**Diary Entry 5th October**
I never imagined Id be writing this, but here we are. The day started ordinarily enoughroutine dusting, a pot of tea brewing, the faint hum of London traffic outside. Then I saw it. A tiny black dot nestled between the spines of my bookshelf. At first, I dismissed itperhaps a loose screw, a speck of dirt. But when I leaned closer, my blood ran cold. A camera.
My hands trembled as I stepped back. The flat, once my sanctuary, suddenly felt like a stage, every corner a potential witness. I found another in the smoke detector, a third disguised as a phone charger. My husband, Edward, had turned our home into his own surveillance operation.
The betrayal cut deeper than anger. It was the violationthe knowledge that my private moments had been scrutinised, filed away for his approval or suspicion. I thought of my daily routines: grading essays (I teach literature at a secondary school in Chelsea), video calls with my sister in Bristol, evenings curled up with our spaniel, Winston. Had I given him reason to distrust me? Or was this about something else entirely?
His study. The one room he always kept locked. His “man cave,” as he jokingly called it. Thats where the truth would be.
I waited until he left for work, then picked the locka skill Id picked up from a crime novel, of all things. Inside, the air smelled of his cologne and something elseperfume, but not mine. Beneath a stack of financial papers, I found the receipt for the cameras. And the manual, with the admin password scrawled on the cover: *EddieTheKing*. How painfully predictable.
A plan formed. I carefully removed the hallway camera and repositioned it above his desk, hidden in the vent. The app on his tablet made it easyhis arrogance had left the system wide open. By dusk, everything was back in place. All I had to do was wait.
Edward returned at seven, all smiles, pressing a kiss to my cheek that now felt like a lie.
“Rough day at the office. Mind if I shut myself away for a bit? Need to finish up some reports.”
“Of course, darling,” I said, stirring the shepherds pie on the stove. My voice didnt waver.
The moment his study door clicked shut, I opened the app. Five feeds now, not four. For the first twenty minutes, he typed away. Then the door creaked open.
Sophie. My cousins university roommate, the one whod “popped by for tea” last month while I was at work. She slithered into frame, shedding her cardigan to reveal a silk camisole. Edwards chair squeaked as she perched on his lap.
“I cant keep doing this,” she whined. “When are you going to tell her?”
“Patience, love,” he murmured, nuzzling her neck. “Just a little longer. Dads birthday dinners this weekendperfect time to pitch my business venture. Once the moneys in hand, were off to Majorca. Shell never see it coming.”
Sophie giggled. “And if she figures it out?”
Edward smirked. “Gemma? Please. Shes too busy marking Year 9 essays to notice her own shadow.”
I stopped the recording. Saved it. Twice.
—
The dinner was every bit as excruciating as Id feared. Edwards parents Surrey mansion, all oil portraits and heirloom silver. I wore my best dress, smiled through the prawn cocktail, and waited.
“Dad,” Edward announced over the treacle tart, “Ive got a proposal. A start-uprevolutionary AI for estate agencies. But Ill need seed funding.” He named a sum that couldve bought a flat in Kensington.
His father, Sir Richard, eyed me. “What do you think, Gemma?”
Edward chuckled. “Gems a brilliant teacher, but finance isnt her forte. Still, shes always supported me. Right, darling?”
I dabbed my lips with the linen napkin. “Actually, Richard, Ive recently developed quite an interest in start-ups. Particularly those funding infidelity.” I tapped my phone. The TV above the fireplace flickered to life.
Edwards fork clattered to the plate. “What the”
The footage played in crystal clarity: his hands on Sophies waist, their laughter, the crass dismissal of my intelligence. Lady Margaret covered her mouth. Sir Richards face turned to stone.
When it ended, I stood. “Thats Edwards real venture. Ill be divorcing him tomorrow.”
I left without looking back.
—
**Epilogue Two Years Later**
My cybersecurity firm, *Watchful Eye*, occupies a sleek office near Canary Wharf. We dont just install alarmswe expose vulnerabilities, the ones people bury in prenups and private servers. My team respects me. My clients trust me.
Edward? Last I heard, hed been fired from his brokerage firm. Sophie left him for a hedge fund manager. He writes occasionallyrambling letters postmarked from a bedsit in Croydon. I burn them unopened.
Tonight, though, Im dining at The Savoy. With Daniel, my lead analyst. The man who, six months ago, asked me out by sliding a first-edition Brontë across my desk. No games. No hidden cameras. Just two people who enjoy each others company.
As the waiter pours the wine, it strikes me: the day I found that camera, I thought my life had shattered. In truth, it was the first crack in a façade Id mistaken for solid ground.
Some fires dont destroy. They cleanse.
And from the ashes, I built something unshakable.
