Author: Momo Chan

As I was cleaning the room over the weekend, I swept under the bed and found a wrapper. Any adult would know what it was. Mia and I had been trying for a baby for over two months without using any protection, so there’s no way that thing was mine. I looked at the wrapper closely—it was clearly used recently. A terrible thought exploded in my mind: Was Mia cheating on me? I found a cigarette butt in the trash can in our bathroom, and I don’t smoke. My wife, Mia, hates the smell of cigarettes—so who smoked it? We hadn’t had any guests over recently. Holding the cigarette butt, I asked Mia who had been here. She stammered, saying it might have been left by the guy who came to fix the water heater. Our water heater had been broken for a while, and it was indeed fixed recently, so I didn’t think much of it at the time. But then, over the weekend, while cleaning, I found a wrapper under the bed. Any adult would know what it was. Mia and I had been trying to have a baby for two months without protection. So, this contraceptive wrapper wasn’t mine. I looked at it again—it was obviously used recently. That horrible thought resurfaced: Was Mia cheating on me? I didn’t confront her right away. With work keeping me so busy, I hadn’t spent much time with her lately, and things between us had become tense. I wanted to believe this was all just a misunderstanding. The next day, I took a day off from work and sent Mia out to hang with her friends on purpose. I called the home appliance repair company, claiming our water heater was broken again, and requested the same guy who had come last time. About fifteen minutes later, he arrived—a tall, clean-cut young man. He smiled confidently as he came in. I led him to the bathroom and, as a test, I pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered him one. To my surprise, he immediately pushed it away, saying, “Sorry, man, I don’t smoke.” I was stunned, but more than that, I was suspicious. The cigarette butt in the trash hadn’t come from him. Mia had lied to me. He checked the water heater and told me nothing was wrong. I mumbled some excuse and sent him on his way. He was polite, but as he was leaving, he said something that completely threw me off: “Hope you’re feeling better, man. Your wife’s been worried about you.” Feeling better? What was he talking about? I pulled him back inside and asked more questions. He told me that when he was here a few days ago, he heard a man coughing in the bedroom. Mia had said it was me—she told him I had a fever and was resting. My mind reeled in shock. That night, I wasn’t even home. I had been working late and didn’t get back until after midnight. So, whoever that man was, it wasn’t me. I asked if he had seen the man’s face. He shook his head. I handed him $500 and told him to keep this between us. I rushed to the nearest Best Buy and bought a hidden camera, planning to gather evidence. I looked all over the bedroom for a good spot, and finally, I noticed the gap between some suitcases on top of the wardrobe—a perfect place to hide the camera. As I stood on a chair, ready to install the camera, I spotted something strange in the gap. I reached in and pulled out a hidden camera—one much more sophisticated than mine. Who had put this here? And when? Someone had been spying on me and Mia. A flood of questions raced through my mind. I didn’t want to alert anyone, so I carefully put the camera back. At that moment, my phone rang. It was Mia. She purred into the phone, “Hey honey, are you home? Are you heading back to work this afternoon?” Why was she asking? Could it be that she was planning to bring her lover to our house? I calmly answered, “No, I just left for work. You’ll have to grab lunch by yourself.” She sighed and hung up. I decided to stay hidden at home and catch them red-handed. I went to the kitchen and grabbed a knife, just in case. Around noon, I heard Mia’s laughter outside the door. I peered through the peephole. Mia was all dressed up—heavy makeup, a revealing outfit—and she was clinging to a man I recognized all too well: Randy Johnson, my coworker. Randy was the type of guy who flirted with half the women in the office. Everyone knew about his affairs. He and I were cordial, but nothing more. But how did he end up with Mia? They were standing so close, his arm around her waist, looking more intimate than I could handle. Inside, I was boiling with rage, gripping the knife so tightly my palms were sweaty. My whole body trembled as I fought the urge to run out and tear them apart. But I held myself back. Instead, I pulled out my phone to take pictures as evidence. Just as I clicked the camera, the shutter sound went off loudly. They might not have heard it, but I panicked and dropped the knife on the tiled floor, which made a sharp, echoing noise. Immediately, they stopped talking. I ran to the kitchen and pretended to be busy. A minute later, Mia slowly opened the door and, hearing me in the kitchen, came to check on me. Seeing me chopping vegetables, she asked cautiously, “Honey, I thought you went to work?” I smiled and said, “I heard you sounded a bit down on the phone, so I figured I’d make you lunch before heading back to work.” But inside, I was thinking: You lying cheat, did I ruin your little plan? Mia wrapped her arms around me from behind, whispering about how lucky she was to have me, saying she was the happiest woman in the world. I swallowed my disgust and played along.

The entire afternoon, I couldn’t stop thinking about how I would deal with those two. I knew I needed solid evidence of their affair. I checked the photos I had taken through the peephole, but they were too blurry to identify anyone. That night, Mia went to take her usual bath. Oddly enough, this time, she didn’t bring her phone with her. The screen was blinking with notifications, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that there might be some incriminating messages. While she was in the shower, I picked up her phone. Her password was her birthday, so I easily unlocked it. I opened WhatsApp and saw a few unread messages from Randy. I hesitated. If I read them, would Mia know? But I couldn’t stop myself. I clicked them open. What I found left me stunned. They had started seeing each other two months ago—right after that company dinner, when Mia had attended as my plus-one. I couldn’t believe it. They had only met once before hooking up, and for the thrill of it, they had done it right here in my home. And they had timed it around when I got off work. It was a complete betrayal of everything I believed. But what shocked me more was that they had a plan. Before Mia and I got married, we had signed a fidelity agreement stating that if either of us cheated, the guilty party would leave the marriage with nothing. All our assets, the house, the cars—they were all paid for by me. Mia was planning to take everything. And it was her idea. Randy had agreed to help her pull it off. They even had a lengthy video call discussing it. What was Randy going to do for her? Were they plotting something even bigger? I had kept myself faithful to this marriage, barely interacting with the cleaning lady, let alone having an affair. How did Randy plan to frame me? I scrolled further through their chat and discovered that the hidden camera in the bedroom had been planted by Mia, following Randy’s instructions. I checked Mia’s spending history and found that they regularly booked rooms at the same Hilton Hotel. When Mia got out of the shower, I put her phone back and carefully observed her reaction when she picked it up. She seemed unaware that I had gone through it. Over the next few days, I continued to go to work as usual. Every time I saw Randy was missing from the office, I pretended to be sick and took the day off, spending my time staking out the hotel, taking pictures to gather more evidence. What I discovered was shocking. Randy wasn’t just cheating with Mia—he brought a different woman to the hotel each time. The guy was a total scumbag. After about a week, I had enough evidence, but I wasn’t ready to confront Mia or file for divorce yet. I had a plan to make Randy suffer first.

