{"id":2302,"date":"2026-05-25T21:55:26","date_gmt":"2026-05-25T21:55:26","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/?p=2302"},"modified":"2026-05-25T21:55:28","modified_gmt":"2026-05-25T21:55:28","slug":"at-247-a-m-my-husband-confessed-he-married-his-mistress-in-vegas-by-morning-his-entire-life-was-unraveling","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/?p=2302","title":{"rendered":"At 2:47 a.m., my husband confessed he married his mistress in Vegas. By morning, his entire life was unraveling."},"content":{"rendered":"
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My name was Matilda Halloway. I was thirty four years old the night my marriage ended, and if anyone had told me even a week earlier that I would be effectively divorced before I fully understood how broken my life already was, I would have laughed in their face.
\nNot because Jasper and I were wildly in love. We were not.
\n<\/span>Maybe we had not been for longer than I wanted to admit, but we were established and functional. We were polished in that dangerous way long relationships often become when the people inside them grow skilled at performing normal.
\n<\/span>We had a tidy brick house on a quiet street in the northern suburbs outside Des Moines, a kitchen with soft close cabinets I had chosen myself, a shared calendar color coded by who needed the car, and a marriage that looked like a life. At 2:47 that Tuesday morning, laughter was the last thing left in me.
\n<\/span>I had fallen asleep downstairs on the couch with the television on mute, some ridiculous overnight infomercial casting a silver wash over the living room. Jasper was supposed to be in Las Vegas for a work conference.
\n<\/span>He had kissed me on the cheek before leaving that morning, grabbed the carry on I had reminded him three separate times not to overpack, and said, \u201cDo not wait up if my flight gets in weird.\u201d It was such an ordinary sentence, exactly the kind married people say every day, and if there had been something slightly wrong in the tone of it, I either missed it or I felt it and dismissed it because women are taught early to distrust their instincts when the truth would be inconvenient.
\n<\/span>My neck was stiff from sleeping sideways against the armrest. One sock had half slid off my heel.
\n<\/span>An empty mug sat on the coffee table beside a stack of unopened mail and the candle I kept meaning to throw away even though it had burned down to a wax stub two months earlier. The house was so quiet that when my phone buzzed against the glass tabletop, the sound sliced through the room.<\/span><\/p>\n

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I reached for it lazily at first, still sticky with sleep, expecting something ordinary. Maybe Jasper telling me he had landed, or a coworker asking about an early meeting.
\nThen I saw his name. Then I saw the text.
\nHe had written, \u201cJust married Margot. Been sleeping with her for eight months. You are pathetic by the way. Your boring energy made this easy. Enjoy your sad little life.\u201d
\nI read it once, then again, then a third time because my brain refused to believe those words belonged to the same universe as the room around me, the half burned candle, the mug on the table, the framed wedding photo still hanging in the hallway, the bottle of his aftershave upstairs in the bathroom.
\nI did not scream. I did not cry. I did not throw the phone.
\nPeople like to imagine betrayal arrives as an explosion, but sometimes it arrives as a freezing. The body goes still before it understands why.
\nMy breathing flattened. My pulse slowed. The whole world narrowed until all that existed was the glow of the screen and the grain of the wood floor beneath my bare feet.
\nThirty seconds passed, maybe more, and time turned strange. Then I typed one word back.
\n\u201cCool.\u201d
\nThe phone buzzed again almost instantly, but I did not look. Something in me had already shifted, not shattered exactly, but sharpened, like a blade pulled cleanly from fabric.
\nIf Jasper thought he had destroyed me with a Las Vegas wedding chapel and one vicious text message, he had forgotten something fundamental about the life he was leaving behind.
\nI ran it. At 3:15 a.m., I was moving through my own house with the ruthless calm of a woman closing accounts after an audit.
\nThe first thing I did was open the banking app on my phone. Jasper had always been reckless with money in the soft, socially acceptable way that makes some men look spontaneous when what they really are is irresponsible.
\nHe forgot due dates, overordered at restaurants, booked upgrades \u201cfor the experience,\u201d bought gadgets he did not need, and assumed there would always be enough because, in his mind, there always had been enough. There had been enough because I made sure there was.
\nI tracked renewals, watched statements, refinanced at the right time, knew the mortgage dates, the utility drafts, the card balances, the checking reserves, the savings floor, and the investment timing. I knew exactly how much of our day to day life rested on systems I had built so carefully he barely noticed them.<\/p>\n

