"Of course," I said deadpan. "Divorce is just emotional rebranding. I'm pivoting."
He laughed so hard he almost spilled salsa on my keyboard.
"You're serious."
"Completely. I'm done crying. I'm spreadsheeting my feelings."
He gave me a look that said, You've lost it, but I respect it.
Then he started coding.
"I can set up two-step verification for everything. Want me to block her devices from logging in?"
"Absolutely," I said. "If she wants Wi-Fi, she can ask her boss for the password."
While he typed, I scrolled through her Instagram out of morbid curiosity.
New post.
A flat lay of coffee, croissant, and a caption that read, "Self-care isn't selfish."
I laughed so loud Milo barked.
"Self-care? Girl, you're the reason therapists have job security."
Tar leaned over.
"Oh, she posted? Let me see."
He looked at the photo, squinted, and said, "Bro, that's the same bracelet you bought her for your anniversary."
I stared.
"Oh my God. She accessorized infidelity."
"Want to hack her account?" he asked casually.
I grinned.
"Tempting. But no. We're not playing dirty. We're playing smart."
"Right," he said. "Smart revenge. Got it."
For the next few hours, we worked like accountants on caffeine and spite.
We backed up every financial document, cross-referenced property deeds, even took screenshots of her online purchases because nothing says betrayal like buying lingerie during a recession.
By sunset, I had a color-coded system that could have impressed the IRS.
Green meant secured.
Yellow meant pending.
Red meant lawyer time.
I sat back, exhausted but proud.
"It's beautiful," I said, staring at the screen like Michelangelo admiring the Sistine Chapel.
Tar nodded.
"You've officially weaponized Excel."
"Heartbreak requires structure," I said.
He laughed.
"Man, you're going to turn this into a TED Talk. Title: How to Monetize Betrayal, a Journey in Conditional Formatting."
We clinked our coffee mugs in a toast.
That night, after Tar left, I sat alone with my masterpiece of a spreadsheet glowing softly on the screen.
Each cell represented control, closure, and a little bit of vengeance.
I even added a note at the bottom that read:
She thought I'd crumble. Joke's on her. I calculate.
I printed a copy for safekeeping, slipped it into a folder, and placed it in the drawer next to our marriage certificate, which now felt like a warranty that had expired early.
Then, just for fun, I opened the bank app again.
Her latest transaction popped up.
$87.50.
Wine Loft Bar and Lounge.
I smiled.
"Oh, you're still at it."
I didn't feel jealous.
Not even mad.
Just strategic.
Because if she thought she was the only one capable of surprises, she clearly never met me.
Midnight motivation.
I started researching divorce attorneys and landed on a name that sounded like she charged by the ounce of confidence.
Mrs. Delgado, Esq.
Her website tagline read:
Don't get even. Get everything.
I bookmarked it, poured another drink, and leaned back in my chair, feeling something close to peace.
Revenge wasn't chaos.