One morning, I arrived at work, and Randy was already there, smiling and greeting me like nothing had happened. He looked so innocent, it was disgusting. He had been sleeping with our overweight boss, Mrs. Smith—everyone knew it. She had made advances toward me in the past, but I had rejected her, which had led to her giving me a hard time at work. Lately, Randy’s workload had mysteriously lightened, even though he often showed up late, left early, or skipped days entirely. And yet, he was still being considered for Employee of the Month. It had to be because of his relationship with Mrs. Smith. I couldn’t believe he was willing to go that far for success. Mrs. Smith’s husband was notoriously strict with her. He would stop by the office unannounced to keep an eye on her, and Randy and Mrs. Smith would sneak off to the stairwell for their rendezvous. One day, I managed to snap some photos of them together. I also had pictures of Randy from the hotel with her. Once I had everything ready, I anonymously sent all the photos to Mr. Smith—showing them hugging, kissing, the whole disgusting affair. The very next day, Mr. Smith stormed into the office with several big guys in tow. Randy, sensing danger, tried to run, but he didn’t get far. The men grabbed him and beat him so badly he was spitting blood. A few coworkers threatened to call the police, so they finally stopped. Mrs. Smith, terrified, hid in her office but was soon dragged out by her furious husband. After the chaos, I helped Randy up, pretending to be concerned. Seeing him bruised and barely able to stand was deeply satisfying. That evening, back at home, Mia casually asked, “I heard Randy got beaten up at work. How is he?” I held back a laugh. It was clear she had heard from Randy himself. “Yeah,” I said, “apparently he was hooking up with our boss, and her husband found out. He came in and beat him up.” As I told her this, I watched her closely. Her expression didn’t change much, which made me wonder—did she know about Randy’s other affairs? If she did and still stayed with him, well, that just proved the old saying true: “Birds of a feather flock together.” After dinner, I got up to do the dishes, but Mia stopped me, saying I had been working too hard lately and that she’d take care of them. I found it odd. She hadn’t offered to do this in a while. As I sat back down, I noticed her phone lighting up with a notification. I clicked on it—it was a message from Randy. Their previous chat history was gone. Had she deleted it because she knew I had checked? But the message made my blood run cold: “I got my test results. I have HIV.”

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The trending topics were filled with their public announcement video. My boyfriend said to me, “I need someone who can keep up with me, and all you do is hold me back.” I smiled, hung up the phone, and immediately called all the brands he was working with to cancel his contracts. My boyfriend is a popular actor. We agreed to keep our relationship private for the sake of his career. Today, he was supposed to come celebrate my birthday with me. But instead of him showing up, what I got was a trending video of him announcing his relationship with Lila Preston, the new rising starlet. In the video, he smiled so radiantly, just like when I first met him. The footage was from a recent vacation they took abroad together, one he had told me was for a company-sponsored shoot. I felt like a complete fool. I called him, demanding an explanation. “Dylan Hawthorne, what’s going on with the trending video?” I asked. He scoffed, “Isn’t it obvious? Avery, I’m with Lila Preston now. She can offer me the best resources. I need a partner who can keep up with me, not drag me down.” I hung up and immediately called every brand that worked with Dylan, telling them to terminate their contracts with him. I even offered to cover any breach-of-contract penalties myself. For years, I worked behind the scenes to connect Dylan with major brands, securing resources and partnerships, turning him from an unknown trainee into the rising star he is today. But he never knew any of this. To him, I was just a plain, unremarkable girl who didn’t care much about appearances—a fan who loved him to the bone. We started dating when he was still an unknown trainee. Back then, his company posted a video of him practicing a dance routine—zero views, zero comments. I was the first person to click on it and became his first fan. I followed him on Twitter and sent him messages of encouragement. He told me he cried out of joy. At that time, I found him to be genuine, sunny, and driven. After we secretly got together, I pitied that he wasn’t getting the company’s attention or resources. So, I used my connections to gradually build him into the star he is today. But over time, he became blinded by the applause and the limelight. This isn’t the first time Dylan and Lila Preston have trended together. The last time was when they were caught by the media, spending five hours in a hotel room while filming together. I confronted him with the reports, and he brushed it off, irritated, “We were just discussing the script. What, should we have sat in the hotel lobby instead? Do you really believe those gossip reporters over me? I can’t talk to you anymore.” That fight didn’t end well, and after that, his attitude toward me grew colder. I even questioned if it was my lack of trust that pushed him away. Looking back, I realize now I was just overthinking it. Dylan had long been ready to kick me aside and fly straight into Lila Preston’s arms.

The next morning, several brands announced that they had cut ties with Dylan Hawthorne, and it quickly trended online. People were speculating whether Dylan had done something wrong or offended someone powerful. Of course, no one knew it was all because of me. The brands would never dare to reveal my name. My family is one of the top corporations in the country, and crossing me would be equivalent to cutting off their financial lifeline. Last night, Lila Preston’s fans had been sending them congratulations. But by morning, they were flooding Dylan’s social media with insults. “Can you not drag my girl down with you?” “If you know what’s good for you, break up. Don’t pull Lila into your mess.” “Is he a gold digger or what?” “Trying to stay relevant by using our Lila’s name? Gross. Lila, run while you can!” Some even started speculating: “I heard Lila Preston has a sponsor, and this announcement upset them. That’s why all of Dylan’s endorsements were pulled.” I couldn’t help but laugh out loud when I saw that one. Honestly, it wasn’t far from the truth. Except the one who’s upset was me, and I was Dylan’s real sponsor. That said, Lila also had someone backing her—someone who saw her commercial potential and decided to promote her. That person just so happened to be my childhood friend, the one I grew up with but never quite got along with—Grayson Whitmore. To be honest, before that video was posted last night, I always thought Lila and Grayson would end up together. Sure, Grayson could be a bit cold and had a bad temper, but he wasn’t a bad guy overall. He’s handsome, wealthy—an ideal catch for most women. As I thought about it, I suddenly wondered—should I offer him some comfort? After all, we’ve known each other for so many years. It wouldn’t hurt for two heartbroken people to console each other. I shot him a message: “Don’t be sad. There’s plenty of fish in the sea.” He replied almost immediately: “?” “It’s okay. I know you’re upset. If you need to cry, go ahead.” “You’re nuts.” Well, he just broke up; I’ll let it slide. No point in arguing with him. I glanced at Twitter, and the trending topics had shifted again. This time, it was a statement from Hawthorne Talent Management, essentially telling the public not to spread rumors or face legal consequences. They also announced that all of Dylan’s upcoming events had been suspended. In other words, Dylan was officially blacklisted. I couldn’t help but smile. Sweet, sweet justice. Later, several brand managers called me. Apparently, Dylan’s agent had been blowing up their phones, frantically asking why all his contracts were suddenly canceled. Exhausted, the managers asked me if they should come up with some excuse. I coldly replied, “Just tell him—it’s because his client brought it on himself.” When I love you, I give you everything. But when I stop, I take back every ounce of it.

