My coffee grew cold as I continued my search. I found their address, learned about their social circles, discovered which restaurants they frequented. I learned that Mark traveled often for work, information that aligned with the dates of many meetings between David and Elise.
And then I found something unexpected, a business card website for a small photography studio listed under Mark’s name. Carrington Photography, capturing moments that matter. I clicked through to a gallery showing landscapes, architectural shots, street photography.
The work was surprisingly good, soulful, even. This man had an artist’s eye hiding behind his corporate lawyer exterior. By the time I returned home, David was up and making breakfast, whistling tunelessly.
He smiled when I walked in. There you are. I was wondering where you’d disappeared to.
Just needed some fresh air, I replied, hanging my jacket carefully. Thought I’d let you sleep in. You’re the best, he said, dropping a kiss on my forehead as he passed me a plate of eggs.
I was thinking we could check out that new exhibit at the museum today? I studied him as he talked. This man I’d shared a bed with for 12 years. This man who could make breakfast and suggest museum dates while planning secret rendezvous with another man’s wife.
The disconnect was staggering. Sounds perfect, I said, forcing a smile. We spent the day wandering through gallery halls, looking at art neither of us was truly seeing.
David held my hand, pointed out his favorite pieces, bought me lunch at the museum cafe. The perfect husband, except for the secret life I now knew about. That night, after he fell asleep, I slipped out of bed again and sent an email from an account I created that afternoon.
To mark.carrington at carringtonphotography.com Subject, important information, please read privately. Mr. Carrington. I have information concerning your wife and my husband that I believe you should know.
If you’re willing to hear me out, please meet me at Riverside Coffee on 9th Street this Tuesday at 3 p.m. I’ll be wearing a blue scarf. This is not a joke or a scam. I wish it were.
Catherine Moore. I hesitated before pressing send, my finger hovering over the trackpad. Was I really going to do this? Involve a stranger in my marital disaster? But he wasn’t a stranger, not really.
He was the other victim in this betrayal. I clicked send, then closed the laptop and returned to bed, lying awake beside my sleeping husband until dawn crept through the curtains. Tuesday afternoon found me at Riverside Coffee half an hour early, nerves making my hands tremble slightly as I arranged and rearranged the blue scarf around my neck.
The cafe was busy enough to provide anonymity but quiet enough for a private conversation. I’d chosen a corner table with a view of the door. When Mark Carrington walked in at precisely 3 p.m., I recognized him immediately from the photos I’d studied.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with salt-and-pepper hair and a serious expression. He wore a well-tailored gray suit with no tie, dressed for the office but slightly less formal. His eyes scanned the room until they found my blue scarf, and he approached with measured steps.
Catherine Moore, he asked, his voice deep and calm. I nodded, gesturing to the chair across from me. Thank you for coming, Mr. Carrington.
Mark, please. He sat down, studying me with intense blue eyes. Your email was… concerning.
You mentioned my wife and your husband? A waitress approached before I could answer. Mark ordered black coffee, waited until she left, then turned back to me with an expectant look. I took a deep breath.
My husband is David Moore. He works at Pinnacle Investments. Recognition flashed across his face.
David Moore. Yes, I know him. He’s in portfolio management.
And he’s been having an affair with your wife for at least six months. The words hung between us. Mark’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in his eyes, a darkening, a pulling inward.
He stayed completely still for several long seconds. That’s a serious accusation, he finally said, his voice perfectly controlled. I assume you have evidence.
I opened my bag and pulled out a folder containing printouts of text messages, photos, hotel receipts, all carefully organized and annotated with dates. I pushed it across the table. I found out three days ago, I explained as he opened the folder.
David left his iPad unlocked. They’re planning to meet this Thursday at Oriole Restaurant. 8 p.m. Mark flipped through the pages methodically, his lawyer’s mind clearly cataloging and analyzing each piece of evidence.
His composure was remarkable and slightly unnerving. Only the whitening of his knuckles as he gripped the folder betrayed any emotion. Six months, he murmured, more to himself than to me.
Six months. When he looked up, something had hardened in his expression. Why are you showing me this? Why not just confront your husband? I wrapped my hands around my coffee cup, drawing warmth from it.
Because I don’t want a private confrontation where he can lie, manipulate, or charm his way out of it. I want. I hesitated, searching for the right words.
I want consequences. Public ones. And I thought you deserved to know the truth.
Mark nodded slowly, closing the folder. And what do you propose we do with this information? I leaned forward slightly. They’re meeting Thursday at Oriole.
I thought we might join them. You want to confront them at the restaurant? Make a scene? He frowned. That seems… Not a scene, I corrected.
