The day I discovered my husband’s betrayal was like a cold wave crashing over the shore. I remember standing in the middle of our living room, holding my phone and feeling the world shift beneath my feet. There it was, undeniable evidence from the security cameras I had discreetly installed at our lake house. I watched in disbelief as my husband, Luke, paraded around our sanctuary with his female coworker, Sarah, under the pretense of “business trips.” My heart didn’t break—it hardened. I didn’t cry. I planned.
The next week, Luke returned home, pretending to be tired from a conference he never attended. He wore the same charming smile he always did, the one that used to make my heart flutter but now only fueled my resolve. I kept my face neutral, a mask perfected over the years, and welcomed him with open arms, as I always did.
“How was the conference?” I asked, my voice steady, betraying no hint of the turmoil inside.
“Exhausting,” he sighed, rubbing his temples for effect. “I need a break.”
I couldn’t help the small, humorless smile that tugged at my lips. “You know,” I said, my tone light and casual, “we haven’t been to the lake house in ages. How about a long weekend there? Just us. No phones. No distractions. Total disconnect.”