My ex-husband, Alan, and I had been together for seven years and had two daughters, aged five and four.

My best friend, Stacey, she knew everything—about my heart, broken by betrayal, and about my children, whom he abandoned. But I stayed silent when she decided to marry him, only a year and a half after our divorce. I couldn’t believe how quickly he had ensnared her. She even wanted to remain friends, but I wanted no part of it.

After the wedding, I thought I’d never hear her voice again — until a call came at three in the morning. Groggy and confused, I saw Stacey’s name flash on the screen. I almost didn’t answer. But curiosity—and maybe a touch of schadenfreude—got the better of me.

“Hello?”

Her scream was so chilling it made my hair stand on end: “I NEED YOUR HELP! THIS CONCERNS YOU MORE THAN YOU THINK!”

What’s going on? Look, I don’t have anything to—”

“Alan… he’s not who I thought he was. He’s worse, Lily. So much worse,” she cut me off.

I felt a shiver run down my spine. What could be worse than what I already know?

“Worse? What are you talking about?” I asked.

She inhaled sharply, trying to steady her voice. “He has a wardrobe in his office. He always told me not to go in there, but yesterday I did. Lily, the inside is covered in photos. Of women. Dozens of women. Me. You. Her. And others I don’t even recognize.”

“Photos? What kind of photos?”

“They all have dates and numbers written on them,” she whispered. “I think… I think he’s been che:ating on me. On both of us. On everyone.”

“Stacey, why are you telling me this? You married him. You knew what he was capable of.”

Her voice cracked. “Because I didn’t believe you! I thought you were bitter. But now, I’m scared, Lily. I don’t know what he’ll do if he finds out I’ve seen it. Please, can I come over? I don’t feel safe.”

Stacey showed up at my house less than an hour later. She was clutching her phone like a lifeline.

“Start talking,” I said.

She sat on my couch, wringing her hands. “I went back into his office last night. After he left for a two-day fishing trip, I managed to break into the wardrobe. He keeps it locked. But I managed to open it with a screwdriver. It wasn’t just photos, Lily. There were journals. Notes about the women. Ratings. Scores. He’s been doing this for years.”

“I always knew he was worse than he seemed,” I laughed.

“How many women?” My heart raced, dreading the answer.

“At least 40 during your marriage,” she said, her eyes brimming with tears. “And eight more since we got married. Eight women in just two months.”

The weight of betrayal pressed down on me, threatening to suffocate. It was like a punch to the gut. I thought I had moved on, but the betrayal felt fresh and raw.

“Why are you dragging me into this?” I asked.

“Because he’s the father of your daughters,” Stacey said. “Don’t you want to know who he really is? What he’s capable of? Don’t you want to expose him?”

Though I hated Alan, I had to protect my girls. “Fine,” I said, grabbing my laptop. “Show me what you’ve got.”

So, Stacey and I worked together, identifying the women in Alan’s photos on social media.

As we reached out and met some of them in person the following morning, most confirmed short, meaningless encounters with Alan.

One woman described him as “charming, until he wasn’t.” Another called him “cold and calculating.” Each story added a new layer to the monster I’d once called my husband.

A bitter laugh escaped me. “I should have known. I always knew something was off,” I told Stacey.

“What do we do now?”

“We’re not victims anymore. We’re survivors,” I declared. “We fight back.”

“Alan has no idea what’s coming,” I added.

As he returned from his fishing trip and found Stacey gone, his rage spilled over. He tried to show up at her new place, banging on the door, demanding answers. She called the police, and he left before their arrival.

Some weeks later, Stacey filed for divorce, cutting all ties with Alan. I reopened my custody case, armed with evidence of his behavior.

Alan sent me a flurry of messages, first pleading, then threatening. I blocked him.

In court, the evidence we presented was damning. Alan’s charm couldn’t save him this time. The photos, the journals, the testimonies… every bit of it painted a clear picture of the man he truly was.

After the things ended, Stacey and I found ourselves sitting in my living room, a quiet relief hanging between us.

“We made it through!” I said, feeling a weight lift from my shoulders

“Thank you,” Stacey said softly. “For helping me. For believing me.”

My anger softened, replaced by an unexpected understanding. We were both victims of his manipulation. But we were not weak.

I looked at her, the anger I’d carried for so long finally fading. “We both deserved better than him.”

She nodded. “So… what now?”

My spirit felt renewed, ready for whatever came next. I took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Now, we move on. Together.”

A sense of sisterhood emerged, stronger than any betrayal. And for the first time in years, I felt free. Not just from Alan, but from the pain he had caused.