Page 30 of Letting Go

Lorna whistles low under her breath and leans back in her chair. “Jesus.”

“It gets better. I caught them. In bed. In my bed. In our house. And I have it on video.”

“Wait.” She sits up straighter. “You recorded it?”

“Not intentionally. Well. Kind of intentionally. I just- I was in shock. Hans told me to get proof.”

She looks confused. “Who is Hans?”

“He’s this bartender at Chucky’s. You remember Chucky’s.” She nods. “Anyway, he told me this plan on how I can know for certain if my husband’s a cheater, and that I should get proof if I do.”

She shakes her head slowly, still staring like I’ve grown a second, flaming head. “Can you tell me this plan?”

“Well!” I sit up straighter, because if there’s one thing I still have, it’s theatrical flair. “I told Mike I was going out of town. Like, yoga retreat, full excuse, very convincing. I even packed a little overnight bag to sell the lie.”

Lorna lifts a brow, clearly intrigued. “Okay…”

“But I never left.” I grin, wide and sharp, like the Joker with better hair. “Instead, I ran some errands, went shopping, bought so many shoes.”

She hums. “That’s the kind of therapy I respect.”

“Thank you. So, he gets home, midday, which, weird, right? He’s supposed to be at work. But I’m at the mall because self-care is still important, even when you’re planning emotional warfare. And by the time I get home,” I wave dramatically, “I walk into our bedroom and there he is. With Keira. Naked. Entwined. Sweaty. Like it’s a scene from some cursed HBO show no one asked for.”

“Oh my God,” Lorna whispers, but it’s more reverent than horrified.

“I had my phone out before I even realized what I was doing. Not proud of it. Actually, no- I am proud of it. I got the whole damn thing… part of it.”

Lorna exhales like she’s watching the end of a crime docuseries. “Leni. You beautiful, spiralling genius.”

“I cried,” I say, voice suddenly quieter. “Threw things at him, at her. He tried lying but she said it’s been going on since Christmas.”

“And then?”

“And then I kicked them out. Him in his boxers, her in a sheet, which, by the way, my sheet. And I tossed his car keys after them. Removed the house key first, of course.”

Lorna lets out a bark of laughter. “Jesus Christ. You really did all that?”

“I did. And then I drank an entire bottle of wine on the kitchen floor, texted the evidence to the wrongperson- Hannah, not Hans, long story- and spiral-cried into my best friend’s boobs.”

There’s a long pause as Lorna leans back in her chair, processing. “You came in hot. Like, Taylor Swift bridge hot.”

“Doesn’t matter.” I wave it off. “Point is, I’ve got proof. Audio. Visual. Sweat. Moans. The whole devastating, soul-crushing pornographic nightmare.”

“Damn.” She’s not even pretending to be horrified, just impressed. “You really came to play.”

“I want a divorce. And I want to take the one thing he loves, his pride and joy, that godforsaken, fucking house.”

She nods once, decisive. “Then we start today. Tell me about his other assets.”

Something in me finally unclenches.

This is why I came. Not just for vengeance. Not just to make him pay. But to sit across from someone who won’t tell me to breathe or calm down or take the high road.

Because that road is closed. Under construction. And I’m about to burn the detour to the ground.

Chapter 12

Lorna taps her pen against her legal pad like she’s composing a symphony, not orchestrating the complete legal evisceration of my soon-to-be ex-husband. Her handwriting is absurdly neat, curved and elegant, like if calligraphy and threat-level precision had a baby.

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