Some bad decisions are reckless. Some are regrettable. And some land you in the back of a police car.

I could’ve just dumped him. Blocked his number. Moved on like a mature adult.
But no. Instead, I sat behind the wheel of a borrowed car, disguised like a criminal, about to chauffeur my cheating boyfriend straight to his mistress.

My grip tightened on the steering wheel, fingers aching from the pressure. The air inside the car pressed against my lungs, thick and stifling. Backing out wasn’t an option. Not after coming this far. Not with the proof of his betrayal burning in my phone, glowing like a neon sign screaming he’s a two-timing dirt bag!

A name popped up on my rideshare app.

Chase.

My stomach clenched. My pulse slammed against my ribs, loud enough to drown out rational thought. This was it.

A slow inhale. A steady exhale.

Game on.

I adjusted my oversized hoodie, tugged my hat lower over my face, and pushed my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose. My voice dropped lower, rougher, aiming for something masculine as the door creaked open.

“For Chase?” I asked, keeping it even.

He slid into the backseat without so much as a glance. “Yeah. Willow Creek Apartments.”
Of course. Her place.

My teeth ground together as I pulled onto the road, thoughts spiraling faster than the speedometer climbed. I could still turn around, call it off. Just dump him and be done with it.
But where was the satisfaction in that?

No. This? This was personal. And for once in my life, I wasn’t playing nice.

I had no idea this little act of pettiness would land me in handcuffs, locked in an interrogation room, facing a charming lawyer who would make me question every rule I’d ever followed.

But I’d find that out soon enough.