Luke was always traveling for work.
At least, that’s what he told me.
“Another business trip,” he’d say, already halfway out the door.
I believed him. Why wouldn’t I? We’d been married for ten years.
Then my neighbor called me.
She asked, carefully,
“Do you know the strange man who’s been hanging around your property?”
My stomach dropped.
There was no reason anyone should be at my late grandmother’s house.
It was empty. Locked. Untouched.
Or so I thought.
That night, I logged into the hidden security cameras I’d installed months earlier.
And that’s when I saw him.
Luke.
Not at a hotel.
Not on a work trip.
He was sitting on my grandmother’s couch, arm wrapped around another woman, laughing like he didn’t have a care in the world.
I didn’t scream.
I didn’t cry.
I stared at the screen until my hands stopped shaking — and then I started planning.
A few days later, Luke came home acting exhausted.
“I’m wiped,” he sighed. “Work’s been brutal.”
I smiled sweetly and suggested something special.
“A romantic weekend at the lake,” I said.
“No phones. No work. Just us.”
He hesitated for half a second before nodding.
“Sure,” he said casually.
“We haven’t been there for ages.”
That’s when I knew.
He had no idea I’d seen everything.
No idea I knew exactly where he’d really been staying.
And no idea that this weekend wouldn’t be about romance at all.
It would be about truth.
And consequences.
