When I heard my husband telling his friends, between bursts of laughter, that he doubted “this joke of a marriage” would last another year because I “wasn’t even on his level,” something inside me broke—but not in my voice.

For the first time that night, Diego held my gaze.

“Because I got tired of being his accomplice. And because…” he hesitated, as if the word weighed something, “…for a long time now, you’ve mattered more to me than he does.”

I let out a laugh, a dry one.

“I’m not in the mood for romantic drama, Diego.”

“I’m not telling you this because I expect anything to happen between us,” he said defensively. “I’m telling you so you understand that if you want to do something—if you want to confront Javier—you’re not alone. I know his accounts, his emails, the tricks he pulls at the architecture studio. I know things his boss wouldn’t be very happy about.”

That made me raise an eyebrow.

“What kind of things?”

Diego lowered his voice to almost a whisper.

“Duplicate invoices, commissions he hasn’t declared, emails where he mocks his clients, compromising photos from company trips. He has too much to lose if someone decides to stop protecting him.”

The steam from my chamomile tea rose slowly, as if marking the time of my decision. I could walk away, find a good lawyer, file for divorce, and disappear. Or I could do something more.

“You want me to take revenge,” I finally said.

Diego shook his head.