This was about clarity.
About seeing the truth without the fog of love and denial.
For months, I'd been living in her version of reality, a place where lies were misunderstandings and guilt was stress.
But not anymore.
Now I had facts.
Facts that didn't need permission to exist.
Before heading to bed, I tucked the binder neatly into a briefcase and placed it by the door, ready for my morning meeting with Mrs. Delgado.
The house was dark and still.
The only sound was Milo's gentle snoring.
I took one last look at the table, now empty again, and whispered, "That's it. Story collected. Exhibit complete."
I turned off the light, heading upstairs.
On the way, I passed the closed bedroom door.
She was in there, sleeping peacefully, unaware that her world was about to implode.
Part of me wanted to feel pity.
But mostly I felt satisfaction.
When I climbed into bed on the couch, my new preferred sleeping spot, I smiled.
Tomorrow, she'd wake up to the sound of consequences knocking.
And I'd be sitting there, coffee in hand, ready to watch the show.
Morning arrived like a knockoff apology.
Bright, loud, and way too soon.
I barely slept.
Half because my couch has the personality of a cinder block, and half because I couldn't stop imagining the look on Belinda's face when she realized karma was a morning person.
I got up early, showered, shaved, and brewed a pot of coffee strong enough to dissolve regret.
It was D-Day.
Deliverance Day.
Everything was in place.
The binder labeled Exhibit Belinda: Season Finale.
The sealed envelope sitting prettily on the kitchen counter.
And my breakfast plan.
If revenge had a smell, it'd be maple syrup and poetic justice.
I plated pancakes.
Three of them.
Perfectly circular.
Golden.
Heart-shaped, because symbolism is important.
I even drizzled a little extra syrup in the shape of a question mark.
Presentation matters when you're serving karma.
At 7:42 a.m., I heard the bedroom door creak open.
She emerged wearing one of my T-shirts again, acting like domestic bliss hadn't filed for bankruptcy.
Her hair was messy.
Her eyes half closed.
"Mmm," she mumbled, stretching. "Something smells good."
"Oh yeah," I said, flipping a pancake. "Something does."
She smiled.
The same soft, manipulative smile that once could have convinced me the world was fine.
"Coffee's on the table," I said. "And something else, too."
She padded toward the table, still half asleep, humming.
She saw the plate of pancakes and the envelope beside it.
And for a brief, glorious second, she probably thought I was being sweet.
That maybe after everything, she'd won.
That maybe I'd forgiven her.
The universe was about to clarify.
She sat, tore open the envelope, and started reading.
Inside was a single note, typed neatly, professionally, with all the warmth of an HR memo.
Congratulations. You've been promoted to single.
P.S. The car is repossessed, rent is due, and your boss can't expense heartbreak.
Love always,