My husband, Ryan Thompson, is a well-known celebrity hairstylist in the industry. His clients? All wealthy, high-society women. Late at night, he comes home, strips off his clothes, and falls straight into bed. But tonight, I found a receipt in his jacket pocket. Only one item was listed—condoms. It was purchased at 8:16 p.m. tonight. I froze. Ryan and I hadn’t been intimate in months. So who was he planning to use them with? My name is Melissa Thompson, 26 years old. After graduating, I started working at a bank, mostly dealing with investments and financial planning. My parents are both teachers, and they were always strict with me growing up. They never imagined I’d marry someone from a completely different background than mine. Ryan was the kind of guy any woman would fall for at first glance—handsome, charming, with an easy smile. At the time, he worked as a stylist at a high-end salon near my office. I would often stop by for a haircut after work. Over time, we got to know each other. Ryan’s good looks and sharp sense of humor stood out. He was mature and composed, totally different from the loud, immature guys I knew in college. I fell for him, and soon we started dating. When my father found out, he was furious. He yelled at me for hours. I cried so hard, and my mother, seeing how much pain I was in, finally stepped in to mediate between us. In the end, my father gave in reluctantly. I thought being with the man I loved would be like living in a fairytale, but after we got married, the stress started to pile up. I couldn’t sleep, had nightmares, my hair started falling out, and I looked more and more exhausted every day. Every time I looked in the mirror, it was like staring at a ghost. I’d glance over at Ryan, sitting on the couch scrolling through his phone, his toned abs peeking out from under his shirt. Next to him, I felt worse than ever. My parents were heartbroken when they saw how I looked. After our wedding, they spent most of their savings to buy us a house in a good school district. They even gave Ryan money to help him attend a hairdressing course. The training paid off. Ryan quickly became the star of the salon, eventually being promoted to Lead Stylist. But once he became Lead Stylist, he only got busier. He was out early, back late, and I rarely saw him anymore. When he did come home late, he reeked of alcohol and perfume, too tired to even take off his clothes before passing out in bed. That night was no different. Ryan came home in the middle of the night, collapsed onto the bed without taking off his jacket, and was snoring almost immediately. I felt bad for him, so I reached out to take off his jacket. As I shook it loose, a few strands of long, red, curly hair fell to the floor. I didn’t think much of it at the time—after all, Ryan worked as a stylist and was always covered in different women’s hair. I was used to it by now. I picked up the strands and tossed them in the trash, then hung his jacket over a chair. But then something fell out of his pocket—a crumpled piece of paper. Curious, I unfolded it and saw it was a receipt from the supermarket. Only one item was listed: condoms. It was purchased at 8:16 p.m. that evening. I froze. Ryan and I hadn’t been intimate in ages, so who were the condoms for? Once the thought crossed my mind, it started to take root. I grabbed his jacket and began searching through it more carefully. Finally, I spotted a deep red lipstick stain on the collar. Ryan had always told me how many women were around him at work—flirty receptionists, young clients, and charming female stylists. But his most frequent clients? Wealthy, married women.