A few days later, Grayson Whitmore invited me to a charity gala. I rarely attend events like that because I can’t stand the superficial small talk. But I thought, why not keep him company? It would be a nice distraction for both of us. I wore a sleek custom gown, my hair pinned up, revealing my smooth, fair shoulders, and I did my makeup much more dramatically than usual. When Grayson saw me, his eyes narrowed slightly, though his face remained as stoic as ever. He took off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders, his tone flat, “It’s cold in the ballroom. I’m not responsible if you catch a cold.” I shrugged it off, tossing the jacket back at him. “It’s ugly with this outfit.” He didn’t say anything, but his face darkened even more. At the event, I ran into an old acquaintance. Dylan walked right past me, wearing the custom suit I had once bought him. I looked so different tonight that he didn’t even recognize me at first. That suit cost six figures, but to avoid making him feel bad, I’d told him it was an off-the-rack design for a few thousand. Now, with all his work suspended, his presence here could only mean one thing—Lila Preston was here too. Suddenly, I realized why Grayson had invited me. He wanted to get under his ex’s skin. Who knew this cold, stoic man had such a cunning side? I hooked my arm through Grayson’s, giving him a knowing look. Since my ex was here, it was time to let Dylan experience some regret. Grayson glanced down at my arm, “So, you’re using me to get back at your ex?” What? He’s the one who wanted to mess with his ex first! I’m just playing along. “Hey, if we’re all gathered here, we might as well help each other out, right? Don’t be so stingy.” He shot me his usual response, “You’re nuts.” But he didn’t let go of my hand. Ah, men. They say one thing, but their actions say another. We spent the evening mingling with business moguls and Hollywood elites, exchanging fake compliments and stiff smiles. I kept glancing around, but there was no sign of Lila Preston. Then, a short, curvy woman approached us. I recognized her. She had inherited her late husband’s vast fortune last year and loved attending these events with a different young man on her arm each time. I noticed a familiar watch on the hand resting on her waist. I looked up. Oh, wow. It’s Dylan. “Well, if it isn’t little Dylan,” Grayson said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You know him?” the woman asked, surprised, looking between Dylan and me. Dylan finally recognized me and pointed, confused, “Avery?” “Yes, Vivian, we’re old friends,” Grayson said smoothly, patting my hand. Though Dylan and Grayson had never met, Grayson knew all about my history with Dylan. “So, Dylan, where’s Lila Preston tonight?” I chimed in, joining in on the sarcastic fun. “Dylan and Lila are ancient history,” Vivian purred, stroking his hand. Her bright red lips stretched into a wide grin, making the heavy makeup on her face even more garish. I saw a brief flash of disgust cross Dylan’s face. Grayson and I exchanged amused glances, sharing a quiet, satisfied smile.

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On my way to meet the lawyer with the will in hand, I was in a car accident. The car was totaled, and I didn’t survive. When I opened my eyes again, I was sitting in a classroom at Brentwood University, back in 2002. Sitting next to me was a 19-year-old Julian Mercer, my boss. “Are you… Julian Mercer?” He was in the same class as me? Julian slightly turned his head, acknowledging that he heard me, though his eyes stayed focused on Professor Dean Foster at the front. “Yeah.” I looked at this young man, wearing a worn-out hoodie and a pair of ill-fitting sneakers. Julian was hurriedly taking notes, and I noticed the bruises on his wrists. This handsome, slender boy would, ten years later, become my boss. He was the one who left all his wealth to me when I was at my lowest. I glanced down at my hands—smooth and delicate. They were completely different from the rough, worn hands I had before. And right there beside me, I spotted a 2002 Chanel handbag. Back when I worked for Julian, my family had fallen into hard times. The few designer bags I owned were gifts from him, given as year-end bonuses. I pulled out a compact from the bag, carefully studying the beautiful young woman reflected in the mirror. I had really been given a second chance.

After class, Julian picked up his books and quickly left. I tried to follow him, but a girl blocked my way. “Sienna, why were you talking to that loser today?” Loser? She must be talking about Julian. “So what if I talked to him?” Her eyes widened, and she reached out to touch my forehead. “Weren’t you the one who used to say he smelled like dirt and was gross?” What? I hated Julian? I tried to recall, but I really had no memory of him from our university days. “I was immature back then. Now I think he’s amazing—an inspiration.” I glanced up, and there he was, standing at the doorway, lips tightly pressed together, looking a bit uneasy. “Did you forget something?” I smiled at him, offering as much kindness as I could. He nodded but didn’t look at me. I grabbed the keys on the desk and handed them to him, following him out of the classroom. His pants were clearly too short, and his shoes too big, revealing the backs of his heels as he walked. There were several blisters on his feet, and I noticed more bruises on his ankles. “Is someone bullying you? Who is it?” He turned around, surprised, as if to say, “Isn’t it you?” I blinked, clarifying, “I mean, someone in your dorm?” He didn’t respond and kept walking. I followed him, and as we passed the West Wing Stairwell, someone suddenly pulled him aside.

“What are you guys doing?” I rushed up to find Julian pinned to the ground. One of the guys had his foot on Julian’s shoulder and looked shocked when he saw me. “Sienna, I thought you hated him.” Julian looked at me too, but his eyes didn’t show fear or a plea for help. “I don’t hate him anymore. In fact, he’s my friend now. So you better move your foot.” The boys laughed mockingly, throwing me challenging looks. I pulled out my phone, pretending to make a call. They started to panic. “What are you doing?” I looked at them innocently. “Calling the dean. My dad donates so much to this school every year, and this is what it produces? A bunch of bullies ganging up on one guy?” They grew scared, knowing I had the power to get them expelled. They glared at Julian and me, muttering curses as they started to leave. “Wait.” They froze. The only defiance they could muster was standing with their backs to me. “Julian is my friend. You got that?” Grudgingly, they nodded and left. I helped Julian up. He wasn’t hurt, just dirtied. In his hand was an unsealed envelope. As he stood, the money inside spilled onto the ground. Some were even coins. “You were going to deposit this?” He looked at me, trying to figure out if I was a friend or foe, then nodded. “I was sending it to my brother.” “You’re this broke, and you’re still giving your brother money?” I realized I’d overstepped as soon as the words left my mouth. Luckily, he didn’t seem offended. “Yeah, he needs it right now.” He had a brother? I had worked for Julian for seven years in my previous life, and not once did I hear him mention a brother.

