I went home the following day, calm, collected, and dangerous.
Patrick was in the kitchen when I walked in.
“Gee! You’re back early!” he said, too cheerful, too rehearsed.
I set my suitcase down. “Sacramento was canceled,” I replied. “Good thing. Saves me the trouble of telling you we’re done.”
His smile faltered. “What?”
I slid a flash drive across the counter. “Watch it. Or don’t. Either way, the judge already has a copy.”
His face drained of color. “Georgia… we can talk about this—”
“Oh, we will,” I cut in. “In court.”
He stepped toward me, panicked. “Please—”
“Don’t,” I snapped. “Not after what you did in our home. With our children in the next room.”
Couple arguing | Source: Pexels
Before he could answer, Molly appeared from the hallway, frozen like a deer in headlights.
“Oh,” I said coolly. “Perfect timing.”
She stammered, “Georgia…I…I can explain—”
I laughed. Actually laughed. “Explain what? Grooming my son? Planning to steal my kids? My house? My life?”
