I turned off the office light, went to the bedroom, changed into my pajamas, and lay down in bed. I closed my eyes.

Tomorrow, a new performance would begin.

I would play the part of the happiest wife in the world until I could end this tragedy on my own terms.

A month passed since that fateful rainy day. Now seven months pregnant, my body felt heavy and unwieldy.

Daniel continued to play the role of the perfect husband to a T. Every day after work, he’d bring home food said to be good for pregnant women or a bag of fresh fruit.

As soon as he walked in the door, he would tenderly ask about my well-being and the baby.

“Jennifer, I brought you some clam chowder. Eat it while it’s warm. Should I heat it up for you?”

I would smile, take the container from his hand, and try my best to keep my voice steady.

“Thank you, honey. Are things busy at work?”

Daniel would sigh, rubbing his shoulders, and launch into a story about a difficult contract or a demanding client.

His performance was so convincing that if I hadn’t seen those messages with my own eyes, I would have firmly believed my husband was sacrificing himself for our family.

I spooned the chowder into my mouth, looking him straight in the eye and nodding sympathetically. The food was tasteless, but I forced myself to swallow to provide enough nutrients for the baby inside me.

The next morning, taking advantage of some time off, I visited the office of a lawyer, Miss Davis. She specialized in divorce and asset division.

As soon as I entered her office, I placed a neatly printed stack of documents on her desk. Inside were the Messenger screenshots, the video of me opening the secret chat, and a complete bank statement showing the $15,000 flowing from Daniel’s bonus account to Chloe’s.

Miss Davis flipped through the pages, her eyes widening with surprise.

“I’ve been doing this for 15 years,” she said, looking at me. “I’ve seen plenty of wives break down in this office after discovering their husband’s affair. But you are the first to come in so calm and with such systematically collected evidence. What are your terms for the divorce?”

I folded my hands on the desk and answered clearly.

“I want full custody of our child, no exceptions. Regarding assets, our condo is in both our names, so I demand half. I want our joint savings account frozen immediately so he can’t touch it. And for the $15,000 he sent his mistress, since that was marital property, I want to legally compel him to return my half, which is $7,500, to me.”

Miss Davis nodded in agreement. She advised me on the process of filing the lawsuit and how to protect my legal rights during the proceedings.

She particularly stressed that I should not rock the boat and should maintain my daily routine as usual, so as not to tip him off or give him a chance to hide assets.

Leaving the lawyer’s office, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. The legal process was in the hands of an expert.

My job now was to protect my health and prepare to shatter the final illusion of those two who were currently reveling in the dark.

That weekend, Daniel said he had a late meeting with an important client out of town. I knew exactly who that client was.

Lying in bed, I found the phone number for Chloe that I had secretly jotted down from Daniel’s phone and added her as a contact. Then I sent her a friend request on Facebook.

It was accepted almost immediately. She must have been curious why her lover’s wife was looking for her.

I had no intention of making her wait. I sent the first message, polite but direct.

“Hello, Chloe. I’m Daniel’s legal wife, Jennifer. I think it’s time the three of us had an honest conversation.”

Not even five seconds later, the indicator showed she was typing. She replied at a frantic pace, as if she had a script prepared for this very situation.

“Hi, Jennifer. I’m not sure what you’re talking about. I think there’s been a misunderstanding. Daniel and I are just old college friends. There’s nothing going on, and we haven’t done anything to wrong you.”

I let out a dry laugh in the empty room. Women who steal other people’s husbands always love to wrap themselves in the noble guise of old college friends.

I had no intention of arguing or slinging mud. A smart woman doesn’t waste her time on such meaningless endeavors.

I opened my photo gallery and selected the screenshot of the $2,500 bank transfer from Daniel to Chloe. The sender and receiver’s names were clearly visible.

I pressed send and added a short message.

“That’s a very expensive friendship. Is it normal for friends to support each other with rent and medical bills every month? $15,000 in three months. That’s some deep friendship you two have.”

