Not because of her, because of what she'd just given me.
Clarity, motivation, and the rarest gift of all, a clean break disguised as betrayal.
And right before sleep took over, I thought about how tomorrow would go.
She'd probably wake up pretending nothing happened.
Maybe she'd make coffee.
Maybe she'd try to act normal.
But I knew better.
The moment she confessed, she set off a countdown she didn't even know existed.
Day one of Operation Bye-Bye Belinda had officially begun.
And damn, it was going to be beautiful.
Morning sunlight used to mean something peaceful.
Fresh starts, new chances, the smell of coffee, the illusion that life wasn't a complete circus.
Not today.
The sunlight crawling through my blinds felt judgmental, like even nature was in on the gossip.
I woke up on the couch, neck sore, dignity bruised, and the faint echo of last night's "I slept with my boss" still buzzing like a mosquito in my skull.
You know what's funny?
Betrayal doesn't wake you up with a slap.
It wakes you up with clarity and a cramp.
I rolled over, groaned, and checked the clock.
7:13 a.m.
I had exactly 47 minutes before she emerged from the bedroom pretending life was normal.
So I did what any emotionally stable, freshly betrayed husband would do.
I made coffee strong enough to file for divorce on its own.
The sound of the coffee maker sputtering filled the kitchen.
That smell, normally my favorite, hit differently.
This wasn't comfort.
This was caffeine for war.
I stood there in my boxers and an old T-shirt that said, "World's Best Husband."
The irony stung.
Then I heard it.
Her voice.
That familiar, casual tone like she hadn't detonated my evening 12 hours earlier.
"Coffee, please," she called out, stretching her syllables like I was her personal barista in this emotional Starbucks we apparently lived in.
Usually, I'd bring it to her with foam art, maybe a dumb heart shape on top, because I used to believe in trying.
I'd even drop a kiss on her forehead like an idiot who thought loyalty was a team sport.
Not today.
Today, I stood in the doorway sipping my own cup, smiling like a man who'd just discovered the Wi-Fi password to freedom.
She looked at me from the bed, hair messy, face unbothered, like betrayal was part of her skincare routine.
"Coffee?" she asked again, impatient.
"Oh," I said, tilting my head. "You mean the one-night-stand special? Comes black, bitter, and served cold."
The way her eyes blinked once, twice, confusion blooming like a bad rash, was pure art.
She actually had the nerve to look offended.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
I took another slow sip because timing matters in these things.
"I think you know, Belinda. Unless amnesia was part of the pillow talk."
She frowned, sitting up, clutching the blanket like it could hide her shame.
"You're still mad about last night?"
I raised an eyebrow.
"Still? You confessed to cheating, bragged you'd do it again, and went to bed like you just finished reading a bedtime story. So yeah, 'still' might be understating it."
She huffed, brushing her hair back.
"I was drunk."
"Right," I said, nodding. "Because tequila makes you honest, not creative. You didn't invent that story. You just lost the ability to filter it."
For a second, she looked guilty.
Then, like clockwork, came the deflection.
"You've been distant lately. Always working. You made me feel neglected."
Ah, there it was.
The classic villain monologue.
You made me cheat.