My husband’s company finally decided to allow plus-ones at their annual New Year’s party, and I was excited. Every year, Flynn would attend these lavish events alone, saying it was “strictly employees only.” But this time, I had the chance to go with him.
Or so I thought.
When I asked him about it, Flynn barely looked up from his phone. “I won’t be going. I have to work that night,” he said casually.
Something felt… off.
Flynn had been distant lately, but I brushed it off as work stress. Still, something in my gut told me he was lying. So I did what any suspicious wife would do—I checked the invitation myself. The event had a strict dress code: *elegant white attire only.*
I made up my mind. I was going.
On the night of the party, I dressed in a beautiful white gown, did my hair and makeup, and made my way to the venue. My heart pounded as I stepped into the grand ballroom, filled with well-dressed guests enjoying champagne and laughter.
Then, as I reached the reception desk, the manager looked up and smirked.
“Oh, another Mrs. Philips?” she chuckled. “I thought he already checked in with his *real* wife.”
I felt my blood run cold.
I turned my head, following her gaze. And there he was—Flynn, my husband of six years, dressed in a sharp white suit, holding a woman close. They were laughing, toasting, and then… he kissed her.
Everything around me blurred. My breathing grew shallow.
I wanted to scream, to confront him right there in front of everyone, but something stopped me. No, *he* wasn’t going to get away with this so easily. He had been playing a game, and now it was my turn.
I pulled out my phone and snapped a few pictures. Proof. Then, I turned around and walked out, my mind already crafting a plan for revenge.
I wouldn’t cry. I wouldn’t beg.
I would *ruin* him.
But karma was faster than I was.
The next morning, just as I was finalizing my plan, my phone rang. A number I didn’t recognize.
“Hello?” I answered, gripping my coffee mug tightly.
A hesitant voice spoke on the other end. “Ma’am, your husband… there’s been an accident.”
I froze.
“Mr. Philips was found unconscious in a hotel room this morning. It appears he had an allergic reaction. We found your number listed under his emergency contacts.”
I let out a slow breath. *Allergic reaction?*
Flynn was severely allergic to shellfish. And what was one of the main dishes served at the party last night? A lavish seafood platter.
So while he was wining and dining his mistress, lying to me, karma had already taken care of him.
I grabbed my keys and left for the hospital, but not out of love or concern. No, I had one last thing to do.
Because when he woke up, weak and humiliated, the *real* Mrs. Philips would be handing him divorce papers.