So I noticed for both of us. Not anymore.<\/p>\n

Every card in his wallet was canceled. Every authorized user privilege disappeared. Every streaming service, shared login, cloud account, shopping app, security access point, delivery account, and digital foothold he still had inside my life was revoked, changed, blocked, or deleted.<\/p>\n

\u201cClick. Remove. Confirm. Done.\u201d<\/p>\n

The deed to the house had always been mine. I bought it three years before I met him, after seven brutal years climbing in a consulting job I hated and then leveraging that experience into a better position at a healthcare operations firm where I learned how to negotiate, budget, and stop apologizing for competence.<\/p>\n

Jasper had moved into a life I had already built. The mortgage, the title, the insurance, the tax record, all in my name.<\/p>\n

The main accounts were mine too. What Jasper had was access. I removed it.<\/p>\n

At 3:30, I called a twenty four hour locksmith. The man who answered sounded like I had dragged him awake by the ankle.<\/p>\n

\u201cEmergency lock change?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis late?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe can do early morning.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI will pay double if you come now.\u201d<\/p>\n

There was a pause, the kind of pause that belongs to a man doing quick math in the dark. \u201cText me the address,\u201d he finally said.<\/p>\n

By four o\u2019clock, his headlights washed across my front windows. He was in his late fifties, with a gray mustache and a thermal hoodie under his work jacket, and he wore the expression of someone who had seen enough late night human collapse to know better than to ask too many questions.<\/p>\n

He hauled his kit up the walk while I stood in the doorway barefoot, wearing an old college sweatshirt and leggings, my hair still tangled from the couch. \u201cLong night?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n

Instead of answering, I held up the phone. He read the text, lifted his brows, then let out a slow whistle that managed to be sympathetic without becoming performative.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell,\u201d he said, \u201cthat is one way to find out you need new locks.\u201d<\/p>\n

It was the exact level of humor I could tolerate, and it steadied me. He worked quickly, changing the front door, back door, side entry, garage keypad, and gate.<\/p>\n

New deadbolts. New keys. New codes.<\/p>\n

While he worked, I reset the Wi-Fi, changed the security passwords, updated the alarm, and logged Jasper\u2019s phone out of every device authorized to access the house. By five in the morning, the house was sealed.<\/p>\n

Jasper Halloway, newly married in Las Vegas to his coworker Margot, was a stranger to every door he had once opened in that place. When the locksmith finished, he handed me two sets of keys and asked if I wanted a third copy made.<\/p>\n

I looked down at the metal in my hand and said, \u201cNo.\u201d He nodded like he understood that my answer had nothing to do with quantity.<\/p>\n

When he drove away, dawn had begun to break in that reluctant blue gray way Midwestern mornings often do. The birds in the hedges had started up.<\/p>\n

The streetlights still glowed. I stood in the foyer holding the keys in one hand and my phone in the other, and for the first time since the text had come through, I did not feel better or safe or vindicated. I just felt in control.<\/p>\n

That mattered. I went upstairs, stripped the bed because I could still smell Jasper\u2019s cologne on the pillowcase, threw the sheets onto the floor, and crawled onto one side of the bare mattress without making it again.<\/p>\n

I slept for two solid hours. At 8:00 a.m. sharp, someone started pounding on the front door.<\/p>\n

It was not tentative, and it was not embarrassed. It was the pounding of someone who still believed access was his by right.<\/p>\n

I sat upright, disoriented for one ugly second until memory slammed back into place. Las Vegas. Text. Locksmith. New locks. New life.<\/p>\n