From the day we got married, I chose to trust him. I never questioned his work or what he did. But seeing that lipstick stain and the condoms… I couldn’t help it. My mind was racing, spinning out of control. It started affecting my work, so I took a day off and headed straight for Westside Hair Salon. I’d never visited Ryan at work since we got married, and he never invited me to any of his social events. Over time, I realized I didn’t know any of his friends or coworkers. After some asking around, I found the salon at Westfield Century City, taking up a large space on the fifth floor with clear glass walls. As soon as I stepped off the elevator, I saw the huge “Westside Hair Salon” sign. Through the glass doors, I could see a girl with short green hair leaning over the front desk, laughing with Ryan. Ryan had a mischievous grin on his face as he ran his fingers through her hair, making her smile even wider. His eyes trailed over her body, and then he playfully pinched her waist. The girl didn’t pull away. In fact, she leaned into his hand, pressing closer. The chemistry between them was unmistakable. I was frozen in place. Is this what my husband does at work? It felt like my legs were filled with lead. I couldn’t move. Ryan whispered something in the girl’s ear, then turned and walked deeper into the salon. I quickly walked inside, my eyes following him as he disappeared into the VIP suite. The girl at the front desk glanced at me, her face twisting in disdain. “Are you here for a cut or color? Do you have a regular stylist?” I shook my head. “No, just find me whoever’s available.” She called out loudly, “Kevin! A client’s here. Wash her hair.” A slim guy with dyed blonde hair came out from the back. His features were delicate, almost feminine. He smiled at me. “Hey, beautiful. Come with me.” As I followed him, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. I looked like a mess, and hearing him call me “beautiful” felt like a cruel joke. How could anyone in this business lie so easily? Kevin quickly washed my hair and seated me in a chair tucked away in a corner. He placed a white towel over my face and asked, “How do you want your hair cut?” “Whatever,” I muttered. He let my hair down and started cutting, making small talk as he worked. I took the opportunity to get some information. “How’d you hear about us?” he asked. “A friend recommended this place. She’s one of Ryan’s clients. But I didn’t see him out front,” I said, trying to sound casual. Kevin scoffed, clearly irritated. “Ryan? Oh, he’s busy. You need this,” he rubbed his fingers together, implying money. “Oh?” I feigned curiosity. “How much are we talking?” Kevin studied my face for a moment before lowering his voice and leaning in. “Look, you seem nice. You don’t want to get involved in this.”
It was clear Kevin knew a lot. I looked at his face in the mirror and said, “Tell me what you know about Ryan, and I’ll sign up for a VIP membership right here.” Kevin’s eyes lit up, and he grinned. “You got a thing for Ryan too? Trust me, you’re not the only one. His clients are all over him. They drive the nicest cars.” He kept talking as he cut my hair, telling me everything. Apparently, Ryan only handled VIP clients, and to get into the VIP suite, you had to have spent over $100,000 at the salon. “That much?” I asked, surprised. Kevin shrugged, like it was no big deal. “Ryan’s worth it. He’s got a way with those rich women. They just hand him their money.” His voice dripped with jealousy. I looked at Kevin. He was younger and not bad-looking. “You’re good-looking too. I bet those women like your type.” Kevin paused, then burst out laughing. “You’re funny.” He set down the scissors and leaned closer to me. “Ryan has a way of making those women fall for him. They give him whatever he wants.” I raised my eyebrows. “How does he manage that?” Kevin sighed and shook his head, clearly exasperated. “It’s his game. He doesn’t do emotions. If a woman’s hot, he uses her for sex. If she’s rich, he uses her for money.” Just then, we heard a voice from the front. “I want Ryan! I know he’s here. No one else will do.” A young woman was standing at the front desk, arms crossed, shouting. No one seemed to care, continuing with their work. I was shocked. “Aren’t you going to do something?” Kevin hushed me. “This happens all the time. Just wait—someone will always show up looking for Ryan.” I glanced at the girl, her face flushed with anger. No matter how much she yelled, no one paid her any attention. Finally, the green-haired receptionist snapped at her, “If you really want Ryan, I can book you an appointment.” The girl exploded. “Book an appointment? Are you serious? Do you even know what we are to each other?” She waved her finger in the air. “Let me tell you, I slept with him last night. And now he won’t even acknowledge me!” Kevin snorted, trying to stifle a laugh. But I couldn’t laugh. My mind was reeling—my husband, Ryan, was cheating on me. I sat there, staring at the scene, too numb to process it. While I was still in shock, Ryan came out of the VIP suite. The girl immediately dropped her attitude and rushed over to him, her voice dripping with sweetness. “Baby, I’ve been looking for you all day. Why didn’t you come out sooner?” Ryan scowled at her. “This is my workplace. Don’t make a scene.”
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