I had someone look into Julian’s past. It wasn’t an easy path for him. He dropped out in his sophomore year of high school, and it took a lot of convincing from a teacher before his parents agreed to let him retake his exams and go to college. His grades were excellent, and the school waived his tuition. He even received scholarships and financial aid, which won over his parents. But Julian’s younger brother, Mason, had failed his entrance exams, and their family spent a fortune to pull strings to get him into a vocational college. A few days into school, he got a girlfriend and started asking Julian for money to buy her gifts. Their family didn’t give Julian a single cent for living expenses. He had to work at the Brentwood University Dining Hall to earn money and send it back home to support Mason. There was even a picture of Mason in the report. He was leaning against a tree, smoking, with a smug look on his face. But… why did he look so familiar? I racked my brain. Wait… wasn’t this the same guy who was driving the car that hit me in the accident?

A chill ran through me. Maybe the accident wasn’t an accident after all. I had always wondered why Julian left nothing to his parents in his will and gave everything to me instead. Maybe his suicide was tied to his family. Mason’s school was near Brentwood, though it didn’t have the best reputation. Students like Mason, with average grades and family backgrounds, acted as if they ruled the world. Every time I saw their posts, I thought it was some wannabe mob boss living out a fantasy. As I was thinking this, Mason and his group of friends blocked my path, asking for my number. I looked at them coldly. “Why would you need my number? Do you even have a phone?” Mason awkwardly scratched his head and said confidently, “We have a phone booth at our dorm.” When I didn’t respond, he reached for my bag. I shot him a low warning. “This bag is worth ten grand. Are you sure you can afford to pay for it?” They burst into laughter. “No way it costs that much. Is it made of gold?” I didn’t back down. “You’re welcome to try if you’ve got the money.” Mason hesitated but withdrew his hand. Maybe feeling humiliated in front of his friends, he suddenly reached for my arm, but I dodged. “Mason.” A familiar voice came from behind me. It was Julian. He hurried over, pushing Mason away and apologizing to me. I watched as he bent slightly, bowing to me, though just earlier, he hadn’t flinched when others were bullying him. Now, though… I felt a sudden pang of sympathy for him. “Julian, your brother crossed a line. Let’s go back to campus and deal with this.” With that, I walked off. Julian said something to Mason, who looked annoyed, but finally smiled when Julian handed him fifty bucks. Back at Brentwood, Julian was still apologizing. “I’m sorry, my brother is out of line. Please don’t hold it against him.” There was a pleading tone in his voice. I nodded. “Alright, but you owe me tutoring in exchange.”

Julian froze. “Tutoring?” I told him I wasn’t doing well in my classes, especially English. As long as he could tutor me daily and help me pass my finals, I’d let this whole thing go. Plus, I’d pay him for the tutoring. He looked serious as he replied, “I can tutor you, but I won’t take your money.” Of course, I knew he’d say that. But it didn’t matter. There were other ways to help him financially. Thinking back to my past life and how much Julian had cared for me, I had this sudden urge to spend money on him, to return the favor. As a boss, Julian had been great. He’d had a tough life, but he was always kind and considerate with his employees. Once he started making money, he consistently donated to charity, though always in my name. He said he didn’t want any media attention. I understood. After all, it wasn’t like I was losing anything; I was building good karma. Just then, my phone rang. It was my dad. “Hey, Dad.” I greeted him, my voice dry. In my past life, my father had committed suicide by jumping from a building after his company went bankrupt. He hadn’t left a single note behind. I never imagined I would have the chance to speak with him again. “Harper, have you eaten yet?”

His familiar voice, so warm and comforting, made my nose sting, and I had to fight back tears. “I… yeah, I’ve eaten. What about you?” I tried to keep my voice steady, but the emotions were overwhelming. Dad chuckled on the other end. He proudly told me that he’d had Grandma’s pork stew today, knowing it was my favorite dish. That warmth spread through my chest, but I couldn’t forget the real reason for the call. “Hey, Dad, make sure you’re checking the company’s accounts closely. My professor said you should never let just one person handle all the finances—it’s too risky.” In my previous life, my father’s company had been siphoned off bit by bit by his so-called best friend, who eventually fled overseas with millions. Dad had trusted him too much, and even when things went south, he refused to believe it. Dad suddenly turned serious on the phone, saying, “I’ll look into it.” I wanted to keep talking to him, but another call was coming through on his end. He was still Greg Blake, after all. His days were busy. After hanging up, I turned to Julian and discussed my schedule with him.

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In the middle of the night, I opened my eyes and realized my husband wasn’t by my side. I stepped out of the bedroom and searched the house, but there was no sign of him. As I neared the nanny’s room, I heard my husband’s voice inside. My name is Lauren Murphy, I’m 28 years old, and my husband, Eric Murphy, and I both work at St. Luke’s Medical Center, Chicago. I’m the head nurse, and Eric is the senior consultant and professor. We’ve been married for over four years, and our relationship is still great. He’s gentle, polite, and incredibly good-looking, plus he treats me with such care. No matter how busy we are, every year on Valentine’s Day or our anniversary, he never fails to send a bouquet of flowers to my station at the hospital. My coworkers always gather around to tease me, saying how lucky I am to have married such a perfect husband. I basked in their admiration, feeling like I was living in a sweet, blissful bubble. The only thing missing from our otherwise perfect marriage was a child. After a miscarriage early in our marriage, I hadn’t gotten pregnant again. I knew Eric really wanted a baby, too. When I was pregnant, he searched everywhere for prenatal vitamins and even hired a young nanny to help take care of me. I always felt guilty about the miscarriage, but Eric comforted me, saying it was okay. He even helped me take both herbal and prescription medications to help me recover. Unfortunately, after taking those medicines, my body started to change. I began to gain weight, and stretch marks spread across my skin, but I trusted Eric completely. I thought if it meant we could have a baby, it would all be worth it. Five years ago, Eric was a graduate student working under my father, Dr. Howard Preston, who is the hospital’s chief physician. That was during my final year at nursing school, and my father arranged for me to intern at his hospital. The first time I saw Eric, I was immediately drawn to him. Not only was he handsome, but his manners were impeccable, and he carried himself with a quiet, sophisticated charm. I learned from my father that Eric came from a modest background—he grew up in a small town, and he was the only one from his village to go to college. Instead of feeling superior, I admired him even more. His humble, refined demeanor only made me appreciate him further. To me, he was like a lone flower blooming in a harsh winter landscape. I was too shy to ask for his number, even though I was attracted to him. All I could do was make excuses to visit my father’s department, hoping to steal a few glances at Eric. To my surprise, Eric was the one who asked for my number, and after that, he started inviting me out to dinner, the movies, and shopping trips. Our relationship deepened with each date, and eventually, Eric confessed his feelings for me. I accepted, overwhelmed with happiness, thinking I was the luckiest woman in the world. But now, everything has crumbled. The “perfect gentleman” I thought I knew? It was all a damn act.

