When we arrived that weekend, the lake glistened under the morning sun—peaceful, serene… deceiving.
Luther acted like nothing was wrong, unloading bags and humming like a man without a care in the world. I watched him walk into the living room, the same place he’d once caressed another woman on my grandmother’s cherished couch.
Then he froze.
On the coffee table sat two glasses of wine… and a printed photo.
It was a still from the security footage—him, holding her hand, his face turned to the camera.
He turned, pale and stammering. “Wh-what is this?”
I smiled, calm as ever. “Oh, just a souvenir. For your memory. Since this place is so *special* to you.”
He tried to deny it, to explain—but I wasn’t done. I handed him a folder—divorce papers, notarized and ready. “You brought a stranger into my sanctuary, Luther. Now you’ve lost both your wife and the privilege of stepping foot in it again.”
And just like that, I walked away—while he stood there, ruined in the one place he thought was his escape.
**Lesson:**
Never underestimate the quiet ones. Betrayal burns bridges, but karma rebuilds them—just long enough for the guilty to fall through.
