The Hidden Camera Captured Everything

For seven years, I was the secret wife of Chandler Roberson, a rising political star. I sacrificed my own journalism career to be his "rock," the ghost in the background of his perfect life, always believing his promise that it was all for us.

That promise shattered the night he brought his mistress, Britni, to our home. She took one look at me, then threw herself down the stairs, letting out a theatrical scream.

"She pushed me!" she cried.

Chandler didn't hesitate. He slapped me across the face, his eyes blazing with a rage I'd never seen.

"You bitch! What did you do?!" he snarled, rushing to her side.

He cradled her in his arms, his face a mask of concern for her and pure hatred for me. He believed her instantly, ready to paint me as a violent, jealous monster to protect his affair and his career.

In that moment, watching him choose her, watching my life crumble under his cold, indifferent gaze, the woman who had loved him for twenty years died.

But then I was back. Reborn in that same moment, with the memory of his betrayal burning in my soul. And I remembered the one thing he'd forgotten: the hidden camera in the entryway, recording his perfect crime.

Chapter 1

Aurelia POV:

He told me my dreams were just silly girl fantasies, not real plans for a woman meant to stand by his side.

That was the first red flag, maybe, but I was too young and too in love to see it. Our families were practically entwined. Chandler Roberson. Even his name sounded important, destined for big things. We grew up in the same elite circles, our childhoods a blur of shared holidays and whispered secrets under polished mahogany tables. He was always the golden boy, charming everyone with that easy smile, even when he was doing something utterly wrong.

Like the time we were ten. We snuck into Mr. Henderson's private study. Chandler dared me to touch the ancient globe, the one his father always warned us about. I did, of course. Always the compliant one. My fingers traced the faded continents, an innocent curiosity. Then Chandler grabbed my hand, squeezing it, and pointed at the antique map on the wall. "See that red spot?" he whispered. "That's where the bad guys live. You can't trust anyone from there."

I didn't understand. Not really. I just felt a chill that had nothing to do with the draft from the window.

A few weeks later, my geography teacher, Mrs. Albright, showed a documentary about global cultures. One segment featured a vibrant, colorful festival in a country marked red on Mr. Henderson's map. I was fascinated. I blurted out, "Chandler said people from there are bad!"

The whole class went silent. Mrs. Albright looked at me with a pained expression. Later, she pulled me aside. She explained how hurtful such generalizations were, how it wasn't true. I felt a knot of shame in my stomach.

When