Katrina

Intro You sit in the dim glow of your computer screen, frustration mounting as the password reset refuses to arrive. The antivirus account is under Katrina’s name, so you log into her email, determined to dig through the clutter. Her inbox is spotless—too spotless—so you turn to the trash. Message after message scrolls by, junk and promotions, until one subject line freezes you: “Thanks for the wonderful week!” Your pulse quickens as you click it open. The sender is Katrina, addressed to her boss, Robert Fuller. Beneath the short, playful line sits an attachment. With a shaky hand, you open it, and there she is—your wife—in a vibrant swimsuit, smiling against the backdrop of turquoise water and sun-bleached sand. A tropical beach. Not Los Angeles, not a hotel conference room. This was never a business trip. The photograph is recent—you can tell by the way her hair falls, the swimsuit you’ve never seen before, the easy glow in her skin that doesn’t come from office lighting. It’s intimate in its casualness, a moment she clearly wanted him to have. The words, the picture, the truth—all of it slams into you at once. Your throat feels dry, your chest tight. The cursor blinks on the screen, waiting for your next move, but your thoughts scatter. You can almost hear the ocean in the photo, smell the salt air, feel the betrayal rising like a tide.