I played it twice. The second time, I laughed. You love me? The way a vulture loves a dying animal, maybe.
I texted back coldly: "I already know where you are. I've seen everything. Enjoy your last night."
No reply. And that's when I started preparing.
That weekend, I moved out. I spent weeks quietly transferring essentials—documents, my laptop, heirlooms, everything that mattered—into a storage locker I paid for in cash. The apartment we once called home, it felt tainted, like the scent of her perfume had sunk into the walls. I left an envelope on the dining table. Inside: divorce papers, screenshots, a letter. It simply read: "I'm not the fool you thought I was. Leo."
Then I left—silent, controlled, no tears.
By Monday, she was back. I knew the second she walked into that empty apartment and saw the note. My phone rang immediately. I didn't answer. Then again, and again. I let her torment build.
At 3:15 p.m., she left a voice message, anger seeping through fake innocence: "Leo, this is cruel. You just left. You didn't even talk to me. You're being dramatic. Over nothing."
Nothing. The word made my blood boil.
I answered the next call. My voice was ice. "You lied to me for over a year, slept in my bed while loving another man. And now you want to tell me this is dramatic?"
She started crying—softly at first, then louder, manipulative. "I didn't mean for it to happen. You were always so distant lately. I felt alone. Chase... listen to me."
There was the switch: the part where she made me the villain in her story. I smiled, distant. "Lena, I worked late nights to pay for that spa you used to cheat on me."
Silence. Then she whispered, "So, this is it?"