I almost clapped.
"I'm sorry," I said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "I didn't realize loyalty was something you canceled when the Wi-Fi got slow."
She glared, but I didn't stop.
"You felt neglected, so your solution was to play Twister with your boss. Genius. What's next? Rob a bank because you felt underpaid?"
She rolled her eyes.
"You're being childish."
"Childish?" I laughed. "No. Childish is eating cookies before dinner. I'm being factual."
I walked over to the counter, poured her a cup of coffee, black, no sugar, and carried it back, setting it down with a smile so polite it should have been illegal.
"Here," I said. "Your morning dose of consequences."
She stared at the cup like it might bite her.
"What's your problem?"
"Belinda," I said, leaning on the doorframe, "my problem is I used to think we were a team. Turns out I was playing basketball while you were interviewing for the other side's cheer squad."
Her lip trembled for half a second.
Then she recovered, grabbed the cup, and took a sip just to prove a point.
I swear the bitterness hit her soul.
She set it down fast.
"You're being dramatic."
"No," I said. "I'm being honest. You should try it. I hear it's trending this season."
For a long moment, we just stared at each other.
The kind of silence that doesn't need words because the air is already screaming.
She tried to hold my gaze, but guilt is heavy.
Eventually, she looked away.
"I made a mistake," she whispered.
I tilted my head.
"Just one? Because that's not how you described it last night."
That one landed.
Her shoulders tensed and she started fiddling with the blanket again.
"Can we not do this first thing in the morning?"
"Oh, sorry," I said, mock apologetic. "I didn't realize betrayal had office hours."
She scowled.
"You're an ass."
"Thank you," I said, sipping again. "Took years of marriage to earn that title."
She swung her legs out of bed, clearly done with my entire existence.
"I don't have time for this," she muttered, heading toward the bathroom.
"Of course not," I said. "You've got to get to work. Wouldn't want to keep your boss waiting."
Her hand froze on the door handle.
Bingo.
She turned around, fire in her eyes.
"You're not funny."
"Oh, I disagree," I said, grinning. "I'm hilarious. You just lost your sense of humor around the same time you lost your moral compass."
She disappeared into the bathroom, slamming the door.
The sound echoed through the house, but it didn't shake me.
I felt good.
Not healed, not happy, but powerful.
Like a man who'd stopped drowning and realized he could stand up in the water the whole time.
I went to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and laughed when I saw her meal-prepped lunches neatly stacked on the top shelf.
All those color-coded containers for a woman who couldn't organize her conscience.
I pulled one out, labeled Tuesday Tuna Salad, and fed it to Milo, who wagged his tail like he had just inherited wealth.
"Enjoy it, buddy," I said. "You're eating guilt-free."
The rest of the morning was quiet.
Too quiet.
She got dressed in silence, doing that thing where she pretends to be mad to cover up being caught.
Every move she made screamed, "I'm the victim here."
She grabbed her purse, avoided eye contact, and headed for the door.
"Hey," I said as she reached for the handle.
She paused.
"What?"
"You forgot something."