The pounding came again. Then a male voice, official.<\/p>\n

I dragged on the first robe I found and went downstairs. Through the peephole I saw two police officers on the porch, one older, one younger, both wearing the tired expressions of men who had already been handed too much of someone else\u2019s nonsense and it was not even breakfast yet.<\/p>\n

I opened the door with the chain still latched. The older one cleared his throat. \u201cMa\u2019am, we got a call about a domestic dispute. Your husband says you locked him out of his home.\u201d<\/p>\n

Your husband. The phrase landed like something rotten.<\/p>\n

Without saying a word, I lifted my phone and held the screen toward him through the narrow opening. The Las Vegas message glowed in the soft morning light.<\/p>\n

He read it once, then leaned slightly closer and read it again. The younger officer bit down so hard on the inside of his cheek I thought he might actually break skin trying not to react.<\/p>\n

The older one looked up. \u201cIs this real?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAs far as I know,\u201d I said. \u201cHe sent it at 2:47 this morning from Las Vegas, after apparently marrying another woman.\u201d<\/p>\n

The radio on the officer\u2019s shoulder crackled, and a shrill female voice burst through in fragmented outrage. I did not need an introduction to know it was Constance, Jasper\u2019s mother.<\/p>\n

Her voice lived somewhere between offended grande dame and air raid siren. Even distorted by static, it was impossible to mistake.<\/p>\n

\u201cMa\u2019am,\u201d the officer said into the radio, already exhausted, \u201cthis is not a police matter. He married someone else. We cannot make her let him back in.\u201d<\/p>\n

The radio screeched again. He turned the volume down with the expression of a man who had children and therefore worshipped silence.<\/p>\n

The younger cop shifted. \u201cShe says you stole his things.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI have not touched them,\u201d I said. \u201cThis house was purchased before the marriage. It is in my name. His cards were authorized user cards, not joint ownership. He can retrieve his personal property later.\u201d<\/p>\n

The older officer looked past me into the entryway, maybe checking for smashed furniture or blood or any evidence this was the kind of domestic dispute police training actually prepared you for. Instead he saw what the house always looked like in the morning: umbrella stand, bench, polished table, framed prints, one of Jasper\u2019s shoes half under the entry bench because he never put anything away unless I reminded him.<\/p>\n

\u201cJust do not destroy anything,\u201d he said. \u201cIf he wants his belongings, keep them accessible. Other than that, given this, he has no legal right to force entry.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course,\u201d I said. They left shaking their heads.<\/p>\n

I shut the door, leaned back against it, and let out a breath that felt like it came from somewhere low and old in my body. So, that was how the day was going to be.<\/p>\n

I showered, got dressed, tied my hair back, and went into the guest room closet for moving boxes. Then I packed Jasper\u2019s belongings with the same precision I once brought to quarterly operations reports.<\/p>\n

Clothes folded. Books stacked. Electronics wrapped. Toiletries bagged. Shoes paired.<\/p>\n

Everything labeled clearly in black marker, clothes, books, office, electronics, miscellaneous. If he wanted to claim later that I had damaged anything, he would have to do it against a level of order he had never once brought to our shared life.<\/p>\n

While I packed, memory kept surfacing in flashes. Jasper laughing at dinner parties. Jasper kissing me in grocery store aisles while I held the list. Jasper dropping onto the couch at the end of the day while I finished dishes and telling myself that was fine because he had had a stressful week.<\/p>\n

Jasper saying Margot\u2019s name months earlier in some work story, face turned away while he opened the refrigerator. Margot. Of course she was a Margot.<\/p>\n

There is always a Margot in stories like this, smooth hair, younger by a handful of years, office insider energy, the kind of bright laugh women like me are supposed to dismiss as harmless right up until it is standing in the ruins of our own life in a white dress. I knew who she was in the vague, peripheral way one knows a husband\u2019s coworker.<\/p>\n

