The Perfect Wife’s Revenge
I gave up everything—my dreams, my career, my voice—just to keep my husband’s world spotless. But when I finally chased after him, desperate to catch him in his lies, I discovered something shocking: I wasn’t the only one watching.
The Perfect Wife’s Checklist
My husband, Kevin, demanded perfection. And I delivered—every single day.
I had a list. A secret, scribbled-down guide to being the flawless wife he expected.
HUBBY’S RULES:
🧅 NO onions—ever. Not in sauces, not in soups, not even hidden.
🥩 Steak—medium rare, thick-cut only. Anything else was an insult.
🌹 Roses in the garden—always blooming. No excuses for dead petals.
👕 Shirts ironed stiff, collars sharp. Wrinkles were a crime.
🛏️ Bedsheets—snow-white, hotel crisp. He’d run his fingers over them to check.
🧽 Kitchen spotless—no crumbs, no stains. Like no one ever lived here.
🫖 Tea set polished every Sunday. Fingerprints were forbidden.
🌿 Fresh herbs by the window. Dried ones were “lazy.”
I lived in fear of forgetting something. One wrong move, and his smile would vanish. So I started recording reminders—tiny orders whispered into my phone, played back at night like twisted bedtime stories.
But then… the recordings changed.
They became mine.
[Monday, 6:12 a.m.] Recording #487:
“First run in five years. Feels like I’m running away from myself. Maybe I am.”
The Morning Everything Changed
Fifteen minutes before that recording, I’d been standing at the ironing board since 5 a.m., pressing yet another pillowcase. My hands moved on autopilot.
Four years ago, I quit my job as a journalist. My little office—where I once wrote stories about inspiring people—was now just storage for spare linens.
Kevin had been so pleased when I left.
“With hands like yours?” he’d said, kissing my fingers. “You’re needed here more than anywhere else.”
And so I stayed. Trapped in a house that wasn’t a home—just a stage where I performed my role.
[Monday, 7:15 a.m.] Recording #488:
“Kevin left for work. Kissed my cheek. No eye contact. Ordered grilled veggies, steak, and lemon tart for dinner. Must buy groceries. Note to self: get fresh lilies.”
But this time, something inside me snapped.
I was tired of being needed by the oven, the mop, the iron—but not by my own husband.
So instead of pulling out recipes, I pulled out my old sneakers.
No makeup. No hairbrush. Just me, the cold morning air, and the pounding of my own heart.
I thought I’d just run around the block—just to feel alive again—and then go back to folding laundry like a good little wife.
But fate had other plans.
At the corner, where our quiet street met the main road, I froze.
There it was.
Kevin’s car. Parked. Engine off.
Why?
He always drove straight to work.
I ducked behind a tree, heart hammering.
A minute later, Kevin stepped out—no briefcase, no laptop—and disappeared down the metro stairs.
[Monday, 7:38 a.m.] Recording #489:
“Kevin took the Tube. He always said he drives to the office. Why lie? Where is he REALLY going?”
The Spy Wife
The next morning, I was ready.
Baseball cap. Oversized hoodie. Dark sunglasses.
I looked ridiculous, but I didn’t care.
Kevin’s car was in the same spot. He sat inside, smiling at his phone.
That smile—warm, soft, alive—was one I hadn’t seen in years.
[Tuesday, 6:57 a.m.] Recording #492:
“He’s waiting. Smiling at his phone. Who makes him smile like that?”
Five minutes later, he headed for the train.
I followed.
Two cars behind. Close enough to see. Not close enough to be caught.
On the platform, I saw her.
Young. Bright. A university backpack slung over her shoulder.
She leaned into him, giggling at something he whispered.
My stomach twisted.
[Tuesday, 7:18 a.m.] Recording #493:
“There she is. He has a type: young, soft, glowing. Nothing like the woman who irons his sheets at home.”
I slipped into the next train car, gripping my phone so tight my knuckles turned white.
