Two days later, I was in a different office, this time with a private investigator. The folder he handed me was thick with surveillance photos, call logs, and even more messages—all pointing to an affair that was both recent and ongoing. The investigator, a man in his 40s with a calm presence, laid everything out with methodical precision. “This is what you wanted,” he said, sliding a particularly damning photo across the table. It was taken just last weekend, Ben and Anna at a café, their embrace more intimate than any friendship could justify. “Thank you,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. The weight of reality began to settle in.
The next step was clear, but the path felt daunting. I knew confronting him would ignite a firestorm, but it was a confrontation I couldn’t avoid. I needed to talk to Anna, too, to hear what she had to say, although I suspected her words would only confirm what the evidence already told me.
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