Vanessa scoffed. "Suspect? Charlie's been a pathetic, lovesick fool from the start. If it weren't for my parents forcing me to marry him, I wouldn't have even looked at him. No matter how much I fool around, he wouldn't dare ask for a divorce."
Tristan laughed lowly. "That's good. But still, just thinking about how that idiot would react if he found out his wife and his best friend have been screwing each other for three years—it's hilarious."
He hummed in amusement before his tone shifted into something more suggestive. "Vanessa, the office is empty at night. And we didn't have enough fun at the hotel earlier. How about here?"
Vanessa's laughter grew breathy. "You're so naughty..."
Then, the unmistakable sounds of hurried movements. The rustling of fabric. The stifled gasps and whispers.
Anger boiled in my veins. Vanessa—the woman I had spent years loving, protecting, cherishing—had never once hesitated to betray me.
She had never truly cared.
I had fought for her, bled for her. I had given up opportunities to stay by her side. When her parents had fallen ill, I had drained my own savings to help them. When she had told me she was afraid of childbirth, I had never once pressured her for children.
And yet, all these years, I had been nothing more than a fool in her eyes.
Through the haze of fury, I forced myself to breathe. Now wasn't the time to act rashly. Tristan was more dangerous than I had ever realized and I needed solid proof—evidence of his crimes. Only then could I bring him down completely.
Silently, I slipped out of the building.
But one thing still didn't make sense.
No matter how bitter someone was about being framed, no matter how much hatred burned inside them—who would risk their life to commit murder the very moment they were released from prison?
Just what exactly had Tristan done to Martin?
On the way back, I suddenly remembered a very crucial person. Without hesitation, I pulled out my phone and made a call, issuing a few instructions. There was no room for error in what I was planning.
Not long after I lay down in my apartment, I heard the sound of the door unlocking.
I didn't get up immediately. Instead, I listened, tracking her movements. The slight hesitation in her steps, the hurried rustling of her bag, the soft creak of the mirror cabinet as she undoubtedly checked her appearance.
Finally, I stepped out of the bedroom, my movements deliberate.