At 2 AM, my husband secretly packed his luggage and slipped out of our bedroom like a thief. Thirty minutes later, he sent me a photo of himself and his mistress at the airport

darkness like a blade leaving its sheath.

I remained motionless on my side of the bed, my eyes barely open, listening as my husband, Victor Langley, hurried carefully around our walk-in closet like a nervous thief. He believed the sleeping pills he had ground into my tea had taken effect.

They had not.

I had exchanged our cups.

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