"Sherry, what’s going on with you? Why are you involved with a woman like this? Don’t say I didn’t warn you—cut ties with her immediately! This woman will only bring trouble, and she won’t hesitate to use you if it benefits her!"

I didn’t understand my friend’s warning until I opened the file and saw the contents.

Tricia’s imprisoned husband had been convicted of manslaughter—he had accidentally killed her lover in a fit of rage when he caught them in the act. The file also listed every man Tricia had entangled herself with over the years. Without exception, all of them were successful in their respective fields, much like Miguel.

Miguel, of course, probably had no clue about any of this.

I spent the entire day compiling evidence of his infidelity. By nightfall, I returned home, acting as though nothing had happened to avoid raising suspicion.

Even after the lawyer sent me the divorce papers, Miguel still hadn’t come back. All he left was a single text message.

[Honey, I have a medical conference in another city the day after tomorrow. I’m working late on a proposal tonight and will sleep at the office. Don’t wait up, and rest early.]

I decided to test him and called him.

“It’s been so long—has there been any update on the kidney donor for our daughter? Isn’t your hospital supposed to be the best?”

In the past, he would have told me to patiently wait. But this time, likely due to guilt, he stumbled over his explanation, going on and on in an attempt to justify the delay.

I listened, a cold smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, before feigning helplessness. “Alright then. Just make sure to arrange everything as soon as a donor becomes available. Our daughter’s life depends on you, dear.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got it all under control,” he assured.

The next day, he claimed he was too busy with appointments to come home. That evening, he said he was finalizing the proposal and checked into a hotel in the other city for the night.

I knew he would take this opportunity to bring that woman and her daughter along for a little getaway.

But I wasn’t idle either. I contacted a friend who worked at the prison to confirm Tricia’s husband’s release date, then sent him the address of the hotel Miguel was staying at.

Every great drama needs a heavyweight guest star.

Over the six years we had been married, Miguel had been too busy spending my money to notice that the five-star hotel he was staying at was part of my property.

As soon as he and Tricia checked in, the front desk notified me of their room number. They also mentioned that the medical conference was drawing participants from all over the country, including renowned specialists from top hospitals.

I instructed them to discreetly install a hidden camera in Tricia’s room while she took her daughter out for some “relaxation.”

Such acts of selflessness—using someone else’s money to save another’s child—deserve to be publicized, after all.

That night, Miguel sent me a series of excited messages, pretending to be the devoted father.

[Honey, our daughter has hope! One of the experts attending the conference specializes in her condition. I’ll try to discuss her case over dinner tonight!]

[But I might have to drink a bit, so I won’t be able to reply to your messages promptly.]

Using our daughter as an excuse for his affair—it was disgusting!

I scoffed and ignored him, pressing the gas pedal as I sped through the night.

He must have heard the sound of the engine because he suddenly called.

"Honey, are you not at home? Why do I hear a car engine? Where are you this late at night?" he asked, puzzled.

Not wanting to alarm him, I chuckled lightly and replied, "I’m just picking up some documents from the office. What else would I be doing? Cheating on you? Look how scared you are!"

He laughed it off awkwardly, dropping the subject.

In the background, I heard the shower stop running, and Miguel hurriedly ended the call.

By the time I arrived at the hotel, it was already the next morning.

After a quick check-in, I settled into my room to wait for his conference to end.

The hidden camera in Tricia’s room was linked to my phone.

Barely five minutes after the conference concluded, Miguel rushed eagerly into her room.

Miguel walked into the room, tossing his suit jacket onto the floor, unbuttoning his shirt as he went.

Meanwhile, I instructed the hotel to project the footage from his room onto the conference hall’s screen and simultaneously started a livestream online.

"Miguel, if you want to rise to fame, I’ll make sure it’s for all the wrong reasons!" I muttered to myself.

Immediately, the massive conference hall was filled with the sound of heavy breathing. On the screen, two entangled bodies were on full display.

Doctors who hadn’t yet left the venue looked up, their faces frozen in shock. Gasps and screams rippled through the crowd.

Midway through their passion, Miguel pulled out that disgusting bottle of lubricant again.

Tricia stopped him with a shy smile, her cheeks flushed. “Dr. Richardson, about Chloe’s surgery...”

“We’ll do it as soon as we’re back! Be good, perform well, and I’ll head back tonight to make sure it’s scheduled for tomorrow...” he answered roughly.

Viewers of the livestream quickly recognized Miguel and Tricia.

The chat exploded with furious comments.

[No wonder my son’s surgery keeps getting postponed—guess it’s because I’m not a woman who can trade my body!]

[What kind of scumbags are allowed in hospitals nowadays? Surgery scheduling depends on spreading your legs now?!]

[Can someone drop the hotel address? My daughter hasn’t even gotten a consultation yet. I’m going there today to ‘thank’ this doctor myself!]

Seeing that last comment, I helpfully enabled the hotel’s location tag and pinned the room number for good measure.

Within three minutes, enraged local patients’ families showed up at the hotel. Armed with cans of paint and baseball bats, they stormed into the elevator, seething with anger.

Meanwhile, the footage continued. Miguel and Tricia were now basking in post-coital tenderness. It took less than three minutes for their performance to become a nationwide laughingstock.

Just then, I received a message from my friend at the prison.

[Ms. Gomez, your guest has arrived.]

Moments later, the hotel lobby echoed with the enraged roar of a man.

“Where the hell is that bitch Tricia? Daring to cheat on me—I'll break her legs!”

It was Tricia’s freshly released husband, Brandon.

I escorted him to their room and, out of politeness, knocked on the door.

Inside, Miguel’s irritated voice snapped, clearly unhappy about being interrupted. “Who is it? Get lost!”

“It’s your daddy!” Brandon bellowed.

The door was kicked open with a loud bang. Brandon stormed in, pulling a kitchen knife from his waistband.