whole world—wasn't falling apart.

Yesterday felt like the longest day of my life. I must have typed out 50 different angry texts to her, but deleted them all. I wanted to call my brothers, but I knew they'd either tell me I was overreacting or show up at Ivan's workplace ready for a fight.

I even thought about calling her parents; they'd always been good to me, treated me like their own son. Her dad had even helped us set up the café. But I decided to keep quiet and watch how things played out.

Information is power, right? And right now, I had information she didn't know I had. When she got home that evening, I played it cool, asked her about her day like nothing was wrong.

She sat there at our kitchen counter eating the dinner I'd made, telling me about some new coffee blend they were trying at the café and how busy it had been—not a single word about spending the afternoon with Ivan. This is the same woman who used to tell me every tiny detail of her day, down to what her regular customers had for breakfast. Now she was lying straight to my face while eating the lasagna I'd spent two hours making.

I realized I needed to be smart about this; if I confronted her now, she'd just deny everything, delete any evidence, and be more careful about hiding whatever was going on. **Update One** Hey everyone, I'm back with an update about my situation with my wife and her Serbian friend. After seeing them together that day, I knew I needed real proof of what was going on.

I've always been against going through someone's phone—my ex used to check mine constantly, and I hated it. But after weeks of lies and sketchy behavior, I felt like I didn't have a choice anymore. It was either snoop through her phone or drive myself crazy imagining what might be happening.

I waited until she was asleep. She always takes these long sleeping pills that knock her out completely because of her insomnia. She'd been acting weird all day, constantly checking her phone and smiling at it, which only made me more suspicious.

Around midnight, while she was passed out, I grabbed her phone from the nightstand. I found their WhatsApp chat immediately. She hadn't even tried to hide it; they were talking constantly all day, every day.

I'm pretty tech-savvy from running our online jewelry store, so I knew how to export their entire chat history and send it to myself. Then I went through her photos—there were dozens of pictures of them together at restaurants, parks, museums, places she told me she was too busy to go to with me. In one photo, they were at this fancy Italian place where I tried to take her for our anniversary, but she said it was too expensive.

The whole time I'm doing this, I kept looking over at her sleeping peacefully, probably dreaming about her Serbian romance novel fantasy. Here I was, going through her phone like some crazy person, while she had no idea her perfect little affair was about to blow up in her face. I made sure to cover my tracks—deleted the message exports, cleared the recently sent photos, even cleared the WhatsApp web history.

The whole thing took maybe five minutes, but it felt like hours. After getting the files on my phone, I went downstairs to read through everything. I wish I hadn't.

The messages started innocent enough, talking about books, coffee, his adjustment to America, but then I found a conversation that made me physically sick. They were discussing some romance novel my wife had recommended to him, probably one of those books she was always trying to get me to read. But their chat quickly turned into something else entirely.

They were comparing themselves to the characters in the book—some story about a forbidden romance. Then Ivan started making comments about sex scenes, and my wife—my wife, who I'd been with for five years, who I helped build a business for, who I thought I knew better than anyone—she was bragging about sleeping with him. They weren't even trying to be subtle about it.

The messages were explicit, talking about their hookups, joking about how the affair made everything more exciting. My wife actually wrote that she didn't regret cheating on me; she was proud of it, getting off on the whole forbidden romance angle like it was one of her stupid books. The woman I married, who cried at our wedding vows and promised to always be faithful, was treating our marriage like some cheap plot device in her real-life romance novel.

I couldn't stay in the house after reading that. It was 2 a. m.

and freezing outside, but I had to get out. I just started walking. destination in mind, I kept checking my phone, rereading the messages, torturing myself with every detail.

When I finally came back home around 3:00 a. m. , my feet were blistered and I was half frozen.

She was still asleep in our bed. I checked her phone one more time and took a video of their chat, just in case she tried to delete everything later. I made sure to record everything from her phone, not just screenshots; I took actual video footage, scrolling through their conversations, showing the timestamps, contact info—everything.