It wasn’t long after Eric and I started dating that I got pregnant, and he quickly proposed. My father wasn’t thrilled about the premarital pregnancy, but since I was already expecting, he didn’t want any gossip about the family. Plus, he thought Eric was a dependable guy, so he didn’t object. Our wedding was planned and executed in under a month. I entered marriage full of joy, ready to welcome our new baby. But during my first ultrasound after the wedding, I was told that the pregnancy was unstable, and I was at risk of miscarriage. Terrified of losing our baby, I immediately decided to stop working and rest at home. Eric was just as worried as I was, frantically searching for all sorts of prenatal supplements for me. His care and concern helped calm my anxious heart, and I felt safe knowing we both wanted this baby so much. Eric even hired a live-in nanny, Tara Bennett, a shy, 18-year-old girl from a small town. When she first came to our house, she wore simple clothes and two long braids, barely speaking a word unless spoken to. When I called her name, she’d look up with wide, innocent eyes, making her seem sweet and endearing. Eric explained that Tara was from a neighboring town back where he grew up and had just moved to the city to find work. He said he felt a connection with her when he saw her at Midwest Domestic Services and decided to hire her. I had no reason to doubt him, and Tara seemed like a good fit, so I welcomed her into our home. Despite all our efforts, though, I lost the baby. After the miscarriage, my emotional and physical health took a dive, and I stayed home to recover for a long time. Eric was busy with work, and I spent most of my days with Tara. She was quiet but diligent, and she quickly proved herself to be an excellent caregiver. She cooked meals that Eric loved, and no matter how hectic his schedule was, he always made time to come home for dinner. I grew more and more fond of her, and even after I returned to work, I kept Tara on as our nanny. Tara has now been with us for nearly five years, and we’ve given her regular raises. Over time, she’s become much more outgoing and cheerful. As Tara adapted to city life, she began dressing more fashionably, wearing makeup, and following the latest trends. She had transformed from the simple country girl we first met into a beautiful young woman. Meanwhile, after the miscarriage, my body had changed. I no longer liked what I saw in the mirror. Every time I looked at Tara, who was becoming more attractive, I felt a twinge of discomfort. Lately, I’ve noticed Tara becoming more casual and indifferent toward me. When I speak to her, she sometimes acts like she doesn’t hear me. If Eric isn’t home for dinner, the meals she prepares for me are sparse and bland. When Tara first came to the city, she had almost no clothes of her own. After the miscarriage, when my body had changed and I couldn’t fit into some of my designer outfits, I gave her a couple of nice pieces out of pity. But since then, I’ve noticed my wardrobe being disturbed, and some clothes have mysteriously disappeared. What bothered me even more was how differently Tara treated Eric compared to me. I hinted to Tara a few times that she should be more respectful, but she pretended not to understand, brushing off my comments. I even mentioned to Eric that we should let Tara go—that she was becoming careless and disrespectful, and that we didn’t really need a nanny anymore. But Eric dismissed my concerns. “Lauren, you’re overthinking this. Tara’s doing a great job! You’re always misplacing your things—don’t blame the poor girl. And where would she go if we fired her? She’s all alone in the city.” I didn’t want Eric to think I was just a petty, jealous wife, so I dropped the subject.

Recently, there’s been another outbreak of Covid-19 in a neighboring state, and the government was caught off guard by the surge. Medical staff and resources were stretched thin. I was deployed to help on the Illinois Covid-19 Task Force, while Eric stayed behind due to his surgery schedule. The work was grueling, but every night, I received sweet messages from Eric asking when I’d be back. He’d always say goodnight in such a loving way, warming my heart. For years, Eric had been the one to surprise me. This time, I decided to turn the tables and give him a surprise by coming home earlier than planned. I deliberately told him I’d be back a few days later, and I made sure to return on one of his days off. On my way home, I was giddy, feeling like a schoolgirl with a crush. But an hour later, as I walked into our house, I found myself laughing bitterly at my own foolishness. The house was eerily quiet. Had Eric been called in for an emergency shift? Tara wasn’t home either. The curtains were drawn tight, blocking out the bright sunlight outside. The air felt stale, with a strange scent lingering. I turned on a small light and glanced around. Everything seemed normal. I went upstairs, checking the second and third floors, but there was no sign of anyone. Back downstairs, I pulled open the curtains. The sudden brightness made me squint for a moment, but I quickly adjusted. I opened the windows to let in some fresh air and sat down on the couch to rest after the long trip. As soon as I sat, my hand touched something damp on the sofa. I frowned, a growing sense of unease creeping over me. Was it Tara? Or Eric? Or both? Once the seed of doubt was planted, it spread like wildfire. I’m not sure what I was thinking as I cleaned up the mess, but as soon as I was done, a wave of disgust washed over me. I scrubbed my hands repeatedly, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of revulsion. I went to the bathroom and scrubbed again, trying to rid myself of the sensation. Afterward, I sat in the living room, lost in thought. Oddly, I felt a strange calm. It was as if everything was falling into place. Memories of Tara’s increasing disrespect and Eric’s constant defense of her began to piece together, forming a clear picture. What I had dismissed as my own insecurities suddenly seemed much more plausible. The room darkened as the evening set in, and the only light left was the faint glow of the entryway. Finally, I heard the sound of the door’s keypad beeping. It was as if the noise confirmed everything I’d been thinking. Eric and Tara walked in together, laughing. “Tara, did you forget to turn off the light by the door?” Eric said, flipping on the living room lights. The sudden brightness exposed everything—every ugly truth. They froze, their smiles still plastered awkwardly on their faces when they saw me. “Lauren! You’re back early! I thought you were coming home later,” Eric said, quickly regaining his composure. No wonder he kept texting me, asking when I’d be home. He was trying to buy himself time. I forced a smile and replied, “I thought I’d surprise you. I came home early and waited for you.” Eric noticed me glancing between him and Tara and nonchalantly explained, “There was an emergency surgery at the hospital, so I stayed late. I ran into Tara on the way back—she was out shopping, so I gave her a ride home.” I used to believe every word he said. But now, I wondered—had they really just bumped into each other while out grocery shopping? Or had they been out, enjoying time together while I was away? Still, I kept my expression neutral and said, “Why are you explaining all this to me? Oh, Tara, I bought a rotisserie chicken earlier. Could you heat it up for dinner?” Eric seemed to take my lack of reaction as a good sign, as if I were the naïve, easily fooled wife he had always relied on.

