“Will do.” He paused. “Either this guy’s one in a million or you’re a psychotic bitch.”

I smile. “Or both.”

“Yeah. Or both.” There was a pause where we didn’t know what to say. Then, “Night.”

“Night.”

I logged into the security program of my downtown condo, a three thousand square foot palace I rarely set foot into. Started the download of the evening’s files while I called Don, the PI who had trailed the couple all evening.

He answered with a yawn. “I’m downloading the images now.”

“Got anything good?”

“A few you’ll like. I’ll email them to you within the hour.”

“The sooner the better.”

I ended the call, clicked on the downloaded security cam file, and sat down to watch Marcus’s failure.

He had tried, that was for sure. Done everything right. Hadn’t chased, had let her come to him. Been aloof, yet sexual. Hadn’t bragged about the condo, let her ooh and ahh over the place. When she had crawled onto his lap he had fisted her hair in his hands, ground her hips into him enough to let her see his arousal and show her his equipment. They had kissed… she had wanted… they had been close. I could see the moment he lost. The moment her brain and guilt had kicked into action. The pull away, the shaking head, a hand pushing against his chest. Then, her movement into a chair. Crying. Hugging her body and rocking and all sorts of ohmygodwhathaveIdone drama. Marcus had stood awkwardly, at one point glancing toward a ceiling cam with a grimace. Then he sat next to her. Pulled her into his arms and smoothed the top of her hair. Let her cry into his chest until she calmed.

Ugh. Why couldn’t she have been a normal twenty-one-year-old drunk girl who succumbed to the sexy doctor with the big c**k and fancy home? She was dating a yard boy for heaven’s sake, one who was flighty and irresponsible and MIA half the time. This should have been easy; I should have won. Good thing I didn’t need her mistake. I only needed the illusion of one.

I restarted the footage and watched again, taking screenshots of the moments that mattered. Then, I reviewed them all, confidence feeding through me. Yes. I had enough. And that was without even seeing Don’s images.

I sent an email to my graphic designer, attaching the images. Don’s email popped up and I forwarded that also. The designer would know what to do, which ones to pick. Would have a proof ready for me by Saturday morning. The same morning Brant and I would leave for Hawaii. I’d review the proof, then fly to the island. Give the boys a week to work and have everything set up by the time I returned. I closed my laptop and waddled to the bathroom. Unwrapped my feet and rinsed off the moisture mask.

Then I crawled into bed with a content heart and feet that smelled of cucumber.

Soon. Soon, everything would be fixed. Soon, Lee would be fully mine.

The weapon of my plan—the newspaper proof—was beautiful. I scrolled down the long image, checking the title, date, side copy that framed either side of our deceit. All legitimate. All accurate. Should she feel the need to check on the publication, she’d find what she should. What I’ve placed in easy reach for her hands. The center of the page, the main event, right under the headline, that was the beauty of the proof. In giant letters across the top:

AREA SURGEON’S WIFE FILES FOR DIVORCE AMID CHEATING SCANDAL

Photos. Crisp black and whites, one a respectable newspaper wouldn’t print but in this lie, spoke louder than any words ever could:

Molly and Marcus. At the Ginger. His hand on her leg, his mouth to her ear, a smile I’d seen her use with Lee screaming from the page, her features easily recognizable.

Molly and Marcus. In his car, her mouth on his, the press of her hand silhouetted in the window.

Molly and Marcus. In my living room. On my couch. The zoomed-in photo only showed her bare back, leaning over him, his eyes burning up at her.

Molly and Marcus. My favorite. His hands digging into her back, her mouth at his neck, his head back, eyes closed. The crop made it look like he was inside her, getting the ride of his life, no person would believe anything differently.

The copy was short, beneath the photos, a paragraph that no eyes would ever see except for the ones that mattered.

One of our city’s most respected cardiologists received divorce papers today in what could be the ending of a five-year union. The good doctor, whose wife has had him under surveillance after past incidents of cheating, was captured in the following incriminating photos with an unidentified young woman. No word yet on how long their dalliance has been going on. The majority of the photos received were inappropriate to print. For questions and comments, please email Don Insit at [email protected] or call 213-323-9811.

The page looked stunning, the photos leapt from it in a manner that you couldn’t help but stare. He would stare. She would stare. He would accuse. She would object or confess. And either way, they would be done. I replied to the email, approving the work, then called Don. Gushed my thanks and verified the plan. He’d print two copies of the full-length newspaper spread. Next week I’d replace the day’s cover sheet with this one. Stick it on her front step with a nasty note, in a place that Lee would be sure to see it. Let them both pour over the photos together. Then stand back, and reap the rewards of my labor.

Flawless. Intelligent. I gave myself an awkward pat on the back and hung up with Don. Then I moved, yanking out a bag, and pulling open drawers. Wheels up in two hours, but I didn’t need to pack much. Our Hawaiian closets were full, the bathrooms and kitchens stocked by a staff expecting our arrival. My toothbrush and laptop, not much else was needed. I threw a few paperbacks in my bag, along with a new lingerie set Brant hadn’t yet seen. I texted Jillian to make sure Brant was around and ready, then I headed for the shower.