I took out my phone, opened the camera app, and started recording.
Photos, videos, timestamps.
Each one labeled in my notes like Netflix episodes.
Episode One: Corporate Affairs.
Episode Two: The Bonus She Didn't Earn.
Episode Three: HR's Worst Nightmare.
I zoomed in just as he leaned closer, his hand brushing her thigh.
I swear I could hear the distant sound of karma warming up its engines.
At one point, she whispered something into his ear, and he laughed so hard he almost spilled his drink.
I didn't know what she said, but it was probably something poetic like, "My husband still thinks meetings end after 5."
My drink arrived.
I raised a glass in a mock toast to myself.
"Here's to loyalty," I muttered, taking a sip.
It tasted like lies and lime.
I watched them for an hour.
One hour of handholding, whispering, and touching that made me want to Clorox my memory.
Around 9:15, they finally stood up.
She adjusted her dress.
He adjusted his ego.
And they headed out.
I paid the bill, left a generous tip because I'm petty, not cheap, and followed them at a safe distance.
They didn't go back to the office.
They didn't even pretend to.
Instead, they went straight to the parking garage next door, where I caught them kissing under a flickering light.
It looked less like romance and more like an HR complaint waiting to happen.
I recorded everything.
Every kiss, every touch, every bad decision illuminated by that one stubborn fluorescent bulb.
And as I filmed, I didn't feel heartbreak.
I felt documentation.
When they finally drove off in separate cars, I sat in the rental staring at my phone screen.
It was all there.
Proof that could silence any courtroom dramatics.
I exhaled, leaned back, and said to myself, "You just turned pain into evidence. Congratulations. You're officially your own private investigator."
Back home, I called Tar.
He picked up on the second ring, already chewing something.
"You alive?"
"Oh, I'm better than alive," I said. "I'm productive."
He laughed.
"That sounds dangerous. What did you do?"
"I have footage," I said. "Video, timestamps, everything. It's like Discovery Channel for idiots in love."
"No way. You followed her?"
"Of course," I said. "I'm not stalking. I'm collecting data for research."
He whistled.
"Man, I should have brought popcorn. Want me to edit it?"
I grinned.
"You read my mind. Add subtitles and maybe some dramatic music. Something classy, like 'Another One Bites the Dust.'"
"Got you," he said. "You want transitions or straight cuts?"
"Transitions," I said. "This betrayal deserves smooth fades."
He cackled.
"You're insane. I love it."
While Tar worked his editing magic, I went to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of whiskey.
Not out of sadness.
Out of celebration.
It's not every day you catch betrayal in 4K.
The next morning, I woke up to a notification.
Video file: Corporate Affairs Final Cut.mp4.
Tar had delivered.