I discovered that my husband was cheating with his secretary—so I hired her husband, and the office…/th

I never imagined life could hit me so hard on such an ordinary day. It was Tuesday, one of those days when the sun feels lazy and the wind barely moves. Martín had left early for the office as usual, wearing his impeccable suit and carrying his black briefcase.

I stayed home working on some designs for a client, and when I finished, I decided to look for some old photos on the computer to make an album I had been postponing for months. I turned on the computer and opened the folder where we kept everything—documents, videos, vacation photos. It was an organized mess. Among many subfolders, one caught my attention.

Not because of its name—Projects 2025 sounded quite innocent—but because I didn’t remember Martín mentioning any new project this year. Out of simple curiosity, I opened it. What I found weren’t graphs or work documents, but images and screenshots of conversations. At first, I thought it was material for some creative presentation, but as soon as I read the first sentence, I felt my heart pound hard inside my chest.

“Last night I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

My first reaction was confusion. Why had Martín saved something like this on our computer? I scrolled down a bit more and found the answer. The words came accompanied by photos of Lucía, his secretary, posing in a tight red dress, smiling in a way she had never smiled at me in all these years.

I started reading the messages one by one. Some were sweet, others openly suggestive, and some simply broke me. “I can’t wait for us to escape again. I feel alive by your side.” It was like reading a cheap romance script, but with my husband as the protagonist. I stayed frozen staring at the screen.

My breathing grew heavy and my hands trembled so much that I could barely move the mouse. I didn’t want to cry, but tears burned my eyes. Everything I had believed in for eight years crumbled in seconds. Trust, shared laughter, family dinners.

Suddenly, everything looked like a theater where I had been the naive audience. The worst part was that Lucía had always been there, just a few steps from Martín every day. She was the woman who greeted me politely at company parties, the one who asked about my children, the one who said, “Martín is so lucky to have you.”

And I, like a fool, smiled back thinking her kindness was sincere. But amid all that anger and humiliation, something different started growing inside me. I wasn’t going to cry silently. I wasn’t going to confront Martín with screams so he could deny everything and make me feel crazy. No, if he had played dirty, I would play even dirtier, and this time I would be the one in control.

I closed the folder, turned off the computer, and sat staring at the wall as if I could find an answer there. I remembered something Martín had mentioned in a casual conversation—that Lucía was married. In fact, at the last company Christmas party, she had come with a tall, dark-haired man who barely spoke to anyone.

If my memory served me right, his name was Andrés. I took out my phone and started searching. First on Facebook, then on Instagram, and it didn’t take me more than 15 minutes to find him. His profile was almost public, with travel photos, some pictures with friends, and others with Lucía. I was surprised to see that he seemed like a hardworking man, the kind who gets his hands dirty to make a living.

He had photos at construction sites wearing a helmet, reflective vest, and gloves. His description said contractor, renovations, and construction. Then, the idea began to take shape—and it wasn’t just any idea, but the outline of a revenge that made me smile for the first time in hours. What if, instead of confronting Martín directly, I allied with the only man who would understand my pain 100%?

I opened LinkedIn and searched his name.

There he was: Andrés M., independent contractor. There was a button to send a message, and I clicked it without overthinking. I wrote something brief, professional, innocent. More than “Hello, Andrés. I’m looking for someone to remodel an office. Your work was recommended to me, and I’d like to know if you have availability this month.”

I reviewed the message twice to make sure it didn’t sound suspicious. In less than an hour, he replied, “More than hello. Yes, I’m available. We can meet to see the space and talk about what you need. Does this week work for you?”

My heart raced, but not from romantic excitement, rather from the adrenaline I felt knowing my plan was in motion.

I suggested we meet on Friday at a café near downtown; he accepted without hesitation. The rest of the day I spent imagining every step of what was to come. I didn’t know if Andrés would be willing to collaborate or if he’d just pity me and move on with his life. But one thing was clear.

I wasn’t going to sit idly by while Martín and Lucía lived their affair without consequences.

That night, when Martín came home, I pretended everything was normal. He hugged me as usual, told me how exhausting his day at the office had been, and poured himself a glass of wine. I watched him while he spoke, feeling an enormous distance between us.

It was as if I were looking at a stranger wearing the face of the man I married. Every word he said sounded hollow. At some point in the conversation, he mentioned that he would be busy late Friday because of a quarter-end meeting. I nodded, hiding the irony rising in my throat. Perfect.

While he lied to see Lucía, I would be taking the first step to expose everything.

That night, lying beside him, I heard his steady breathing as he slept. I, on the other hand, stayed awake staring at the ceiling. I knew that in a matter of days nothing would ever be the same again. And although the pain was still there, underneath it something stronger was growing.

