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I knew, without even looking, that people took out their phones and recorded the entire thing.
I knew, without a doubt, that my life had taken the sharpest turn of all. Yet I gave in to Angelo, knowing somehow that it needed to happen.
I was cheating on my husband.
Who wanted to ruin my family.
Who didn’t want our baby.
Who kept secrets from me.
I was cheating on my husband.
Who offered me everything he owned but his heart.
Who kissed me soft.
And fought me hard.
I was cheating on my husband.
After my father killed his family.
And there was no going back.
Our lips disconnected, and Angelo took my hand in his, tugging me back toward the school.
“Whatever it is, we’ll make it. You know that, right?”
“I know that.”
I turned my head around one last time to see if there was something I’d missed, and sure enough, there was.
While Wolfe wasn’t there, Kristen sure was, tucked inside a parked car, recording the whole thing.
I cheated on my husband, Wolfe Keaton.
The end.
WOLFE
She’s been fucking him the whole time.
They’re in a hotel in Buffalo Grove now, FYI.
Might wanna make sure she takes a shower before you dip into it tonight.
I hope you know what it looks like to the media, Senator Keaton. You’re officially the joke of the state.
I’d read Kristen’s text messages until my eyes nearly bled. They were accompanied by pictures. Or rather, evidence.
Evidence I couldn’t overlook since Twitter and Instagram burst with the same images from a hundred different angles of my wife, Mrs. Francesca Keaton, kissing her former flame and fellow student, Angelo Bandini, in the rain.
It was like a fucked-up scene from The Notebook. The way he held her. The way she submitted to him. Kissed him back. Fiercely.
I couldn’t unglue my eyes even if I wanted to.
And, quite frankly, I didn’t want to.
