Kiss my feet

I used to think we were the definition of couple goals. You know-the annoying kind that finish each other's sentences, post mushy anniversary captions, and make single people gag. Yeah, that was us. My husband, the love of my life. My partner. My soulmate. My... lying, cheating bastard.

I walked in one night, still humming the song he sent me that morning, and found him busy. And by busy, I mean balls-deep in someone who clearly didn't know her right foundation shade.

I broke. Cried till I couldn't breathe. Because that was my man, my home, my whole damn world falling apart on our Egyptian cotton sheets.

But then I wiped my tears, looked at him-pathetic, naked, stammering-and realized something beautiful: heartbreak makes you dangerous.

He begged. Oh, he sobbed. Promised me the world, said it meant nothing, said I was everything. So I smiled and said, prove it.

And he did. Bought me cars, jewelry, houses-signed every last property in my name. My name, not ours. I let him grovel, let him believe forgiveness was for sale, and every time he kissed my feet, I made him dig his grave a little deeper.

Love made me soft. Betrayal made me rich.

And when I finally walked out, I didn't even slam the door. I just left him there-kneeling in the ruins of everything he thought he owned.