My Wife Wrote: “At The Bar With Colleagues.” But I Was Sitting Right Behind Her. I Shouted: “With… скачать в хорошем качестве

My Wife Wrote: “At The Bar With Colleagues.” But I Was Sitting Right Behind Her. I Shouted: “With…

My Wife Wrote: “At The Bar With Colleagues.” But I Was Sitting Right Behind Her. I Shouted: “With… Alex Garrison’s marriage was like his old Subaru—full of warning lights that he kept ignoring, hoping they would somehow fix themselves. Forty-one, a logistics manager at Henderson Warehouse, Alex thought he had a handle on life—until he realized he was the last person in Chicago to notice his wife Marissa’s betrayal. The first unmistakable warning came on a Tuesday in October. Marissa was supposed to be home by six-thirty, but her text arrived at seven-fifteen: “Running late, brainstorming session with colleagues. Don’t wait up.” Colleagues. The word tasted like poison in Alex’s mouth. He was heating leftover pizza when his sixteen-year-old daughter, Emma, walked into the kitchen wearing that look—the one that said she knew something he didn’t. “Dad, you know Mom’s been staying late a lot lately, right?” she asked. “She’s got that big campaign for Morrison Industries. Lots of pressure,” Alex replied, forcing calm into his voice. Emma grabbed a slice of pizza and leaned against the counter. “Yeah, but like, every night? And she bought new underwear last week—the fancy kind from that expensive place downtown.” Alex felt his stomach drop. He forced a laugh. “Maybe she just wanted to feel good about herself.” “Dad,” Emma’s voice was gentle but firm. “Mom doesn’t buy lingerie for herself. She buys it for other people to see.” Out of the mouths of babes. His daughter had more sense than he did. That night, Alex lay awake until Marissa returned at eleven-forty-three. She smelled of expensive cologne—not his—and claimed she’d grabbed dinner with the team after their meeting. “How’s the Morrison campaign going?” he asked, careful, controlled. “Great. Really great. Dean thinks we might land the whole account,” she said casually. Dean. Dean Carter—her supposed colleague. Forty-four, divorced, BMW driver, smarmy smile that made Alex want to punch something.