He nodded once.
“Then we do it right.”
He laid out a plan like a battle map.
Track James.
Track Melissa.
Collect photos, dates, receipts, video where possible.
Build a timeline.
Document everything.
When I asked about legality, because I had to ask, because I wasn’t Melissa, because I didn’t break rules lightly, Daniel looked at me like he respected the question.
“Public places,” he said. “No expectation of privacy. Everything documented.”
I signed the contract.
I paid the retainer.
And then I went home, smiled at my fiancé, hugged my sister, and acted like my life wasn’t cracking.
You’d be surprised what a woman can hide when she’s been trained to be pleasant.
The evidence came quickly.
March 15th.
Marlington Hotel in Miami.
James and Melissa in the lobby.
In the elevator.
Entering their room together.
Even in grainy photos, I could recognize their body language. The way James leaned toward her. The way Melissa’s head tipped back as she laughed, like she’d won something.
March 22nd.
Riverside apartment complex.
James carrying groceries like a man who belonged there.
Melissa pulling up in her distinctive pink Mercedes.
The two of them on the balcony, arms around each other, city wind tugging at her hair.
April 3rd.
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