Later that night, as usual, Eric brought me a cup of herbal supplements he’d carefully prepared for my health. I stared at the murky liquid, thinking how I used to drink it without question, despite the bitterness. “Leave it here for a bit. I’ll drink it before bed after I read,” I told him. Eric didn’t suspect a thing. “Okay, just make sure to drink it while it’s warm. I know it’s bitter, but it’s for our baby,” he said, kissing my forehead before heading off to his office to work. I held back the urge to push him away, forcing a smile instead. Once Eric left, I poured some of the concoction into a small container and flushed the rest down the toilet, leaving the cup on the nightstand as if nothing had happened. I climbed back into bed, pretending to be asleep when Eric returned. He gently shook my shoulder, checking if I was truly asleep. I remained still. Satisfied, he turned off the bedside light and lay down beside me. I didn’t close my eyes. I was wide awake. Less than thirty minutes later, Eric slipped out of bed.

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At the high-end Ritz-Carlton Hotel, two people were carried out on stretchers, like conjoined twins, unable to part even as they were lifted into the ambulance. And all of it was my doing. I casually called Andy as he was struggling to contain his pain. “Babe, I’m in a meeting right now,” he groaned. I gently reminded him, “Since you two love each other so much, why not stay together forever?” The first sign of trouble came while I was away on a business trip to South Beach, Miami. Andy had posted a photo on his Instagram Stories. His caption read: “Clear skies, gentle breeze, the waters in Hawaii are especially blue today.” While I was working, he was on his dream vacation, spending his days in Hawaii. In the picture, he was with a group of friends and coworkers. The photo looked innocent enough, but something about it stood out to me. He had been wearing the swim trunks I bought him, but in this photo, they were mysteriously replaced with a new pair. After some digging, I noticed another photo he had posted five days prior—this time, a picture of his meal. And in the corner, the edge of a woman’s bikini was visible. It was the same swimwear—held together with a safety pin because it didn’t quite fit. What kind of flirtatious code was this? To confirm my suspicions, I asked Andy about it when he got home. He didn’t stutter or hesitate; he had a story ready. “Babe, I’ve got a funny one for you. Remember those trunks you got me? Well, while I was swimming, I guess I didn’t tie them tight enough, and they got washed away!” He slapped his thigh and laughed like he was telling a joke. He always did that when he wanted to lighten the mood. “I almost flashed the whole beach! Had to run and buy a new pair.” I watched him perform this act, completely detached, on our fifth wedding anniversary—a date he had completely forgotten. I didn’t even bother playing along with his charade. When he realized I wasn’t laughing, he slung his arm around my shoulder. “Cassie, I’ll take better care of the stuff you buy me. Don’t be mad, okay?” He puckered his lips at me, something I used to find cute back when we were dating. But now, staring at Andy’s greasy face, regret flooded me. When he was chasing me, he had been the least attractive of all my suitors, but I’d chosen him because he seemed kind and grounded, with a career as solid as mine. I thought picking someone less conventionally handsome would mean he’d stay loyal and committed. Turns out, a man’s flaws don’t depend on his looks. Later that afternoon, I got called into work for a night shift. I went down to the garage to get the car. Andy and I had our own vehicles, but mine was in for maintenance, so I took his. My instincts kicked in the moment I sat in the driver’s seat. The passenger seat had been reclined, pushed back about 15 degrees more than usual. Someone else had been in our car. We bought this SUV when we were preparing to start a family, thinking it would be perfect for the baby. The air inside still had a faint, fishy odor, hinting at something inappropriate that had happened in that seat. Scanning the seat closely, I noticed a piece of black fabric wedged in the gap by the armrest. I pulled it out—lace, delicate, and suspiciously sexy. I couldn’t help but laugh bitterly. How thoughtful of them. I pocketed the evidence without confronting him. A few days later, I found another bikini stuffed in the same spot. This time, though, something was different. The faint smell of perfume lingered on the fabric. I recognized it immediately—it was a summer scent from a designer perfume brand I’d tried while window shopping at the mall. This clue led me to question several suspects—his female coworkers and old friends. Eventually, I realized it was Payne Dalton, his goddaughter, who wore the same scent. When I saw her, she clung to my arm like always, her voice sweet as ever. “Godmother Cassie, did you miss me? I’m job hunting right now. We should grab lunch sometime soon!” I finally noticed how much she’d grown since I first met her. The once-skinny high school girl had blossomed into a tall, curvy woman. I’d heard she’d even had a breast augmentation done earlier this year. The bikini I’d found was exactly her size. Payne was a scholarship student Andy and I had supported for four years, helping her through college. She had always seemed like the perfect student—smart, charming, and determined to make something of herself. Was she really that naive? Despite all her education, did she still believe that money was the only way to “make it” in life?

I smiled as I teased her. “Wow, Payne, you’re looking amazing! The collagen supplements are really doing their job. You’re a real stunner now.” She blushed, playfully pushing my shoulder. “Oh, Godmother Cassie, you’re terrible!” A sly grin flashed across her lips as she responded with pride, “Yeah, those supplements really work! Starlet-worthy, don’t you think?” I nodded. She had the body men fawn over—the kind actresses on TV often flaunt. Compared to her, all my years of Pilates felt like nothing. “Let’s catch up over lunch sometime,” I suggested. “Absolutely!” she chirped, clearly excited. She showered me with compliments about my taste in fashion, admiring my clothes and bags. That’s when I noticed the sparkling Harry Winston ring on her finger and the luxury brands she was sporting. Seems like she’d been doing quite well for herself lately. “Godmother, you’re just getting more elegant with age. I bet Mr. Donovan loves you even more now. That’s the charm of a mature woman!” Payne, the business major, was clearly a master of flattery. Her words were smooth and well-rehearsed. Back home, I calmly threw out everything from Andy’s car and replaced it with fresh items. Coincidentally, Andy came home late, claiming he had to work overtime. When he saw the dinner I had prepared, he hugged me, grinning. “Cassie, you’re amazing. Thank you.” His suit was spotless, and he had masked any suspicious odors with gum and cologne. Honestly, I wanted to snap and ask, “Showered yet? Gotten rid of the stench?” But I held back. Years of working in corporate America had taught me the art of restraint. I smiled and said, “Your package from the office is on the desk.” “Thanks, hon.” Later that night, he tried initiating intimacy. I pretended to be into it but could tell his enthusiasm was lacking. Of course, after sneaking around, there wasn’t much left for me. I told him I was tired and skipped it, scrolling through my phone instead. He leaned in with a grin. “Want to rest your head on my shoulder?” I stayed quiet, thinking to myself: I don’t want to lay my head where another woman’s legs have been. “Oh, by the way,” I said, testing him, “I ran into Payne today. She wants to have lunch with us.” “She’s really grown up, hasn’t she?” Andy froze for a moment but quickly regained composure. “Yeah, I haven’t seen her in a while either.” I closed my eyes. Let’s see how long this act can last. The next day, I took the afternoon off, and Andy and I met Payne at a Texas BBQ Joint for lunch. Payne showed up in a black, low-cut dress, her figure as striking as ever, contrasting sharply with the dark fabric, making her look even more stunning. When we were ordering, Andy casually said, “Waiter, we’ll have the mild and spicy BBQ platter. Light on the spice for her, please.” I caught the shift in his tone as Payne jumped in to explain, “Godmother Cassie, don’t misunderstand! I told Mr. Donovan I’m on my period.” She smiled innocently, but her body language was anything but. Her necklace dipped suggestively between her breasts, the picture of temptation. Andy, finally catching on to my expression, added quickly, “Yeah, Cassie, we shouldn’t go too spicy. Your stomach can’t handle it.” Love or indifference—it’s easy to spot the difference in the little things. That night, I pretended to get drunk. In truth, I poured most of the drinks into the trash. Andy, thinking I was too tipsy to function, draped his jacket over me and escorted me up to a room at the hotel. I lay awake all night, the faint scent of perfume on his jacket reminding me that he didn’t love me anymore. The next morning, I lied about losing something in the car, asking the property manager to pull up the parking garage footage. Sure enough, they had left together that morning. Not only had they defiled my car, but they had taken their affair right into our home. Without the security footage, I might have continued to believe Payne’s sweet demeanor and Andy’s deceitful charm.