Marketing. Younger. Too loud at holiday parties. Once she had complimented my earrings and then spent the rest of the evening orbiting Jasper with that practiced kind of innocence some women use when they want to be noticed but never accused of wanting it.<\/p>\n

By one thirty, every trace of Jasper I could legally remove was boxed and stacked in the garage. I left the wedding album untouched in the linen closet upstairs. He had not yet earned the right to make me touch it.<\/p>\n

At 2:00 p.m., the doorbell rang. I had been expecting him.<\/p>\n

Men like Jasper rarely believe the first consequence is the real one. They assume every locked door is still a negotiation.<\/p>\n

They think if they show up in person with the right face, injured, reasonable, wounded, offended, some older version of the woman on the other side will reappear and rescue them from the mess they made. I moved to the front window, lifted one slat of the blind, and there he was.<\/p>\n

Not alone.<\/p>\n

Margot stood beside him in a cheap white sundress that looked as though it had been purchased in a hurry from a clearance rack in a beach town boutique and had already wrinkled in all the wrong places. Her lipstick was too pink. Her face looked drawn.<\/p>\n

There was still a visible tan line where a different ring must have sat until recently. Behind them stood Constance, dressed as if she were attending a tribunal at which she intended to be personally offended by everyone present, and Blair, Jasper\u2019s younger sister, wearing spite the way some women wear jewelry.<\/p>\n

The sight of them all together, new wife, old mother, loyal sister, was so absurd it nearly made me laugh. Instead of opening the front door and giving them the dignity of a threshold, I hit the garage door opener.<\/p>\n

The door rolled up with a metallic groan. Sunlight poured over the neatly stacked boxes inside.<\/p>\n

Jasper stopped when he saw them. \u201cWow,\u201d he said. \u201cEfficient. Did not even wait for me to get back.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou did not come back,\u201d I said. \u201cYou got married.\u201d Margot looked at the floor.<\/p>\n

Constance surged forward immediately. \u201cThis is outrageous, Matilda. A wife does not throw her husband\u2019s things into the garage like garbage.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI am not his wife anymore,\u201d I said. \u201cAnd nothing here is garbage. It is every last thing he owns. Packed carefully. You are welcome.\u201d<\/p>\n

Blair let out a short, sharp laugh. \u201cYou are such a control freak, Matilda. Always have been. You are just mad Jasper finally found someone who makes him happy.\u201d<\/p>\n

Even Margot flinched at the word happy, which told me more than enough about how secure the honeymoon bubble really was. Jasper planted his feet, squared his shoulders, and dropped into that familiar reasonable man posture he had spent years perfecting.<\/p>\n

Hands on hips. Voice low. Expression injured. He had always known how to make women around him look emotional by comparison.<\/p>\n

\u201cLook,\u201d he said, \u201cI get that you are hurt, but you cannot just shut me out. This house is.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThis house,\u201d I cut in, \u201cwas purchased three years before I met you. Your name has never been on the deed.\u201d He went pale for half a heartbeat, then flushed hard from the collar up.<\/p>\n

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Constance hissed as if I had insulted her bloodline. \u201cWe will call the police again. You cannot erase a marriage in one night.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFunny,\u201d I said. \u201cThat is exactly what Jasper did.\u201d Blair rolled her eyes. \u201cSo dramatic.\u201d<\/p>\n

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Margot stood there fidgeting with the rental truck keys, and that was when I noticed it, she was not standing in strength at all. She was beginning, in real time, to understand what she had actually married.<\/p>\n

Not some brave romantic hero escaping a loveless wife. Not a truth teller who had finally chosen passion. Just a sloppy man who thought cruelty was power and logistics were something women existed to handle for him.<\/p>\n

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A rental company driver waited near the curb, already looking as though he regretted this route. Margot stepped forward, swiped a card through the handheld reader. Declined.<\/p>\n

She frowned and tried again. Declined. She dug another card from her purse and swiped that one too. Declined.<\/p>\n

The driver coughed politely. \u201cMa\u2019am, if the balance is not covered.\u201d Jasper yanked his wallet out and thrust his own card toward the machine. \u201cUse mine.\u201d<\/p>\n