A controlled revelation. I’ve already called Oriole. There’s a table available right next to their usual spot.
I thought we could arrive first, then watch their faces when they see us together. Mark was silent for a long moment, considering. Then, unexpectedly, one corner of his mouth lifted in a small, tight smile.
You’ve thought this through. I’ve had three days with nothing else on my mind. He nodded again, then reached for his coffee.
Tell me about yourself, Catherine. What do you do when you’re not planning elaborate revenge scenarios? The question caught me off guard. I’m an interior designer.
I have my own small firm. Successful? Yes, actually. I’d built a solid client base over the years.
Children? I shook my head. We always said we were waiting for the right time. Now I’m grateful we didn’t get that far.
Mark took a sip of his coffee. We have a daughter. She’s away at high school now, Columbia.
Pride briefly softened his features before the gravity of our situation returned. Elise and I, things haven’t been right for some time. But I never thought.
He trailed off, then shook his head slightly. It doesn’t matter what I thought. I’m sorry, I said, and meant it.
As am I. He studied me for a moment. Your plan. It has merit, but it’s missing something.
What? Follow through. What happens after the reveal? Have you considered the endgame? I hesitated. Honestly, I’ve been so focused on the moment of confrontation that I haven’t thought much beyond it.
Mark nodded. Understandable. But if we’re going to do this, we should be strategic.
This isn’t just about catching them in the act, it’s about positioning ourselves for what comes after. The lawyer in him was taking over, and I found it oddly reassuring. His analytical approach balanced my emotional turmoil.
What do you suggest? I asked. First, documentation. The restaurant encounter should be recorded, discreetly, of course.
Not for public sharing, but for potential legal proceedings. He paused. Are you planning to divorce David? The question hit me like a physical blow, even though I’d been thinking about little else.
Hearing it spoken aloud made it real in a way it hadn’t been before. Yes, I said, surprising myself with the firmness of my response. Yes, I am.
Then we need to ensure the evidence is properly preserved and that your confrontation doesn’t undermine potential settlement negotiations. He checked his watch. I have a meeting in 30 minutes, but I’d like to continue this conversation.
Are you free for dinner tonight? Tonight? I hadn’t expected this development. If we’re going to be dining companions on Thursday, we should at least know each other better than we do now. His expression remained serious, but there was something almost gentle in his tone.
Besides, I have some ideas about how to refine your plan. All right, I agreed. Dinner tonight.
Mark took out a business card and wrote an address on the back. 7 o’clock. It’s a small Italian place, quiet, discreet.
No one from our social circles is likely to see us there. As he stood to leave, I asked the question that had been nagging at me. Why are you taking this so calmly? I was a wreck when I found out.
Mark buttoned his suit jacket before answering. Ms. Moore, Catherine, I’ve spent 20 years in corporate law. I’ve learned to save my reactions for after I’ve gathered all the facts and formulated a response.
He picked up the folder of evidence. May I keep this? I nodded. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.
Many wouldn’t have. He extended his hand, and I shook it. His grip was firm but not aggressive.
I’ll see you at 7. After he left, I remained at the table, turning my coffee cup in slow circles. Mark Carrington wasn’t what I had expected. I’d anticipated anger, shock, perhaps denial.
Instead, I’d found a controlled, methodical ally who seemed almost grateful for the truth. I wondered what he was really thinking behind that composed exterior, and what plans were forming in that legal mind of his. Most of all, I wondered if I’d done the right thing by setting these events in motion.
Too late to turn back now. The Italian restaurant was tucked away on a side street, its exterior unassuming but elegant. Inside, warm lighting cast a golden glow over rustic wooden tables.
Classical music played softly in the background. The maître d’ led me to a corner table where Mark was already seated, examining the wine list. He stood as I approached, that old-fashioned courtesy catching me off guard again.
Catherine. Thank you for coming. Thank you for the invitation, I replied, taking the seat across from him.
Mark had changed from his business suit into dark jeans and a navy blazer over a gray shirt, casual but still put together. I’d opted for a simple black dress, not wanting to appear as though I’d tried too hard, but still feeling the need to look composed. I took the liberty of ordering wine, he said.
A borrolo. Unless you prefer something else? Borrolo is fine. The waiter arrived with the bottle, went through the tasting ritual with Mark, then poured us each a glass before leaving with our dinner orders.
I’d been thinking about your husband, Mark said once we were alone. I’ve interacted with him at company functions, of course, but I don’t know much about him personally. I took a sip of wine, letting the complex flavors ground me before responding.