My cousins had a divorce, and I've seen enough divorce cases go sideways because of doctored evidence. I wasn't going to let them wiggle out of this one. I recorded their whole chat history, the photos—everything.

Let's see her try to explain this away as just being friendly with a customer. The worst part wasn't even the cheating; it was how they were laughing about it, turning my life into their own private joke. All those nights I worked late at the jewelry store to cover her Café's rent, and meanwhile, she's getting kicks out of sneaking around behind my back.

Reading those messages, seeing how she joked about having a husband at home while sleeping with him made me realize she wasn't just cheating; she was enjoying humiliating me. She even told him about personal things I'd shared with her—private moments that were supposed to be between us. She might think she's living in one of her romance novels where the bored wife finds excitement with a mysterious foreign man, but this isn't some book where everyone gets a happy ending.

I've already started looking up divorce lawyers and found one who specializes in infidelity cases. I'm done playing the role of the oblivious husband in her little story. Update two: Finally, I can tell you all how everything went down.

After weeks of careful planning with my lawyer, we set everything in motion. I hired a process server, paid extra to make sure it would be during the Café's busiest lunch hour. I took an Uber and parked across the street, wanting to see the whole thing unfold.

The server walked right into the crowded Café, past all her regular customers and book club members, and served her the divorce papers right there at the counter. She tried to get him to do it privately in the back, but he loudly announced he was serving her with divorce papers. I watched through the window as her perfect little world crumbled.

Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely hold the envelope. Some of her precious book club ladies were there too, watching the whole scene—so much for her sophisticated Café owner image. I spent the rest of the day at the jewelry store, actually having a pretty good time.

My brothers could tell something was up because I was in such a good mood. Usually, I check my phone constantly, but that day I didn't care. No missed calls, no texts begging for forgiveness—nothing.

She knew she was caught. The prenuptial we signed—her idea, ironically, because her parents insisted—had a clear infidelity clause. She wasn't getting anything from me.

When she finally came home that night, she looked like hell. Her makeup was all over her face, her eyes swollen from crying, her nose running—nothing like the confident woman who'd been sneaking around with her Serbian lover. She stumbled into the house looking like a mess, kept asking over and over what she did wrong, as if she didn't know.

The best part was watching her try to figure out exactly what all I knew. She kept throwing out different possibilities, testing my reactions: was it because of Ivan? Did someone say something?

Is this about me being late some nights? She was desperately trying to figure out if she could still lie her way out of it. I just sat there, watching her scramble, knowing I had those messages safely backed up in three different places.

Finally, I decided to throw her a bone and told her I'd seen her and Ian walking arm-in-arm that day when she was supposed to be working. You should have seen how fast her attitude changed. Suddenly, she went from a crying mess to defensive mode.

She started telling me I was overreacting, that I was throwing away our marriage over one innocent walk, called me insecure and controlling, then in the same breath begged me to reconsider. She even brought up couples counseling, as if that would fix what she'd done. The whole time she's switching between insulting me and pleading with me, I'd had enough of the show, so I told her to get out of my house—not our house; my house.

I bought it before we got married—another thing she seemed to forget. She tried to argue, but I just pointed at the door. Once she was gone, I called my lawyer.

I'd already moved most of our joint accounts into separate ones, documenting everything. Being in business taught me how to handle money properly, and it was paying off now. She might have been living in a romance novel fantasy, but divorce was about to get real.

I hired the best divorce attorney in the city, the same one who handled my friend's divorce when his wife cheated with their neighbor. This guy wasn't cheap, but watching my wife realize she couldn't afford a lawyer anywhere near his level made it worth every penny. Let me tell you about the importance of a good divorce lawyer; mine was worth every penny of his $400 per hour fee.

When we got to court, he didn't just present evidence; he told a story. He showed the judge photos of them together after I specifically asked her to stop seeing him. Then he talked about those WhatsApp messages where they literally admitted to the affair.

