Chapter 2

 Seven days remained before that banquet.

Seven days—more than enough for a counterstrike.

I hadn’t lost unfairly in my last life. I lost because of two words: soft-hearted.

I’d sensed something was off, yet I kept thinking I should wait for her to come back to her senses.

This time, I wasn’t waiting.

I got up, washed up, and got dressed. Claire wasn’t home—we’d been sleeping in separate rooms for a long time.

I walked out, got in the car, and called a private investigator. His name was Oliver Cole—efficient, expensive, and never one to waste words.

Three years ago, when my company was hit by a malicious poaching attempt, he’d helped me trace it back to the recruiting firm behind it. I’d kept his number ever since, though I rarely used it.

We met at an unremarkable café downtown.

Oliver sat in a corner with a tablet in front of him. When he saw me, he skipped the small talk and asked straight out, “Who are we looking into this time?”

I sat down and slid my phone across the table. On the screen were photos of Claire and Luke—one from our company’s annual gala, both of them smiling politely for the camera.

“Them,” I said. “Within seven days, I need evidence that can nail it down: chat logs, photos of meetings, transfer traces, hotel surveillance. I want it built into a timeline—from when they met, to the affair, to any exchange of benefits. One clean chain.”

Oliver glanced at the photos and looked up. “Are you suing, or are you planning to go public?”

“Public,” I said evenly. “At the banquet.”

His gaze sharpened slightly. He didn’t ask why—only where the lines were. “All legal channels, or are you willing to use gray ones?”

“Both,” I said. “Gray channels can help shape the noise. Legal channels are for evidence. But the legal part has to be the majority—I’m putting it on a screen in front of everyone. I want a chain so solid that even if they scream ‘forgery,’ they won’t be able to make it stick. You can work from public places, hotel common areas, payment records, peripheral traces from social apps—but don’t leave me anything they can use to bite back.”

Oliver nodded. “Understood. Give me their usual plates, the places they go, and the likely time windows.”

“And prepare a more detailed set,” I added. “I’ll hand it to my lawyer.”

I fed him the details I remembered most clearly from my last life: the number Luke favored, the two hotels they frequented, and the time slots when Claire went to her weekly “yoga class.”

In my last life, I’d waited until midnight again and again after her text: I’ll be home after yoga.

Oliver listened, then closed his tablet. “Seven days is enough. Keep living like normal—don’t spook them. Once I get anything key, I’ll send you an encrypted link.”

“Good.” I stood. “Charge your top rate.”

Oliver looked at me and said, almost casually, “In cases like this, most people confront the moment they get the first photo.”

I paused, then replied, “That’s how I died last time.”

He didn’t press.

After leaving the café, I didn’t go home. I went straight to the office.

I needed evidence—but I also needed locks.

In my last life, the algorithm was stolen after I refused to sign the divorce papers. This time, I needed to make sure nothing slipped, no matter what.

I brought only one person into the conference room.

Eric Stone—my trusted right hand, and one of the few technical leads with access to the core permissions.

I closed the door and got straight to it. “Starting today, everything for the next-gen AI is split into three tiers. The deepest core is visible only to you and me. Any export, copy, screenshot, or external device connection triggers an alert and a log. Clear the whitelist. All of it.”

Eric looked up. “Who’s making a move?”

“You don’t need to know who,” I said. “You just need to make sure they can’t.”

He stared at me for two seconds, then nodded. “I’ll shut down core download rights. Access only with your approval. Exports require dual approval. And I’ll make the permission logs tamper-proof—anyone who even touches it will leave a trace.”

I pushed my laptop toward him.

Eric moved fast, fingers snapping across the keyboard as confirmation windows kept popping up. He said nothing unnecessary. Only at the end did he look up and ask, “Do we change Claire’s access?”

“No hesitation,” I said. “Revoke everything. Any access under her name—visitor passes, conference room bookings, internal Wi‑Fi, parking whitelist—downgrade it to standard guest access. She can come to the office if she wants, but she signs in at the front desk like everyone else.”

Eric raised an eyebrow. “You’re sure? That’ll cause problems at home.”

I met his eyes. “The problems have been there for a long time. I just used to pretend I couldn’t see them.”

That afternoon, I met my lawyer.

Victor was the attorney I’d worked with for years. I laid it out simply. “The evidence I show at the banquet has to be legal, complete, and impossible to flip back on me. And I’m not exposing anything early. I want her to commit fully—say it as loudly as she can—then I drop the proof.”

Victor opened his laptop and listed three points. “First, the evidence chain must close. Second, we need to pre-handle risk points—no secret filming in private areas, no illegal wiretaps, no induced evidence. Don’t touch any of that. Give me the sources you get; I’ll do the final legal packaging and explanations. If needed, I can have someone present at the banquet under a lawyer’s capacity.”

“They’ll definitely try to counterattack,” I said. “I want your person in the audience. The moment they open their mouths, shut them down.”

When I left the law office, it was already getting dark. Back in the car, my phone buzzed—a first encrypted message from Oliver.

I opened the link. Two photos, plus a short note.

The photos were taken in a hotel’s underground garage. Nothing explicit, yet clear enough: Claire’s car parked in a corner; Luke standing by the passenger door, one hand on the frame. The distance between them wasn’t “colleagues” or “friends.” It was too close.

The second photo showed them entering the elevator together, arms already around each other.

Oliver’s note was brief:  

“Shot in a public area. Legal. Will follow up with stay records and payment proof.”

I stared at the photos for a few seconds. I felt no urge to rush home and confront her.

I forwarded them to Victor with a tag: “First batch. File under the template. Keep waiting for the full chain.”

Before I started the car, a second message came in.

This time it was a transfer screenshot: multiple deposits into an account under Luke’s name at regular intervals. The sending account’s surname matched someone from the Hayes family.

Oliver wrote: “Evidence suggests repeated transfers of your company’s funds. Still verifying specifics, but the money trail is forming.”

I tapped the steering wheel lightly with my fingers.

Last life, I only knew Claire had cheated. I hadn’t expected she’d been moving money all along—out of my company, into her family, and then into Luke’s account.

When I got home, Claire was in the living room flipping through a magazine. Hearing the door, she looked up and smiled. “Busy again today? You didn’t even reply to my messages.”

“Work’s been heavy,” I said, setting down my keys, keeping my tone normal. “I’m tired. I’m going to shower.”

In the bathroom, I shut the door and looked at myself in the mirror. That final phrase from my last life rose up in my mind—You deserved it.

I pushed it down just as quickly.