Through the window, I watched his hand slide onto her knee.
I wanted to scream.
But then—I noticed him.
A tall man in a tan jacket. Watching. Not Kevin.
Her.
Every move she made, his eyes followed. When she laughed, his jaw clenched.
[Tuesday, 7:32 a.m.] Recording #494:
“The stranger’s watching HER. Who is he?”
The Other Spy
They got off at a café. I stayed across the street, pretending to scroll through my phone.
The tall man sat at the next table, holding a newspaper—upside down.
Our eyes met.
He raised a brow. You too?
I mouthed: “Wife.”
He mouthed back: “Father.”
[Tuesday, 7:42 a.m.] Recording #495:
“Her father. Here to see who’s wasting her future. I’m here to see who’s wasting mine.”
We moved behind a marble column, hidden by a fake potted palm.
“She’s twenty-two,” he muttered. “He’s…?“
“Forty,” I said.
He rubbed his neck. “I’m Mark.“
“Rachel.“
He glanced at the recorder peeking from my sleeve. “Why are you taping this?“
“For the divorce. I want every lie, every promise—on record.“
He nodded. “Good. Judges love proof with timestamps.“
I looked at him. “What about you?“
His eyes flicked back to his daughter, now curled into Kevin’s lap.
“Her mother thinks I’m controlling. Let her see who our daughter really skips class for.“
We shared a bitter, silent laugh.
The Revenge Plan
We scribbled a plan on a napkin:
✅ Keep recording—every lie is ammo.
📸 Take photos—no denials later.
☕ Catch every promise they’ll regret.
I hit record as Kevin whispered:
“I’ll leave her for you. Soon. You’re all I want.“
She giggled. “Come over tomorrow night—Mom’s away. You’ll love her fancy house just for us. On my birthday.“
I snapped a photo—Kevin kissing her, her spoon still dangling from her fingers.
Mark’s voice was low. “You have a plan?“
“Divorce.“
He shook his head. “*That’s not enough. They’ll just find new ways to lie. You want to make sure they *never* forget this.*”
A slow smile curled on my lips.
“Maybe I do have a plan… but you’ll have to help me.“
Mark’s eyes glinted. “Tell me what to do.“
“We need to meet your ex-wife.“
The Trap
The next evening, I stood in a house I’d never seen before—Mark’s ex-wife’s place.
Laura was furious at first. “You brought his WIFE here?“
I played the recording.
“Come over tomorrow night—Mom’s away…“
Her face paled. “I was going to give her the rest of her college money next week. And she was going to run away with… with HIM?“
Then she turned on me. “This is YOUR husband! How did you—“
“I was no one,” I said quietly. “Just the woman who ironed his shirts.“
Laura’s eyes darkened. “Then we ruin them both.“
The Confrontation
We waited in the dark.
Keys rattled. Laughter. Whispered promises.
Then—lights on.
Laura’s voice cut through the room.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart. Hope you’re proud.“
The girl froze. Kevin’s arm dropped like he’d been burned.
Laura laughed coldly. “You were going to use MY house? MY money? You’ll see a single cent from me the day pigs fly.“
I stepped forward. “I have every lie on tape, Kevin. And your lawyer will explain the prenup—the one you thought I’d never enforce.“
His face went white.
“Adultery means you get nothing. And that $10,000 penalty? You’ll pay it to me. Monthly.“
Laura turned to her daughter. “No college money. No car. Go live with your ‘grown-up boyfriend’ if you love him so much.“
Mark didn’t smile. Just nodded.
Game over.
The Aftermath
I didn’t go home. Not while Kevin was there, shoving his things into suitcases.
Mark bought me coffee. Cheap, bitter, real.
[Wednesday, 7:59 p.m.] Recording #500:
“Guess revenge tastes better than lemon tart. Note to self: when you need a partner in crime, pick someone who hates lies as much as you do.”
To be continued…