“Surprise,” I said calmly, sliding the pizza box toward him. “Thought we could share dinner.”
He frowned, clearly uneasy. “Oh, uh, I already ate earlier…”
“Really?” I tilted my head. “Then I guess you wouldn’t mind explaining this.”
I flipped open the lid. His face drained of color.
“Wh–where did you get that?”
“Right where you left it,” I replied. My voice didn’t even shake. “It’s interesting, though. You always told me you hated pizza.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. His lips trembled. “Laura, it’s not what you think—”
“Oh, please,” I cut him off. “Don’t insult my intelligence. You’ve been bringing her here. Ordering pizza like it’s some romantic ritual. How long has this been going on?”
He stuttered, his excuses clumsy and weak. “It was just a mistake, I swear. She means nothing. I was lonely—”
I laughed bitterly. “You were lonely? I work twelve hours a day so you can sit at home and ‘find yourself.’ And this is how you repay me?”
He reached out, trying to touch my arm, but I stepped back. “Don’t,” I warned.
For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the refrigerator and the pounding of my heart.
Then, I slid a folder across the table. Inside were photos—screenshots of his text messages, records of his pizza orders, and pictures I’d taken of him and his mistress.
“I already spoke to a lawyer,” I said. “I wanted to give you the courtesy of knowing before I file for divorce.”
His mouth fell open. “You’re leaving me?”
I almost laughed. “What did you expect me to do? Bake you another casserole and pretend nothing happened?”
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