For two years, I thought Callum was the perfect guy. The kind of man you could trust, the kind who looked you in the eye when he said he loved you. And I believed him.

The only thing that ever made me uneasy? Renee.

She was his ex, but they were still close. Too close. Inside jokes, coffee dates, long conversations that went on too late into the night. I told myself it was nothing. I told myself I was just being insecure. After all, Callum was honest. No secrets. No lies.

Until one night, when he told me he had to work late.

I was at home, waiting for him, scrolling mindlessly through my phone when my best friend, Sarah, sent me a message. Thought you said Callum was at work?

Attached was a photo.

Callum. Renee. Shoulder to shoulder in a cozy café. His head tilted toward her, laughing at something she’d said. The kind of laugh he used to reserve just for me.

I stared at the image, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.

He had lied.

And in that moment, everything clicked.

All those times he reassured me, all those moments I convinced myself I was overthinking. I had spent two years playing the fool, believing he was just “friends” with his ex.

Rage hit me like a wave. But I wasn’t going to scream. I wasn’t going to cry. No, I wanted him to feel it.

So I waited.

When Callum finally came home, the scent of coffee and her perfume still clinging to his jacket, I was already sitting on the couch, calm, collected, my laptop balanced on my knees.

“Hey, babe,” he greeted, shrugging off his coat. “Long night. Work was brutal.”

I smiled. “Yeah? What did you work on?”

He hesitated for half a second before recovering. “Just some reports. Numbers, spreadsheets… you know how it is.”

I nodded. “Must’ve been exhausting. You should shower.”

I saw the relief in his eyes—relief that I hadn’t questioned him. That I had swallowed the lie.

But I had other plans.

That night, while he was asleep, I unlocked his phone. He never changed his password—I had memorized it long ago. Within minutes, I installed a tracking app, a simple one, hidden under an innocuous name. A backup plan.

If Callum wanted to play me for a fool, I was going to play the long game.

Over the next month, I became an investigator.

The app showed me his movements—his “late nights” were nothing but dates with Renee.

Texts popped up on his screen when he left it unattended. Miss you already. Wish we had more time today.

I started taking screenshots, compiling everything.

Then came the nights he came home smelling different, with vague excuses that barely made sense. I stopped asking questions. I didn’t need answers anymore—I had proof.

One night, I followed him myself. Parked down the street and watched as he met Renee outside a dimly lit bar. Watched as he touched her waist, leaned in close.

I took photos.

By the end of the month, I had enough evidence to destroy him.

On a quiet Friday evening, I made my move.

Callum came home like nothing was wrong. Tossed his keys on the counter, kissed my cheek, and flopped onto the couch like a man with no worries in the world.

“Busy day?” I asked.

He sighed. “Yeah. Just a lot of work.”

I smiled. “I bet.”

Then, I sent the email.

To his family. To our mutual friends. To his coworkers.

Subject line: The Truth About Callum.

Attached were screenshots of his texts, timestamps of his meetings with Renee, photos of their intimate moments together. The tracking history of his lies.

I watched as his phone buzzed on the table. Over and over. Message after message pouring in. Then, his mother’s number flashed on the screen. Then his sister’s.

He picked up, frowning. “Mom?”

I couldn’t hear her words, but I saw the color drain from his face.

Then he looked at me. “What did you do?”

I stood up, walked to the kitchen counter, and slid a manila envelope toward him.

“Your copy of the divorce papers,” I said.

His jaw dropped. “Divorce?” His voice cracked. “You—you don’t even want to talk about this?”

I laughed. A real laugh, the kind I hadn’t felt in months. “Oh, Callum. I’ve been talking. You just never listened.”

He scrambled, reaching for words, for excuses. But I was already done.

I grabbed my coat, my keys, and walked to the door.

“You should call Renee,” I said over my shoulder. “Looks like she’s all you’ve got left.”

And then, I left.

For the first time in two years, I walked away from the lies. And damn, it felt good.

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