The Betrayed Wife's Spectacular Sweet Revenge

Alia pushed open the frosted glass door of her office at Legatum Designs. The heavy glass clicked shut behind her, cutting off the hum of the architectural firm.

She looked down at her phone. The screen lit up with an anonymous text message.

She swiped her thumb across the glass. A high-definition photograph filled the screen.

It was Jerel. He was standing outside a high-end restaurant in Greenwich Village. His arm was wrapped tightly around the waist of a blonde woman.

A heavy, sour block of nausea hit the bottom of Alia's stomach. The saliva in her mouth turned metallic. She swallowed hard, forcing the bile back down her throat.

Her fingers clamped around the edges of the phone. The metal casing dug into her skin.

A second message chimed. It was an ultrasound photo. The text beneath it read: He's finally going to be a real father.

Alia did not drop the phone. She did not scream. Her chest stopped moving as her lungs held the stale office air.

She tapped the screen, syncing the screenshots directly to her encrypted cloud drive. If the sender tried to unsend the messages, the files were already locked away.

She grabbed her trench coat from the back of her chair. She snatched her car keys from the desk.

She walked out of the office. Her assistant, Nina, stood up from her cubicle, holding a tablet.

"Ms. Garner, your dinner meeting with-"

Alia walked right past her. She pushed the elevator button and stared at the metal doors until they opened.

The Manhattan evening traffic was a gridlock of red taillights and blaring horns. Alia sat in her car, both hands gripping the leather steering wheel. Her knuckles were stark white against the dark interior.

Her brain played a loop of that morning. Jerel standing in the hallway, adjusting his tie. He had leaned in, kissed her forehead, and told her to have a good day at work.

Her jaw locked. The muscles in her neck pulled tight, sending a dull ache into the base of her skull.

She navigated the car down the narrow streets of Greenwich Village. She pulled up across the street from the restaurant. She ignored the valet stand and parked the car in the deep shadow of a closed boutique.

She rolled down her window. The crisp, cold autumn air rushed into the heated cabin. It hit her face, forcing her eyes to stay open and alert.

She looked across the street. The restaurant had massive floor-to-ceiling windows.

She found them immediately. They were sitting at a VIP table right against the glass.

Jerel was wearing the custom navy suit she had bought for his birthday last week. He leaned across the table. He picked up the blonde woman's hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles.

Alia recognized the woman. Tiffany. A junior partner at Jerel's law firm. They had clinked glasses at the firm's holiday party last December.

Alia picked up her phone. She opened the camera and switched to the telephoto lens. She hit record.

Through the screen, she watched Jerel reach across the table. He placed his hand flat against Tiffany's stomach.

Jerel smiled. It was a wide, genuine smile. It was the exact look of anticipation her mother-in-law, Christy, constantly demanded, but one Jerel had never shown inside their home.

A sharp cramp twisted Alia's gut. She kept her hands completely still. She recorded them for three full minutes. She captured the hand-holding, the stomach-touching, and the long, intimate kiss they shared over the table.

A sharp rap on the glass made her flinch. A beat cop stood outside her car, pointing a flashlight at her tires. He motioned for her to move out of the loading zone.

Alia stopped the recording. She put the phone down, nodded to the cop, and shifted the car into drive.

She pulled into the flow of traffic. Her eyes burned, the tear ducts swelling, but she blinked rapidly, forcing the moisture away. The heat behind her eyes turned into a cold, heavy pressure in her chest.

She pressed the Bluetooth button on her dashboard and called Clara.

Clara answered on the second ring. The background noise was a loud, thumping bass line and the clinking of glasses.

"Alia, you have no idea how boring this PR mixer is. Save me," Clara complained.

"Jerel is cheating on me," Alia said. Her voice was completely flat. "The woman is pregnant."

The background noise on the phone vanished as Clara walked into a quiet room. The silence stretched for three seconds.

"I am going to kill him," Clara hissed. "Where are you? Let's go in there right now and flip the table."

"No," Alia said. She pressed her foot on the brake as a cab cut her off. "If I confront him now, he'll drain the joint accounts. I need to lock down the Manhattan townhouse first."

"You bought that house before you married him," Clara said.

"He's a lawyer, Clara. He will find a way to drag it out. Meet me at the jazz bar in the Lower East Side in an hour."

Alia hung up. She looked in the rearview mirror. The glowing sign of the restaurant faded into the distance. It looked like a burning building she had just escaped.

Her phone vibrated in the cup holder. It was a text from Jerel.

Stuck at the firm with a massive client. Going to be a late night. Eat without me. Love you.

Alia stared at the words. A cold, mechanical laugh pushed out of her throat.

She typed a reply.

Don't work too hard. See you at home.

She added a red heart emoji and hit send.