Revenge is not taken in a single strike. It is slow. Precise. Like dismantling a house brick by brick while the owner still believes he's safe inside.
I had time. And I would make sure he felt every second of his downfall.
The first move had to be subtle. If I took too much, too fast, he would realize something was wrong. No, I needed to plant doubt, to make him feel as though the world around him was shifting in ways he couldn't quite understand.
I started small.
A single bank transfer. Not enough to set off alarms, just a few thousand dollars redirected from one of his personal accounts to a nameless offshore holding. He will thinks it's a banking error . He would be irritated, but he wouldn't suspect me.
Not yet.
I erased my digital footprints before logging out of his accounts. Then I smoothed my dress, took a deep breath, and stepped into the kitchen, where my husband sat at the breakfast bar, sipping his coffee as if his world wasn't already beginning to collapse.
"Morning," he said, flashing me the easy smile of a man who believed he still had my love.
I kissed his cheek, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne. "Morning."
His phone vibrated against the marble countertop. He barely glanced at it before flipping it over. An old habit, one I had ignored for far too long.
"Something wrong?" I asked, watching his face carefully.
He hesitated, then forced a chuckle. "Just work."
Liar.
I poured myself a cup of coffee, taking my time as I stirred in the cream. "You've been so busy lately," I said, my voice carefully laced with concern. "We barely have time for each other anymore."
He reached for my hand. "I know, baby. Things have been crazy, but I promise I'll make it up to you."
Make it up to me.
As if flowers and whispered apologies could erase the memory of him tangled in another woman's sheets.
I squeezed his fingers gently, the perfect picture of a devoted wife. "I believe you."
I almost laughed at how easily the lie rolled off my tongue.
That evening, I watched from the living room as he paced the study, his phone pressed to his ear.
"What do you mean a transfer was made?" His voice was sharp, frustration creeping into his usually controlled tone. "I didn't authorize anything."
I sipped my wine, savoring the taste as I listened to him argue with his bank.
He wasn't angry yet—just annoyed. Confused.
But soon, confusion would turn into stress. Stress into paranoia.
And paranoia would be my greatest weapon.
The next morning, I made another move.
This time, it was his reputation.
A carefully crafted email, sent from an untraceable account, to the editor of a well-known financial blog. The message was short but damning.
*Interested in a tip? Look into [Carter Sam]. His firm's numbers don't add up. Not everything is as clean as they pretend it is.*
I smiled as I hit send.
Let the cracks begin to show.