Thirty Days To Ruin My Cheating Husband

The master bedroom door swung open with a soft click that felt like a gunshot in the silence.

Evia Conway stepped inside, her silk robe whispering against the threshold, and froze. The iPad sat on her vanity, screen glowing, unlocked. Frederic never left it unlocked. Never. Her heart slammed against her ribs, a physical percussion she felt in her throat.

She moved toward it without deciding to move. Her fingers hovered above the glass, cold, trembling. The screen saver cycled. Arctic sky. Green ribbons of light dancing.

Then Frederic. Her husband. His arms wrapped around a blonde woman whose face was tilted up to his, lips parted, waiting. The Northern Lights painted their skin in sickly green.

Evia's breath stopped. Her lungs forgot how to work. She stared at the date stamp in the corner-last weekend. London, he'd said. Boring meetings. Rain.

Her stomach twisted, a visceral cramp that bent her forward. She gripped the vanity edge, knuckles white, and forced herself to breathe. In. Out. The air tasted like copper.

She swiped. More photos. The same woman. Different angles. A hotel room. White sheets. Frederic's watch on the nightstand, the one she'd given him for their first anniversary.

Evia's thumb found the screenshot buttons. The screen's edge flashed white with a soft shutter click, a digital confirmation of the captured betrayal. She almost dropped the device, both hands shooting out to cradle it like a bomb. She steadied it against her chest, feeling her own heartbeat hammering through the thin aluminum casing.

Her fingers moved. Encrypted cloud. Her private server. Upload. The progress bar crawled. She watched it with the intensity of someone defusing explosives. Done. She deleted the local send history, scrubbed the cache, cleared the temporary files. Her hands knew these motions. Muscle memory from a life she'd buried.

She set the iPad down exactly as she'd found it. Screen still glowing. Still unlocked. Still showing her husband's betrayal in high definition.

Evia turned. Her feet carried her to the walk-in closet, past rows of couture that suddenly looked like costumes. The safe sat behind her winter coats, a matte black rectangle built into the wall. She spun the dial. Not a birthday. Not an anniversary. She entered a string of numbers-the primary constant from the final equation in her master's thesis. A sequence meaningful only to her. Click.

The door popped open with a pneumatic sigh.

She pulled out a folder thick with paper. The prenuptial agreement. Her fingers flipped to page seventeen, the page she'd memorized in darker moments. The net worth clause. The infidelity exemption. The paragraph that would leave her with nothing if she filed without documented cause.

Her mouth curved. Not a smile. Something colder. She'd signed this at twenty-four, dizzy with love, convinced that Frederic McLaughlin IV was her future. Three years later, she was holding her insurance policy.

She tossed the folder back inside. Locked the safe. Spun the dial.

The bathroom tiles were ice against her bare feet. She