Without hesitation, I grabbed the car keys and slipped out into the night.
I didn’t know exactly what I was going to do.
I just knew I wasn’t going to sit in that house, quietly stewing, while my husband played cabana king with his ex on my dime.
The drive to the resort took three hours. I didn’t even feel the time. I was too busy imagining every lie he’d ever told me unraveling in real time.
As I pulled into the circular driveway of the resort, my heart thudded. This place looked like a postcard — palm trees, glass towers, staff in linen uniforms offering drinks before you even set your bag down.
I walked straight to the front desk.
“Hi, I need to speak to someone about a reservation under Steve Mallory.”
The woman behind the desk smiled politely and tapped away on her keyboard.
“Ah yes, Mr. Mallory — checked in three nights ago. He and his… guest should be by the pool.”
His guest.
My fists clenched so tight I could feel my pulse in my palms.
