…immediately went straight to the concierge desk. Since the original reservation was secured under my name and credit card before we “officially” canceled it, securing a spare key to the oceanfront suite was completely effortless.
I stepped inside to find the room littered with empty beer bottles, discarded golf polos, and half-eaten room service trays. They were clearly out enjoying the beach. I didn’t waste a single second.
First, I called the front desk and upgraded myself to the resort’s top-floor penthouse suite. I transferred the original booking’s balance—along with my new, astronomical daily rate and an immediate order of vintage champagne—directly to his coveted corporate card.
Next, I opened his luggage and packed up every single item of clothing he had brought. Designer swimsuits, linen shirts, his expensive loafers, even his socks. I left him nothing but a single, standard-issue hotel bathrobe.
But the true lesson required a much sharper edge. I picked up my phone and called his boss. I played the role of the innocent, doting wife perfectly, thanking him profusely for allowing my husband to expense such a luxurious “client wellness retreat” in the tropics. I knew full well he had claimed he was attending a mandatory, career-making sales conference in freezing Chicago.
Two hours later, I was lounging on my private penthouse terrace, listening to the ocean, when my phone buzzed. It was him.
“Where are my clothes?!” he hissed, blind panic lacing his voice. “And why did my boss just call screaming and fire me?!”
I smiled, taking a slow sip of my champagne. “I thought you were working, honey,” I replied coolly. “Since you’re clearly on a boys’ trip, I decided to take the luxury vacation I deserved. Enjoy the bathrobe. Oh, and by the way, my lawyer is already drafting the divorce papers. I suggest you ask your best friend if you can move into his guest room when you get back.”
I hung up, blocked his number, and turned my face up toward the tropical sun.
