The Betrayed Wife's Spectacular Sweet Revenge

Alia pushed open the frosted glass door of her office at Legatum Designs. The heavy glass clicked shut behind her, cutting off the hum of the architectural firm.

She looked down at her phone. The screen lit up with an anonymous text message.

She swiped her thumb across the glass. A high-definition photograph filled the screen.

It was Jerel. He was standing outside a high-end restaurant in Greenwich Village. His arm was wrapped tightly around the waist of a blonde woman.

A heavy, sour block of nausea hit the bottom of Alia's stomach. The saliva in her mouth turned metallic. She swallowed hard, forcing the bile back down her throat.

Her fingers clamped around the edges of the phone. The metal casing dug into her skin.

A second message chimed. It was an ultrasound photo. The text beneath it read: He's finally going to be a real father.

Alia did not drop the phone. She did not scream. Her chest stopped moving as her lungs held the stale office air.

She tapped the screen, syncing the screenshots directly to her encrypted cloud drive. If the sender tried to unsend the messages, the files were already locked away.

She grabbed her trench coat from the back of her chair. She snatched her car keys from the desk.

She walked out of the office. Her assistant, Nina, stood up from her cubicle, holding a tablet.

"Ms. Garner, your dinner meeting with-"

Alia walked right past her. She pushed the elevator button and stared at the metal doors until they opened.

The Manhattan evening traffic was a gridlock of red taillights and blaring horns. Alia sat in her car, both hands gripping the leather steering wheel. Her knuckles were stark white against the dark interior.

Her brain played a loop of that morning. Jerel standing in the hallway, adjusting his tie. He had leaned in, kissed her forehead, and told her to have a good day at work.

Her jaw locked. The muscles in her neck pulled tight, sending a dull ache into the base of her skull.

She navigated the car down the narrow streets of Greenwich Village. She pulled up across the street from the restaurant. She ignored the valet stand and parked the car in the deep shadow of a closed boutique.

She rolled down her window. The crisp, cold autumn air rushed into the heated cabin. It hit her face, forcing her eyes to stay open and alert.

She looked across the street. The restaurant had massive floor-to-ceiling windows.

She found them immediately. They were sitting at a VIP table right against the glass.

Jerel was wearing the custom navy suit she had bought for his birthday last week. He leaned across the table. He picked up the blonde woman's hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles.

Alia recognized the woman. Tiffany. A junior partner at Jerel's law firm. They had clinked glasses at the firm's holiday party last December.

Alia picked up her phone. She opened the