The Perfect Revenge on my Ex Husband.

My hands won't stop shaking as I stare at my phone, reading the message from Victoria for the twentieth time. The words blur but I know them by heart now "I never meant for any of this to happen. But I'm pregnant. It's Martins'. I know saying sorry means nothing, but I am. God, Shirley, I am so sorry." Twelve years of friendship. Countless wine nights, shoulder-to-shoulder on my couch, sharing secrets and dreams. Victoria held me through three miscarriages, brought me soup when I couldn't get out of bed, swore she'd be there when I finally had my rainbow baby. And now she's carrying my husband's child. The front door opens downstairs, followed by the familiar thud of Martins' briefcase hitting the hardwood. My wedding ring feels like it's burning my finger. Each step on the stairs sends another crack through my heart. "Shir?" His voice carries that honey-sweet tone he uses when he's hiding something. "Your car's in the driveway early. I tried calling—" He appears in the doorway, loosening his tie. "Jesus, why are you sitting in the dark?" I don't move from my perch on our bed – the same bed where we made love this morning, where he kissed me goodbye and said he'd be home for dinner. "Did you know she was going to tell me today?" "What?" There's a slight tremor in his voice. Anyone else would miss it, but I've spent eight years learning every note of his lies. "Don't." The word comes out like broken glass. "Don't you dare pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. Victoria just sent me a very interesting message." I lift my phone, its glow illuminating his rapidly paling face. "Want me to read it to you?" He takes a step forward. "Shirley, let me explain—" "Explain?" I launch off the bed, phone clutched like a weapon. "What exactly are you going to explain, Martins? How you managed to knock up my best friend? Or maybe how long you've been f*****g her behind my back?" "It's not that simple—" "Oh, I think it is." I bark out a laugh that sounds more like a sob. "See, while I was tracking ovulation and taking my temperature and crying over negative pregnancy tests, you were busy starting a family with someone else. Someone who was supposed to be my friend." My voice cracks. "Someone who held my hand at every doctor's appointment, who promised she'd be there when we finally had our miracle baby." "You're making it sound worse than it is." He runs both hands through his hair – a nervous tell I used to find endearing. "Victoria and I... it just happened. We never planned—" "Never planned?" I grab the closest thing – our wedding photo – and hurl it at his head. He ducks, and it shatters against the wall. "Did you never plan it the first time you slept with her? Or the tenth? Or were you just not planning on getting caught?" "For f**k's sake, Shirley!" His composure finally cracks. "What do you want me to say? That I'm a bastard? Fine, I'm a bastard! But you weren't exactly making things easy. Do you have any idea what it's like living with someone who's turned into a walking fertility calendar?" The words hit like a physical blow. "So this is my fault? Because I wanted a family with you? Because I wanted your child?" "No, that's not—" He steps toward me, hands raised. "Look, we can fix this. We'll get counseling, start fresh—" "Start fresh?" Another laugh bubbles up, bitter as poison. "While I watch Victoria's stomach grow with your baby? While I see everything I ever wanted happening for the woman who betrayed me?" I advance on him, and he retreats a step. "Tell me something, Martins. All those times you held me while I cried over negative tests, were you thinking about her? When I lost our last baby, were you already planning your perfect little family with Victoria?" "It wasn't like that!" His back hits the doorframe. "We never meant to hurt you. It just... everything with you became about having a baby. Every conversation, every touch – it was all about making a child. I felt like I was failing you, like I wasn't enough—" "So you decided to prove it?" I snatch another frame from the dresser. "Get out." "What?" "Get. Out." Each word drips with venom. "Get out before I demonstrate exactly what good aim all those fertility tracking apps have given me." He backs into the hallway. "You're hysterical. We should talk about this when you've calmed down—" "Hysterical?" I follow him toward the stairs, frame raised like a shield. "You want to see hysterical? Let's talk about every late night at the office. Every business trip. Every time Victoria cancelled our lunch dates because she wasn't feeling well." My voice rises with each step he takes down the stairs. "Did you laugh about it together? Poor, desperate Shirley, so focused on making a baby she couldn't see her husband f*****g her best friend?" "Jesus Christ, stop it!" He grabs his keys from the entry table, fingers fumbling. "You're twisting everything. Victoria and I – we care about you. We never wanted this to happen." "But it did happen, didn't it?" I advance until he's backed against the front door. "Tell me one thing, Martins. Just one thing." I wait until his eyes meet mine. "How long?" He swallows hard. "Shirley—" "How. Long?" The silence stretches between us like a chasm. Finally, he whispers, "Since the last miscarriage." The frame slips from my numb fingers, glass shattering at our feet. "Fourteen months." My voice sounds far away. "You've been sleeping with her for fourteen months. While I was grieving our child, you were making one with her." "I'm sorry." He reaches for me, but I step back. "God, Shirley, I'm so sorry." "Get out." The words come out dead calm. "Get out of my house. Get out of my life." I meet his eyes one last time. "And Martins? You better hope I never find out anything else about your little affair. Because next time, I won't aim at the wall." He opens his mouth, closes it, then turns and walks out. I slam the door so hard the windows rattle, then slide down to the floor. Through the glass, I watch his car pull out of the driveway and disappear into the gathering dusk. Only then do I let the tears fall. But they're not tears of grief. As I sit there, surrounded by broken glass and shattered memories, all I feel is rage. Pure, uncontrollable rage. And underneath it, something colder taking root. This isn't over. Not by a long shot. My hands have stopped shaking as I pull out my phone again. This time, I type a name I've heard Martins mention only once, in the depths of a nightmare: Dominic Rodriguez. His half-brother. The man whose very name makes Martins break into a cold sweat. If Martins wants to destroy my life, I'll return the favor. And I know exactly where to start. I press search, and Moonstown's shadows beckon.