Page 32 of What Broke First (The Cheating A$$hole #1)

Of course, I knew Matt and Sarah took the kids out of town.

God, how could I not? He wouldn’t shut up about it.

Some painfully wholesome little road trip he kept mentioning like it meant something. Like he was proud.

He even came into the office the morning they left.

Why? To twist the knife? To play family man in front of me?

He stood there pouring coffee like the cover model for Basic Husbands Monthly, and all I could think was:

That was supposed to be me.

Sarah.

Saint Sarah.

The smug, martyrdom-wrapped-in-a-cardigan bitch who thinks she’s too good to even breathe the same air as me.

She walks around like forgiveness is her birthright and everyone owes her something.

Please.

She’s living my life. Well—parts of it. The parts that matter.

The rest?

The little animals? No, thanks. I’ve never wanted something that screams, smears peanut butter on walls, and ruins your body from the inside out.

But Matt?

Yes.

A hundred times, yes.

I still remember the first time we slept together. His tie was hanging loose, my skirt was hitched up, and the office smelled like expensive whiskey and sex.

We didn’t even make it to the couch.

The next night he texted me:

Matt: Hey. Can I crash at your place?

And just like that, he did.

One night became two. Then four. Then a drawer.

I thought I had him wrapped around my finger like a satin ribbon…until I didn’t.

Matt’s a man of opportunity. I know the type. I am the type.

He wasn’t with me because he loved me.

He was with me because she locked the door.

And I?

I was the spare key.

The other woman.

God, I loved that.

The power in that role.

The thrill of being the escape.

But escape routes get boarded up, don’t they?

So when I heard they were leaving town, I let myself in.

No breaking. No entering.

Just unlocking the door with the key I made months ago, back when he was still sleeping beside me and swearing it was temporary.

The house smelled like vanilla and detergent.

I kicked off my heels in the entryway. Walked barefoot through their perfect little lie.

A lonely sock on the couch. A lunchbox drying in the dish rack.

It made my teeth itch.

This house is mine. Sarah is on borrowed time.

Upstairs, I moved through the rooms like smoke.

Matt’s dresser. His closet. His winter coat.

The photos slid in like secrets.

One of just me.

One of us, cropped tight, his hand on my waist, my lips too close to his ear.

And one I took while he was asleep. Bare. Unaware. Mine.

Let Sarah find that.

Let her imagine what came before the flash.

Jealousy’s faster than guilt. And Matt? He caves when things get complicated.

It worked before.

It’ll work again.

Before I left, I made time for the kids’ rooms.

Emily’s shelf was lined with unicorns and rainbows. I picked the smallest one, pink wings, glitter mane, and snapped it. Just the wing. A clean break.

In Tommy’s room, I tapped his little soccer trophy off the nightstand with one finger, then ground it under my heel until it cracked.

Nothing huge.

Just enough to leave behind.

A whisper: I was here.

Collateral damage.

I stood in their bedroom, her bedroom, hand on the dresser, one foot ready to go.

Photos on the walls. Paintings by the little monsters taped to the closet doors.

The bed was perfectly made. Boring.

Sexless.

Ugly, even.

“She’s not better than me,”

I whispered.

I locked the door behind me like a lady.

Back in the car, I started the engine and cranked the volume.

Mahogany Lox’s Take Your Man blared through the speakers like fate’s personal playlist.

I rolled my shoulders, snapped my fingers, and sang along with a smirk, head bobbing as the beat hit.

I turned up the volume and let the bass shake the windows as I pulled out of their driveway like I owned the deed.

At home, I lit a candle. Took off my shirt.

Angled myself in the mirror just right. My boobs are so beautiful.

Sent three photos. No words.

Matt didn’t answer.

Not yet.

But I’ll get his attention.

I’ve taken him once. I’ll take him again.