After that message, my phone screen went completely silent. The read receipt appeared clearly below the photo, but no reply came.

Her silence was the most obvious proof of the humiliation she felt, her true face now exposed. She never would have dreamed that the wife she thought was a fool had tracked every single dollar of their transactions.

I locked my phone and tossed it aside. The first silent confrontation was over in an instant, but its effect was absolute.

I had completely shattered her hypocritical piety. I didn’t care if she ran to Daniel tonight crying and complaining.

The final act of this play had already been written by my hand. All that was left for them to do was to slowly savor the bitter fruit they had sown.

The next morning, I woke up feeling surprisingly refreshed. I checked my phone and saw a new text message from an unknown number.

My Messenger was set to block messages from strangers, so Chloe had resorted to a standard text message to continue her performance. It seemed she couldn’t bear being caught with no excuse.

I opened the message. The long, rambling text was a desperate attempt to paint herself as a pitiful victim.

“Jennifer, I’m truly sorry if my actions have caused you pain, but I didn’t know Daniel was still living with you. He told me your relationship was over long ago and that you were getting a divorce soon. He said you didn’t have any feelings for him anymore.”

Reading the first text, I just scoffed at the classic lies of a cheating husband and the unbelievably foolish excuses of the other woman.

The second text was a lament about her difficult situation.

“I just got divorced and things were so hard. The baby in my belly was abandoned by its father and I was kicked out onto the street. Then Daniel appeared and helped me and my baby. I’m just a vulnerable woman who needed someone to lean on. I thought of that money as a loan from him. I plan to pay it back when I get on my feet. I really didn’t want to ruin your family.”

The third text was an appeal to pity.

“Jennifer, you’re pregnant, too, so I hope you can understand my situation as a soon-to-be mother. Please don’t make this a big deal. What did the baby in my womb do wrong? Once the baby is born, I’ll quietly step away and give Daniel back to you.”

After reading all three messages, I found the woman pathetic. She had the courage to commit the act, but not to take responsibility.

She was using her unborn child as a shield to hide her greed, blaming everything on my husband’s lies, and conveniently ignoring her own calculated actions and selfishness.

Instead of getting angry, calling her to scream, or sending a long rebuttal, I chose complete silence, and I deleted all three messages from my phone.

A pregnant woman didn’t need to trouble her mind with such garbage. Her apology couldn’t change reality, and whether she stepped away or gave my husband back was no longer my concern.

I never take back things that other people have used.

My sole focus now was on building a stable future for the daughter who would soon be born. All my efforts were now directed only toward myself and the child growing inside me every day.

I was nine months pregnant with my due date just a week away. My body felt like it had reached its limit.

My legs were swollen, and even walking was a struggle. I had taken maternity leave from work and was resting at home.

I prepared everything for the baby’s arrival by myself. Daniel, using the excuse of a busy year-end at work and the need to care for his mistress who was also nearing her due date, was barely home.

I ordered diapers online, washed baby clothes, and neatly folded them into a pink basket. As I sat on the sofa folding the tiny palm-sized outfits, I suddenly remembered the day we first met.

Four years ago, I met Daniel through a mutual friend. At our first meeting in a small coffee shop, he wore a crisp white shirt and spoke in a calm, gentle manner.

I remember his hands were particularly clean and neat. Throughout our conversation, he was incredibly considerate.

He pulled out my chair, poured my water, and asked kindly about my work and hobbies. He once told me, “Taking care of people is just a habit for me. When I see the people I love happy, it puts my mind at ease.”

I, who had always dreamed of a normal family, fell head over heels for that false warmth and sense of security. And I nodded when he proposed.

On our wedding day, the look in his eyes as he watched me at the altar seemed filled with sincerity. I thought I had found the most solid pillar of support in my life.

But time was the cruelest solvent. It stripped away the glamorous exterior and laid bare a person’s selfish nature.