I hired a private investigator to dig deeper into Payne’s life. After Andy and I got married, we kept our finances separate. He had no idea how much money I had saved up. Over the years, I’d made a good amount through smart investments—money I originally planned to use for a house in the best school district once we had kids. Now, that seemed unnecessary. A few days later, the investigator reported back: “She’s notorious at Stanford. People say she’s always out with different guys.” No wonder Payne could afford designer perfume and all those luxury items without even having a job yet. “She was kicked out in her junior year for misconduct. Apparently, she tried to seduce the vice principal, but it didn’t work.” “And her grades? She’s barely passing—almost got expelled.” Hearing this broke my heart. I remembered when we first decided to sponsor her. She had been this small, frail girl with yellowed hair, but her eyes shone with determination. She used to tell me that studying hard would change her life. She used to call me “Godmother Cassie” and twirled with joy the first time she wore a new dress I bought her. And now? She’d seen the world and decided that sleeping her way to the top was the faster route. I heard she’s working as a model now, trying to break into Hollywood. No wonder she’s had so much work done. Suddenly, it all clicked. Andy’s connections to the entertainment industry… She was probably using him as her ticket to bigger fish. After all, a girl like her wouldn’t hesitate to drop Andy the moment someone richer came along. Aside from this, the private investigator handed me Andy’s financial records. Our finances were separate, so he had no clue how much I really had. I managed my money through investments and had done pretty well for myself, originally planning to use it for a future home in a private school district once we started a family. But that no longer seemed necessary. The investigator showed me that Andy’s earnings were mostly from his salary and some stock market investments. But it was all clearly outlined in his Instagram transaction history—he had spent close to $100,000 on Payne! How long had they been sneaking around? I asked the investigator for something specific: a small recording device I could install in Andy’s car. He hesitated, reminding me that wiretapping was illegal and wouldn’t hold up in court. I told him I understood. I didn’t need it for legal reasons. I just needed to know how heartless they really were. After a moment, he nodded, handed me the equipment, and I paid him in full. A few days later, I left home for another “business trip.” As expected, they couldn’t resist using our SUV. “Daddy… can I have a hug?” The voice in my earphones was sultry, designed to melt any man’s resistance. “Did you miss me, sweetheart?” Andy chuckled in response. His usual polished, mature tone was nowhere to be found. “I did! You’re so bad.” Then, the unmistakable sound of the seat creaking under pressure. I clenched my fists, a bitter smirk creeping across my lips. These two were beyond shameless. Without hesitation, I called Andy’s phone. He ignored the first few calls. But as I kept calling, the urgency forced him to answer. “Hello? Hey, Cassie… I’m, uh, in a meeting,” he stammered. His voice was trying hard to sound calm and collected, but I heard the zipper of his pants sliding and his heavy, labored breathing. At thirty years old, I wasn’t exactly ancient. I’d taken good care of myself and didn’t look my age. People often remarked on how youthful I seemed. Andy, on the other hand, was an average-looking man whose career was no longer on par with mine. Our friends and family used to joke about our relationship, calling it a “beauty and the beast” situation. But let me tell you, there are plenty of men out there—more than enough to replace him. I laughed to myself and thought, If you love being naked so much, let me help you make that permanent.

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I’ve always been curious—do nude art models ever have physical reactions when they’re up on stage? My wife gave me a very clear answer: Yes, they do, but they have special techniques to deal with it. My name’s Mark Harris. I might not be much to look at, but I managed to marry a stunning model! The first time I saw my wife, Lauren Mitchell, she was up on stage as a car model. What caught my attention immediately were those long legs. My eyes followed the black stockings up to where her short skirt barely covered her curves, and I couldn’t help but swallow hard. Above that was her tiny waist, and her spaghetti strap top that barely held it all together… Then she bent down, covering her chest with her hand and giving me the sweetest smile. At that moment, I was done for. Through sheer persistence, I managed to win her over after three long months. Now, with a wife this gorgeous, there’s no way I was going to let her keep modeling. I convinced her to find another job. She knew I got jealous easily, so after we got married, she quickly quit. But just three days after she left her job, I got a few photos in my email. “See how wild your wife is!” I opened them, and the lighting was sultry. The woman in the photos was covered in body paint, her figure accentuated by every curve as she moved on stage. But something was off. Her eyes were hazy, she was squeezing her legs together, and her hands were wandering over sensitive areas of her body. It didn’t look like modeling—it looked like something else entirely. The pictures kept coming, like a flipbook. Then, a man appeared out of nowhere and slapped her hard on the backside, leaving a clear handprint. At that point, I felt a surge of blood rush to my head. Was that… my wife?! There was no mistaking her body, especially the birthmark on her hip. I knew it was her! My entire body was trembling as I gritted my teeth. My hands clenched so hard, veins bulged across my knuckles, and I nearly crushed my phone. What the hell was going on? Who sent these photos? Were they trying to blackmail me or just mess with me? I shot a message back, asking for an explanation. I got a quick response: “Art models always release tension before going on stage to prevent any physical reactions. Your wife was especially wild today! What, were you two having issues last night?” An art model? I wanted to snap back angrily—Lauren wasn’t like that. She was a regular model, and she had already quit! But as I furiously typed out my response, I suddenly remembered last night. Yeah, Lauren had called me, saying she’d shower and wait for me in bed. But the project I was working on ran into problems, and I didn’t get home until late. When I finally arrived, she was still being playful, but I was too exhausted for anything. And now, there was another email. “Your wife’s got another performance tomorrow. Make sure you’re up for it tonight!” After that, no matter how much I responded, there was silence from the other side. With my mind spinning, I left work early the next day to confront her. I had already downloaded the photos, ready to ask her straight up. “Babe, come rub my legs, I’m dead tired…” Lauren walked in, kicked off her heels, and threw herself onto the couch, stretching her legs over mine. I stared at her legs, wrapped in black stockings, but my mind was filled with images from those photos. I shoved her legs off in frustration. She pouted, looking innocent and hurt. “What’s wrong? Didn’t I quit my job like you asked? I’ve been out all day interviewing at different places, my legs are killing me!” I glared at her. “You really went to interviews?” Lauren stretched lazily, revealing a smooth, flat stomach. “Why would I lie to you? Now come on, rub my legs. I’m exhausted and just want to sleep early tonight…” She even yawned as she spoke. She looked so worn out that I began to doubt myself. Maybe I had it all wrong? I took a deep breath and reached under her shirt, only for her to swat my hand away. “Stop it. I’m really tired! Whatever you want, wait until tomorrow.” She was probably too exhausted, and after just a few minutes of rubbing her legs, she was already snoring lightly. Gritting my teeth, I slid my hand down her leg and carefully lifted her skirt…