Margot turned toward him. \u201cI thought.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShut up,\u201d he snapped. There it was. The first visible crack in the fantasy.<\/p>\n

The new wife blinking in the July heat while the old patterns emerged the second reality asked for payment. I crossed my arms. \u201cLooks like the Las Vegas glow wore off pretty fast.\u201d<\/p>\n

Blair snapped, \u201cYou think you are so smart, Matilda. But you are bitter, alone, thirty four. What do you even have left?\u201d<\/p>\n

I stepped close enough that some of her bravado thinned under direct eye contact. \u201cWhat do I have left?\u201d I said softly. \u201cMy house. My career. My freedom. And I do not have Jasper. Honestly, that is the best part.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jasper flinched so slightly most people would have missed it. Margot turned to him again. \u201cDid you know she canceled all your cards?\u201d<\/p>\n

Panic flashed through his face before anger rushed in to cover it. I let that moment breathe. Let her see him. Let him know I saw that she saw him.<\/p>\n

Then I said, almost sweetly, \u201cOh, and Margot? Your new husband\u2019s company has a strict no fraternization policy. I wonder how human resources will feel about a Las Vegas marriage between coworkers.\u201d<\/p>\n

Her head snapped toward him. \u201cYou said it would not matter.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMargot,\u201d he said through his teeth, \u201cshut up.\u201d<\/p>\n

The air in the garage thickened. Constance made one last attempt to seize control through volume alone. \u201cYou are vindictive, Matilda. This is exactly why Jasper left. You always had to be in charge. Always making everyone feel small.\u201d<\/p>\n

I almost admired how smoothly she could step around a son who married his mistress in Nevada and still land on me as the problem.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know what,\u201d I said, \u201cyou are right about one thing. I do like being in charge of my own house.\u201d I looked at Jasper. \u201cYou have one hour to load up and leave. After that, the locks get checked again and whatever remains goes into storage under your name.\u201d<\/p>\n

They argued, naturally. Constance called me cold. Blair called me pathetic. Jasper muttered vague threats about lawyers he could not afford.<\/p>\n

Margot stood in the middle of it all with her wrinkled white dress and failing certainty, learning too late that she had not stepped into a love story. She had stepped into a liquidation. But they packed.<\/p>\n

Box after box came down the driveway while the summer heat pressed against the pavement and the neighborhood pretended not to watch. Constance kept issuing commands no one followed. Blair sneered at every load she had to lift. Margot went increasingly silent.<\/p>\n

Jasper sweated through the back of his shirt by the third trip and looked steadily less like a newly married man and more like someone dragging the full weight of his own stupidity uphill. I stood in the garage doorway with the remote in one hand and watched.<\/p>\n

Let them carry it, I thought. Every lie. Every fantasy. Every convenience they built by hollowing out my life from the inside.<\/p>\n

I did not have to anymore. When the truck finally drove away and the street settled back into afternoon stillness, the house did something unexpected. It exhaled.<\/p>\n

The furniture had not moved. The rooms looked the same. The refrigerator still chimed if the door did not seal all the way. The clock still ticked upstairs.<\/p>\n

But some invisible pressure had lifted, the kind you do not even realize you are carrying until it is suddenly gone. I should have known peace would not last. It rarely does when wounded egos still have internet access.<\/p>\n

Two mornings later, I woke to my phone vibrating so hard on the nightstand it sounded like panic. Not one notification. Not a few. A flood.<\/p>\n

Texts. Tags. Missed calls. Facebook mentions. Instagram alerts. Even LinkedIn, which should be protected by law from family drama and somehow never is. For one disoriented second, I thought someone must have died.<\/p>\n

In a way, someone had. Jasper\u2019s public dignity, maybe.<\/p>\n

By the time I opened the first post, I understood exactly what had happened. Jasper had gone to war, digital war, which is really just old fashioned character assassination with better lighting and more audience participation.<\/p>\n

