After an entire day at the office, I still had no concrete answers.
Something felt off—like a crucial piece of the puzzle was missing, leaving an unbearable itch in my heart. Just as I was about to shut my laptop for the night, my phone screen lit up like a firefly flickering in the darkness.
Another anonymous message. My heart pounded as I clicked to open it.
This... this was exactly the missing piece I had been searching for! With this new information combined with my previous findings, I finally had enough proof—Lilly had stolen my father’s core technology!
But who was sending me these messages? Friend or foe? My mind raced with possibilities, thoughts spinning like an overheated CPU on the verge of burning out. At that moment, my phone rang. Without hesitation, I answered, my palms damp with anxiety.
The voice on the other end left me stunned. Tears welled up, spilling over like broken beads from a snapped string.
It was Uncle Larry, my father’s trusted friend. My father had entrusted him with something important, long before any of this unfolded. So, he had always suspected my stepmother and stepsisters? Of course. My father was no fool—he had seen the signs all along.
He had taken precautions, knowing something might happen to him. That’s why he had left vital evidence with Uncle Larry—proof that Lilly had stolen his core technology. If anything happened to him, Uncle Larry was to expose the truth.
And the anonymous video from before? That had been Uncle Larry’s doing as well. He had hired a private detective to gather evidence. A lifesaver in the middle of a storm.
I glanced at the countdown on my phone screen. The product launch was in two days. I needed to act fast. Those two traitors would pay for what they had done.
Suppressing my excitement, I pulled up the divorce papers and retyped every word, deliberate and unwavering, as though carving an oath of vengeance into stone. I packed my things and headed home, preparing for the final battle.
Just then, a message arrived from Peter—the man who had been absent all day.
[Jessie, are you off work yet? Lily was really hurt by what you did to her, she cried so much today. You don’t have to apologize, though. As her husband, I’ve already done that for you and stayed by her side all day.]
[Also, I was too harsh on you earlier. Should I come home tonight and make it up to you? I bought your favorite wontons. I’ll bring them back.]
I let out a cold chuckle and deleted the message. After everything, he still had the audacity to act like this? Did he think I was a three-year-old child? He could take his damn wontons and feed them to Lilly. I sat in the living room, waiting. From night to dawn. From hope to disappointment. But he never came home.
Instead, a message arrived from the private detective. A photograph.
In a dimly lit bar, beneath the flickering neon lights, Lilly clung to Peter like a snake coiling around its prey. He gazed down at her with such tenderness, his eyes overflowing with affection so sickening it could make one gag. What a disgusting display of so-called love.
The next morning, I woke up and methodically packed my belongings. What needed to be taken, I took. What needed to be discarded, I threw away. It was like cleaning up the remnants of a battlefield—leaving nothing behind.
Then, I called him.
The phone rang for a long time before he finally picked up. "Jessie? What’s wrong? Oh, right, Lily got drunk last night. I was worried about her, so I stayed to make sure she was okay. I’ll be home soon—we can have breakfast together, alright?" His voice was hoarse, with a hint of guilt, as if he had any right to feel that way.
I stared down at the divorce papers in my hands and sneered. "Are you her husband or her lover? And where are my wontons? Did you eat them yourself?"
"No, Jessie, please, listen to me. Don’t be mad. It’s not just about you hitting her—she’s been so upset, she begged me to stay with her—"
I hung up before he could finish. Every word out of his mouth was like salt on an open wound.
I picked up my pen and signed the divorce papers in one smooth stroke. The tip of the pen scraped against the paper with a sharp swish—a sound that declared the end of this farcical marriage. Without a single glance back, I took my bags and walked out the door. This time, for good.
