Chapter 6: The Other Man

I remembered the guy’s license plate from last night. I’d always had a knack for details—a habit from too many late nights watching Dateline and scrolling Reddit threads. Plus, his daughter was taking dance lessons from my girlfriend. It wasn’t hard to figure out who he was.

The bastard’s name is David Collins. He’s a deputy general manager at some company’s branch, drives a luxury car, lives in a gated community. I found his LinkedIn profile in minutes, saw the family photos he posted from Disney World.

A typical suburban big shot.

Ever since his wife got pregnant with their second kid, he’s been taking his daughter to these extracurricular classes whenever he’s free. The wife posts bump photos, proud and glowing, while he’s sneaking around after hours.

So, over time, he got close to my girlfriend. Too close.

I paid someone to tail him for a few days. Turned out, not only was he still tangled up with his ex, but he’d also hit up a massage parlor at least twice. I got the receipts, literally—photos, timestamps, proof he was a dirtbag through and through.

What a piece of work. His wife’s pregnant and he still can’t keep it in his pants. It made me sick to my stomach.

I collected all the chat records between him and my girlfriend, photos of him dining with his ex, and proof of his massage parlor visits. Then I managed to get his wife’s phone number. All the evidence stacked up in a folder on my desktop, waiting for the right moment.

I was going to send everything straight to his wife. Blow it all up, let the truth come out. But after thinking it over, that might not get the best result. Revenge is a dish best served cold, right?

Now that I have this dirt on him, if I want to take him down, I need to make sure he’s ruined for good. I started plotting, thinking about every angle, every way he could try to wriggle out of this mess.

As for my girlfriend, she acted like she was in love. Living with me every day, but always staring at her phone and smiling. Treating me like I’m blind, like I’m just a piece of furniture in her life.

Not only that, her clothes got skimpier and she came home later and later. I mentioned it once, told her to be careful in front of her students, but she said I was old-fashioned and boring. She rolled her eyes, like I was some out-of-touch dad.

Fine, I’m boring. That scumbag’s got style. Maybe I should start wearing Italian shoes and buying fake Rolexes too.

I only found out later that the new bags and perfumes she suddenly had weren’t bought off Amazon like she claimed—they were all gifts from that bastard. She flaunted them on Instagram, tagging #blessed, and I swallowed the lie every time.

The two of them even planned a trip to a private hot spring. Something fancy, something secret. My girlfriend used her old trick again, using her best friend as an excuse. She gave me the same story she always did—‘girls’ night out, you know how it is.’

I played the part of the devoted boyfriend, even told her to have fun and to call me if she needed a ride home. I smiled through gritted teeth, my chest tight with resentment.

As soon as she left, I secretly followed her. I waited until she got into his car, then trailed behind at a safe distance, just like those late-night PI shows. My hands were sweaty on the wheel, my mind burning with questions.