The determination to make Martín regret every one of his messages, every stolen kiss, every lie. Because I wasn’t going to destroy myself over his betrayal—I was going to rebuild myself and, in the process, tear down everything he thought was secure.

Friday arrived faster than I expected. I spent the whole morning trying to concentrate on my tasks, but my mind was fixed on the appointment with Andrés.

I dressed in a neutral outfit: a white shirt, dark pants, and a simple jacket. I didn’t want to look too formal or too casual—just someone looking to hire a service. However, inside I carried a very different purpose.

The café I chose wasn’t far from downtown, a quiet place with wooden tables and the aroma of freshly ground coffee that greeted you as soon as you entered.

I arrived 10 minutes early to make sure I could pick a table tucked away in a corner where we could talk without being overheard.

When Andrés walked in, I recognized him instantly. He wore work clothes—gray t-shirt, durable pants, and worn boots. His posture was firm, and his face was weathered from the sun, but with attractive features.

He walked toward me with a mix of curiosity and caution. “You must be Laura,” he said, shaking my hand. His voice was deep, measured, like someone used to explaining things patiently. “Yes, thanks for coming so quickly,” I replied, inviting him to sit down.

At first, we talked about simple things—the type of work, deadlines, materials, budgets—but as he spoke, I noticed something in his eyes. There was a strange gleam, as if behind that professionalism there was an untold story.

I waited for the right moment to steer the conversation. “Andrés, before we continue talking about work, I think there’s something I need to tell you,” I said, lowering my voice and pulling out my phone. He furrowed his brow, clearly intrigued. I showed him the first screenshot.

A message from Martina Lucía full of innuendos. He said nothing. I moved to the next one. A photo of her in the red dress, smiling for my husband. Andrés took a deep breath but didn’t look away.

“Since when?” he finally asked, his jaw so tight I noticed a muscle twitching in his cheek.

“As far as I can tell, at least three months. Though something tells me it started earlier,” I replied, feeling the tension growing between us.

Andrés looked away for a moment, closing his eyes as if he needed a second to process it. Then his voice came out filled with suppressed rage.

“I knew she was acting strange, but I never thought she was capable of this.”

I looked at him steadily. That was the moment to take a risk.

“I’m not showing you this for you to feel sorry. I’m showing you because I want to do something about it. I’m not going to cry or beg for explanations. I want them to pay, and I think you and I could help each other.”

He stared at me, assessing me as if weighing my intentions. Then, a faint bitter smile appeared on his lips.

“If what you want is for them to pay, I’m in.”

And so, at that wooden table, our alliance was born. We talked for hours planning how we could act without raising suspicion.

I knew that Martín and Lucía’s company was looking to renovate the boardroom. I used that information to suggest Andrés be hired as the head of the remodeling.

I would handle presenting the idea as something beneficial for everyone, and he would install much more than wood and paint.

The following week I pulled the strings. I sent an email to the company director suggesting improvements to the boardroom to impress future clients. I attached a budget that Andrés carefully prepared, with a competitive price and detailed description of the work.

The director, delighted with the proposal, approved it in less than two days.

When I told Andrés the news, he smiled for the first time since I met him. “The door’s open,” he said. “Now we just need to walk in and leave a mark.”

Over the next weeks, Andrés began the remodeling.

I went to the office under the pretense of supervising the project, but in reality, each visit was an opportunity to fine-tune our plan.

During the work, we discreetly installed hidden cameras in decorative objects, like photo frames and artificial plants. We also placed tiny microphones in strategic places, making sure they would record any conversation that happened when Martín and Lucía thought they were alone.

It wasn’t difficult.

Martín and Lucía seemed to live in a bubble of trust and brazenness. More than once we saw them exchange knowing glances and furtive smiles while they thought no one was watching.

And although they avoided kissing in the office, their conversations were more than enough to confirm everything.

I especially remember one day when we reviewed the recordings together.

