I came home from a work trip and found a pair of women’s panties in my bed. Lacy, red, and definitely not mine.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just folded them neatly, washed them… and wore them.

That evening, when my husband came through the door, I greeted him in those very panties.

“Look, baby,” I smiled sweetly, “I finally found that pair I thought I lost years ago!”

The way his face paled was almost comical. But I kept my composure.

“I made your favorite—lasagna,” I said, placing the steaming dish on the table. “Promise me you’ll eat every bite.”

He stared at the plate like it might explode. “Uh… I’m not hungry,” he stammered. “Stomachache.”

For the next month, I was flawless. The house sparkled. Dinner was always hot. I kissed him goodnight, called him honey, and made sure he saw me watching true-crime documentaries every evening—particularly the ones where wives snapped.

He couldn’t sleep. He started twitching at every sound, watching me from the corner of his eye.

And then… one night, he cracked.

Through tears and shaky breath, he confessed: “It was a mistake. A stupid, one-time thing.”

I tilted my head and looked at him, calm as ever.

“Thank you for telling me,” I said. “Now pack your things.”

The next day, he received the divorce papers—with a handwritten note attached: ‘Bon appétit.’