I moved onward because I had to get answers. I had to observe for myself what was going on.

It turned out that Coachella was an outdoor restaurant that made an effort to maintain the festival vibe with loud music and dangling décor. I had little trouble blending in with the surroundings.

I picked a private area where I could see the entrance well without drawing attention to myself. It was an excruciating wait, and the more I sat there, the more I looked forward to seeing Mark. To de-stress, I ordered a cocktail.

Then, as I had fervently hoped, Mark entered the room carrying a woman on his arm rather than by himself. She looked amazing, completely decked out in high-end clothing—the epitome of a Gucci mother.

My heart fell.

I observed Mark and his partner walk over to a table where Tom and his wife, Sasha, were sat; the table was nearly hidden by hanging plants. Both of them leaped up to give the delighted couple hugs. Mark was the lone recipient of the voicemail.

I stayed to observe them for a short while longer, witnessing Mark give her a tender look and caress her neck with his fingertips.

However, amidst a flurry of feelings, a detached determination descended upon me. This was not the time for mourning but for action. I calmly but firmly called over a waiter.

“The priciest champagne you have, for that table,” I said, subtly gesturing to Mark.

The waiter nodded and smiled slightly, detecting the undercurrent of drama and complying.

The bewilderment and forced smiles on their faces when the champagne was brought to their table was a minor win. Mark laughed, even above the music and conversation.

I quickly took a picture of them having their fictitious party and posted it to the internet, tagging Mark. I waited for a few minutes while still sipping my cocktail.

When Mark saw the notification, his response was priceless. His face became pale as he hurriedly looked around the room, but he was still unable to locate me. He tried phoning me in desperation. His calls went unanswered, and I watched, detached, while my phone rang.

I summoned the waiter over again, asking for another bottle of champagne and a piece of paper.

Cheers to our divorce and a great double date! I wrote and ended with my signature.

With a sense of betrayal and hurt, I exited the restaurant, my fleeting bravery vanishing.

That evening, Mark arrived home, packed his belongings, and announced his intention to visit Tom’s residence. He replied he was just having fun and apologized. It seems that he needed to release some steam after a stressful day at work.

We didn’t talk for a week after that. However, I believe it’s time for me to submit the divorce complaint.

How would you have responded if you had been in my position?