Andrés was at my house, in front of my computer screen. The image showed Lucía lying on the conference room table, laughing while Martín was stroking her hand.
“I can’t believe they dare to do it here,” Andrés murmured with a mix of fury and disgust.
“I can,” I replied.
Are they so sure no one suspects, that they think the world belongs to them?
In those days, our complicity grew.
There was nothing romantic about it. It was a war alliance, a partnership founded on the betrayal we had both suffered. We spoke little about our personal lives beyond what was necessary.
He told me that Lucía had been his first love, that they had been married for six years, and that he never imagined she would do something like this to him.
I confessed that Martín and I had overcome other crises, but this time there was no turning back.
Every recording we obtained was another piece of our puzzle. We no longer just sought evidence for ourselves; we wanted a final blow that would expose them in front of everyone.
The right moment was key, and we found it when the company director announced that the inauguration of the new conference room would be celebrated with a small event for employees, executives, and some important clients.
Andrés and I didn’t need to say it aloud. That would be our night.
But in the meantime, we kept gathering material—recordings of them talking about weekend getaways, voice messages left during work hours, cruel comments about their oblivious partners.
It was as if they were handing us the weapons with which we were going to destroy them.
One day, while adjusting one of the cameras, Andrés stopped and looked at me seriously.
“Are you sure you want to go all the way? Once we do this, there’s no turning back.”
“Andrés,” I said, looking at him firmly, “they already burned all the bridges. The only thing left is to watch them fall.”
He nodded slowly, and at that moment I knew we were ready for what was coming.
Each day the tension grew.
Martín kept acting like the perfect husband at home, telling me about meetings and projects while I nodded and served him dinner. But inside, I was counting down, and when the date of the event approached, I felt something I hadn’t felt in weeks: a strange calm.
It wasn’t peace, but the serenity that comes when you know the game is about to end and this time, the checkmate will be yours.
The day of the event dawned with a clear sky as if nature itself had aligned to witness the outcome of my plan.
Since morning, I felt electricity running through my body.
I got up early, prepared a light breakfast, and pretended to be calm in front of Martín, who was flipping through the newspaper, unaware of what awaited him.
“What time will you be back today?” I asked with the most rehearsed naturalness in the world.
“Late, we have to prepare for the inauguration. And you know how the boss is with speeches,” he replied, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek.
I smiled and watched him leave, impeccable in his suit, headed to what he believed would be a celebration of professional success.
He had no idea he was walking straight into his ruin.
Mid-morning, I met Andrés at the entrance of the company building. He was wearing his usual work clothes, holding a folder as if he was still part of the remodeling team.
Inside that folder were USB drives with all the recordings and videos we had collected over weeks. They weren’t simple evidence; they were bombs ready to detonate.
“Ready?” I asked, looking him in the eyes.
“Ready,” he answered with that firmness that gave me confidence.
The event began late afternoon. The remodeled conference room looked impeccable. Freshly painted walls, new furniture, elegant lighting. There were trays of canapés and glasses of wine on the tables, and the employees chatted animatedly. The executives were in a good mood, congratulating Martín, and passing by Lucía, who wore a tight emerald dress. I watched her from afar.
Smiling to myself, the company director took the floor and began thanking everyone for their effort. He spoke about teamwork, dedication, and the trust that held the company together.
Ironies of fate. That last word, trust, was about to shatter like glass under a hammer.
When the speech ended, I asked for the floor. I pretended to be nervous so no one would suspect anything, like a simple wife grateful for the recognition of the work.
“I just wanted to take a minute to thank you for the opportunity to collaborate on this project,” I said while connecting my USB drive to the projector.
“I think everyone should see the final result from another perspective.”
The first image appeared on the screen. It wasn’t of the room before the remodel but of Martín and Lucía in a corner of that same office, laughing and looking at each other like two teenagers in love.
Murmurs started immediately.
I moved to the next file, a video where Martín caressed her face and whispered that he couldn’t wait to escape together again.
The silence became heavy, almost suffocating. I could hear the sound of held breaths.
The video continued with fragments of recorded conversations, laughter, plans for meetings, and criticisms of their boring partners.
Some employees looked away out of discomfort; others couldn’t stop watching.
Martín jumped up, pale, walking toward me.
“Laura, turn that off right now,” he said in a whisper barely containing his fury.
Lucía, meanwhile, looked petrified, still holding her glass of wine, trembling.
I raised my hand to stop him and spoke with a voice so firm I surprised myself.
“This is what happens when you underestimate a wife and a husband who know how to work as a team.”
The phrase fell like thunder.
Andrés stepped forward from the back, and at that moment, everyone understood who he was.
The director, uncomfortable, asked Martín and Lucía to leave the room immediately.
No one dared defend them.
They left almost running, avoiding the stares of their coworkers.
The door closed behind them, and a murmur spread throughout the room—a mix of surprise, indignation, and in some cases, a poorly disguised applause for me.
I took a deep breath, feeling the tension accumulated over weeks start to dissipate.
Andrés approached and, without saying a word, gave me a slight nod, like a soldier recognizing victory on the battlefield.
That same night, I got home before Martín.
It didn’t take long before he showed up with a shattered face.
“What the hell do you think you’ve done?” he shouted, throwing his briefcase onto the sofa.
“What I had to do,” I replied without raising my voice.
I showed him the truth.
He tried to justify himself, saying it wasn’t what it seemed, that I was taking revenge for something unimportant.
I stared at him, unblinking, until he fell silent.
I pulled out the separation papers I had already prepared with my lawyer from a drawer.