Page 47 of Reformation

Tits I fucking paid for.

Trevor: Are you coming over tonight?

A: Of course. I’ve missed you. You’re the only one who can make me feel good.

Trevor: You need my cock?

A: I do… you better show it to me. I want to know what I’ll be sucking on later.

Like a glutton, I want to keep reading the messages. But I couldn’t give two fucks right now about the sexting they were doing.

I need date stamps. I need proof.

I look at the timestamp of that particular text message: January 24. Damn. That was after I asked for the separation. I try and scroll down more, but the texts only go back a month, which is about a week after I asked for the separation. I still print them out, because if I need them, I don’t want to read this shit again.

I boot up Trevor’s email. If the man was fucking stupid enough to charge one thing to the practice that went to her, I will absolutely lose it. I’ve already lost a best friend tonight. I can lose a business partner too.

I log onto his Innovative account and thank Christ, there are no emails or receipts that show that he’s been using the business for anything other than that.

However, the man hates passwords and remembering them, so I’m ninety-nine percent sure if I go to his personal email, I won’t even need to guess his password to get in.

Bingo.

With the click of the mouse I’m looking at Trevor’s inbox, not sorted, plain for anyone to see.

And holy fuck, do I see a lot.

Receipts for weekend hotel stays in Atlantic City and New York.

Receipts for lingerie and jewelry. At the places I know Annika loves to spend money at.

As I scroll down I realize that my ex-wife has been spending quite a lot of my business partner’s money, which makes sense. I was wondering why she wasn’t pestering me every day for more of an allowance.

Now I know why.

Receipts from February and January do me no good. Yes, it’s shitty what Trevor is doing, but that’s not what is driving me right now.

No. If I can find proof that this started before January, I have grounds to end this divorce without the waiting period. This farce of a marriage can be over.

I continue scrolling—damn, he has been on a spending spree—and I almost don’t see the smoking gun in a sea of receipts, including one for Christmas Eve at a hotel downtown. I mark that one for later. No, the email I’m about to open is from a photo sharing service. Subject: For your eyes only.

Oh, she is not that fucking stupid, is she? Did she really send pictures to his email?

My answer is yes, she is that stupid. Want to know how I know? When we first started dating, Annika thought it would be sexy to have boudoir photos professionally taken for me. They were borderline indecent. They were more than a housewife trying to feel sexy. One less piece of clothing and they could have been considered pornography. They were a surprise to me, and she sent them to my email one day, in a folder just like this one, with almost the exact same subject line.

I click on the email, open the folder and I’m greeted with almost an near replica of the photos she took for me five years ago. At least these ones were in a different set of lingerie. I was almost expecting her to reuse the old ones.

I shut the folder and go back to the inbox looking for one thing and one thing only… the date.

And there it is, clear as day, my ticket to ending this sham of a marriage.

December 28.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Paige

Knock-knock. Knock-knock.

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