A week later, Belinda claimed she had a late meeting.
Cute.
That phrase had become the national anthem of cheating spouses everywhere.
"Late meeting" translates to, "I'm about to betray you in high definition."
She said it with her usual fake-casual tone, wearing that tight black dress that used to be reserved for anniversaries, not accounting discussions.
She spritzed perfume like she was prepping for battle, then leaned in and kissed me on the cheek.
I caught a whiff of betrayal disguised as Chanel.
"Don't wait up," she said.
"I won't," I replied, smiling just enough to make her wonder if I knew something.
Because I did.
See, I'm not the jealous type.
I'm the data-collection type.
When your wife cheats with her boss, emotions are pointless.
Excel sheets and strategy.
That's where the power is.
So when she left, I finished my sandwich, poured another cup of coffee, and activated phase four of Operation Bye-Bye Belinda.
The stakeout.
I wasn't doing it out of obsession.
I was doing it for closure and maybe evidence.
Because when you're dealing with someone who lies professionally, screenshots are the only language they understand.
Now, a man in my position doesn't just follow his cheating wife in his own car.
No, that's amateur hour.
I rented a gray sedan from Hertz, the kind of car that screams divorced accountant with nothing left to lose.
I even wore a baseball cap and hoodie.
I looked like the human version of background noise.
As I sat in that rental, parked a block from her office, I realized how absurd it all was.
Me, a grown man, watching my wife's workplace like I was in some off-brand spy movie.
But then, at exactly 6:42 p.m., the office door opened.
And there she was.
My soon-to-be ex, walking out with her boss.
The man himself.
Mr. Forehead Shine 30,000.
Let me describe this dude.
Picture a middle-aged man with a hairline retreating faster than his morals, wearing a suit that cost too much to cover so little integrity.
His laugh was loud, fake, and probably flammable.
They were talking too close.
You know the kind of close that makes you want to bleach your soul?
Yeah, that.
They crossed the street, his hand "accidentally" brushing her back like she was a malfunctioning printer he was trying to reset.
I clenched my jaw, not out of rage, but out of secondhand embarrassment.
Watching them flirt was like watching two raccoons fight over a shiny trash can.
They got into his car, a silver Lexus that screamed midlife crisis, and drove off.
I followed at a respectable distance because, again, I'm not reckless.
I'm strategic.
They headed downtown, right into the heart of temptation.
The Ember Lounge.
A bar so pretentious it served artisanal ice.
I parked two blocks away, walked in like I belonged there, and found a spot in a corner booth.
I ordered a drink.
I didn't even want something with an umbrella and too much sugar, but blending in requires sacrifice.
And there they were, sitting at the bar like two rom-com extras who hadn't read the part where everything goes wrong.
She laughed loudly.
The kind of laugh she hadn't used around me in months.
That hurt for about 3 seconds before I realized something.
She was performing.
Overcompensating.
Guilt has a laugh track, and hers was on full volume.