And he had brought Constance and Blair with him like backup singers in a pathetic little opera. They were everywhere.<\/p>\n

Facebook first, because Constance liked an audience broad enough to include distant acquaintances and people from church who still believed tears meant truth. Instagram next, because Blair never saw a chance to perform that she did not seize. LinkedIn after that, because apparently no platform is too inappropriate when your family\u2019s need for public sympathy becomes desperate enough.<\/p>\n

Their story was absurd, coordinated, and polished just enough to fool the kind of people who never pause before taking sides. Matilda Halloway is abusive. She trapped Jasper in a loveless marriage. She controlled him. Manipulated him financially. Humiliated him for years.<\/p>\n

He finally escaped and found real love.<\/p>\n

Constance posted a tearful selfie with some nonsense about praying for sons who suffer in silence. Blair uploaded a photo of herself with Margot and captioned it like she was shielding a wounded family member from toxicity. And Jasper posted the centerpiece, he and Margot under a filtered desert sunset, smiling stiffly, with some variation of finally found peace.<\/p>\n

The lies themselves did not hurt me. What hurt were the comments.<\/p>\n

People I knew. People who had eaten in my home. People who had toasted us at New Year\u2019s parties and asked me where I bought my flowers.<\/p>\n

\u201cWow, I always thought something was off about Matilda. She did seem controlling. Good for you, Jasper. Everyone deserves happiness. Proud of you for getting out.\u201d<\/p>\n

My hands shook so badly I had to set the phone down on the comforter before I dropped it. It was not just gossip. It was a campaign.<\/p>\n

And for a few hours, if I am honest, it worked on me, not because I believed any of it, but because public lies still have a way of invading the body. I got hot, then sick, then so furious I had to sit on the bedroom floor and breathe through it.<\/p>\n

Not because strangers thought badly of me. Because Jasper was trying to erase what he had done by replacing it with a cleaner story in which I was the villain and he was the brave man who had finally chosen joy. He had always hated facts.<\/p>\n

That afternoon, I called Quentin. Every woman should have at least one friend whose brain is so technical and so morally uncomplicated that when you say, \u201cSomeone is lying about me online,\u201d his first response is not, \u201cIgnore it,\u201d but, \u201cLet us see what proof they forgot to hide.\u201d<\/p>\n

Quentin had known both Jasper and me for years. He was the kind of man who could fix a router with a paper clip, despised fuzzy thinking, and once rebuilt my home office network after Jasper spilled beer into the modem and suggested maybe the house wiring just sucked. He was also completely immune to charm, which meant Jasper had never quite known how to manage him.<\/p>\n

Quentin answered on the second ring. \u201cHey. You okay? I have seen some things.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThey are everywhere,\u201d I said, and heard my own voice shake. \u201cHe is turning people against me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou start,\u201d Quentin said, \u201cby not panicking. Then you start by fighting back. I think I know how.\u201d<\/p>\n

By evening, he was sitting at my kitchen table with a laptop open, his glasses halfway down his nose, fingers moving so fast over the keys they blurred. He muttered to himself while he worked, a mix of irritated engineer and opportunistic detective.<\/p>\n

\u201cJasper thinks he is clever,\u201d he said. \u201cBut he is careless. Always has been. Same password patterns. Same recovery questions. Same synced browser sessions. He never clears anything because he assumes nobody else is looking.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat sounds familiar,\u201d I said…………………<\/p>\n

Click Here to continuous Read\u200b\u200b\u200b\u200b Full Ending Story\ud83d\udc49PART(II):\u200b At 2:47 a.m., my husband confessed he married his mistress in Vegas. By morning, his entire life was unraveling.<\/a><\/h1>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/section>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

My name was Matilda Halloway. I was thirty four years old the night my marriage ended, and if anyone had told me even a week earlier that I would be … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":2304,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2302","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-story"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2302","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=2302"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2302\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2307,"href":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2302\/revisions\/2307"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/2304"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=2302"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=2302"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=2302"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}