The judge's. . .

Face when he read their conversations about how exciting it was to sneak around. Priceless! But my lawyer wasn't done yet.

This guy was like a forensic accountant; he went through our joint account history with a fine-toothed comb. He found restaurant charges at places I'd never been to, matching them perfectly with texts where Ian thanked her for dinner. There were movie tickets, museum entries, even a weekend trip they tried to hide as a business conference, all paid for with our joint account money I'd earned.

But the main thing was when my lawyer found charges from Victoria's Secret on days she texted said Ivan about having a special surprise. That was the moment her lawyer's face just dropped. My lawyer painted this picture where I was the hardworking husband who helped his wife start her business, paid her rent, and supported her dreams.

Meanwhile, she was using our money to whine and dine her boyfriend. He even brought up how I'd covered the café's rent in that expensive part of town, only for her to turn it into her personal dating spot. Her lawyer tried bringing up some petty arguments, like how I worked late sometimes or didn't read the books she recommended.

The judge literally rolled his eyes at that one. In the end, justice was served. I kept everything, with the help of the prenup, and no alimony payments either, thanks to the clear evidence of infidelity and the fact that I'd basically funded her whole business.

But I had to let the café and an Audi that I had bought for her go since we didn't have any contract on the ownership of it. Getting revenge on Ivan was tricky. I didn't want to end up in jail over two people who weren't worth it, but one day, opportunity knocked.

I saw him leaving the café, probably after another cozy afternoon with my ex-wife, spending her café's profits on his coffee. I followed him around the corner, keeping my distance until we were away from the security cameras and casual observers. I called out his name, and when he turned around, I introduced myself.

"Hey, Ivan. I'm ex-wife's husband. " The look of recognition on his face was perfect, right before my fist connected with his jaw.

The punch hurt my hand like hell, but watching him sprawl onto the sidewalk made it worth it. His lip was bleeding, and he looked completely shocked. You'd think a guy who sleeps with married women would expect an angry husband eventually.

I was ready if he wanted to fight back, but he just got up, wiped the blood off his face, and walked away. Guess all that tough guy mystery man stuff only works on cheating wives. I wanted to do more, but one punch was all I could risk without ending up with assault charges.

Then came the sweetest part of my revenge. The café's rent was due May 1st—$4,500 for that prime downtown location she just had to have. Midday, my phone started blowing up; it's my ex crying about how she can't make rent.

Turns out running a café isn't so easy when you actually have to pay the bills yourself instead of spending all the money on your boyfriend. She kept saying stuff like, "Please, I built this place from nothing," conveniently forgetting whose money built it. Begging turned to bargaining; she'd pay me back, she'd give me partial ownership, anything to keep her precious café.

Every time she called begging for help with the rent, I had the same response: "Sell the Audi. " She'd start crying, saying she needed the car, that she couldn't run her business without it. Finally, I just blocked her number.

A week later, my brother sent me a screenshot from Facebook Marketplace. There was her precious white Audi listed for a desperate quick sale. After she sold the car, she actually had the nerve to call me from a different number, screaming about how evil I was for making her sell her car.

She said I was being cruel, that I was destroying her life's work by not helping with the rent. I just laughed and reminded her how she thought it was fun and exciting to cheat on me in the café I paid for. That shut her up pretty quick.

Haven't heard from her since. I'm actually looking forward to next May: without my money covering the rent, without my bookkeeper managing her finances, and without her fancy car to keep up appearances. I'm betting that café won't make it another year.

Those book club ladies who used to fawn over her sophisticated taste have mostly stopped coming around. Turns out publicly getting served divorce papers for cheating isn't good for business. My brother drove by last week and said the place was pretty empty.

Sometimes the best revenge isn't just getting even; it's moving forward and living well. Thanks for all the support, everyone. Pretty sure this is my last update.

Got better things to do than dwell on the past.