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The newsroom hummed on a Monday, just another day at the Johnson County Chronicle. My husband, Mark, the owner, was supposedly on an "urgent business trip" in Springfield. Then I saw it: his rarely used Instagram had a new post. Mark, arm around Tiffany Hayes, the new social media girl, at our local Fall Harvest Festival. Smiling, too close, sharing a cider donut. My breath stopped. He wasn't gone; he was here, with her. I instinctively tapped 'like'. A quiet "I see you." Moments later, Mark called. Furious. "What the hell was that? Trying to embarrass me?" He snapped. He accused me of being a "jealous teenager," aggressively defending Tiffany. The next day, she publicly twisted my 'like' into a classist insult on Slack. Then Mark' s public decree: "Apologize, or you're suspended." Suspended? From the paper I' d built for seven years? He wanted me to apologize to his mistress, who was publicly attacking me? I recalled his indifference when my throat closed from an allergic reaction, leaving me to rush to her aid. And now, he wanted me to give up six months' salary as "compensation" for her manufactured "emotional distress." The sheer audacity was stunning. "No, Mark," I said, my voice calm. "The answer is no." My resignation email, effective immediately, hit send. Relief, sharp and clean, washed over me. This fight was already over for me. He just didn't know it yet.