I lifted the skirt and checked carefully. No handprint. I let out a long sigh of relief. Whoever sent those photos was clearly just trying to mess with me. I compared the photos again, but they were too blurry. The woman in the pictures was covered in paint, and you couldn’t really make out her face. I carried Lauren to bed, then sat on the couch, smoking cigarette after cigarette. First of all, I couldn’t let a few blurry photos make me question my wife. I worked hard to win such a beautiful woman, and if we lost trust in each other, our relationship would never be the same again. Second, even if the model in the photos was Lauren, it had to be from before she met me. Since we’ve been together, she’s been nothing but loyal. She quit her job, no questions asked. Yeah, the whole thing left me uneasy, but who doesn’t have a past? As long as she stayed committed to our life together, I was willing to accept everything about her. I took a deep breath and stubbed out my cigarette. When the person behind the emails finally showed their hand and demanded money, I’d call the cops and shut them down. Just then, another email came in. “So, was your wife a little extra eager tonight?” Furious, I shot back a reply: “Stop screwing with me! How much do you want?” The response didn’t come for a while. When it did, it read: “Plenty of kind souls out there, helping your wife relieve some stress—and gifting you a nice hat in the process! Here’s the address for tomorrow’s show. You’ll love the spectacle!” Then, nothing. The lack of follow-up was maddening. If they had asked for money, it would have been easier to deal with. But this? It felt like they were purposely stringing me along. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. The next morning, when Lauren was about to leave, still a bit groggy, I asked casually, “Where’s today’s interview?” “Liberty Plaza Tower!” She said, putting on lipstick and slipping into her high heels before walking out the door. I froze. That was the address from the email! I jumped out of bed, barely remembering to grab my hat, sunglasses, and mask as I rushed out the door to follow her. But by the time I made it out of our apartment complex, she was already gone. I hailed a cab and headed straight to Liberty Plaza Tower, hoping to catch up with her. When I got there, I saw a long line of men waiting outside, but no sign of my wife. I handed the security officer a cigarette. “What’s this company hiring for? Why so many guys? And where’s the line for women?” The security guard gave me a sideways glance. “They’re all men. You must be new here. If you’re looking for women, you better line up and pay the fee—$1,888.” My mind went blank for a second. “Pay for what, exactly?” The guard frowned. “You’re here for an interview? Sorry, you’re not what we’re looking for. Move along.” Another guard started heading my way, as if preparing to deal with trouble. I felt my blood freeze, my brain barely processing the information. But I quickly forced a smile. “Relax, man. I’m here for the private art exhibit. Got a little too excited, I guess.” Hearing the words “private art exhibit,” and after slipping the guards a few bills, their attitudes softened. “First time, huh? Don’t know the drill yet? Pay up, and you’re in.” After transferring the money via my phone, my mind was a blur as I followed the line into the building. We were led down a series of winding hallways until we finally entered a large hall. The place was packed—rows of seats, at least a hundred men already there. Suddenly, the lights dimmed. There was a murmur of excitement, and a group of women, each wearing Japanese fox masks, strutted onto the stage. They were barely covered in see-through fabric, and as they moved, the thin fabric began to slip away. I immediately recognized that body. Every inch of Lauren’s skin was familiar to me—there was no mistaking it. My wife was up there as one of the art models!

“Shit!” I jumped out of my seat, fists clenched. I wanted to charge up to the stage, rip off her mask, and confront her on the spot. Why did she lie to me? But as soon as I stood up, the security officers in the room locked their eyes on me, gripping their batons, ready to intervene. The guy next to me, a heavyset man, grabbed my arm. “Hey, buddy, calm down. You’ll get a chance to go up there. If you rush the stage now, they’ll kick you out!” I forced myself to take a deep breath and sit back down. I needed proof—real, undeniable evidence—before confronting Lauren. As I settled back into my seat, the guards relaxed, and I took a moment to scan the room. Everyone around me was dressed like I was—hats, sunglasses, masks—doing everything they could to stay anonymous. It hit me how many men were here for the same thing. The guy next to me chuckled and whispered, “First time at one of these, huh? Don’t be shy. I was just as nervous the first time I saw a show like this. Trust me, you don’t want to mess around here. You could disappear, and no one would ever know.” He then pulled out his phone, snickering as he recorded the performance. “Check out number two. Damn, that body is killer! And look at number five’s legs—man, those things go on for miles! Oh, and number eight… yeah, she’s something else.” I snatched the phone from his hand. “You’re talking about number eight? That’s my wife.” The guy’s face went pale. “Whoa, man, chill! You serious? I didn’t know—” I cut him off. “What do you mean, ‘get on stage’? What are you talking about?” He shot me a nervous look, then shrugged. “They always pick a few guys from the audience to go up there. You know, to help ‘paint’ the models. They call it ‘artistic collaboration.’ You’ll get to spread some paint around and have a little fun. It’s a big part of the show.” Disgusted, I glared at him. “This isn’t art. This is garbage!” He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, whatever you say, man. But if you’re up there, you better not fight me for number eight.” I could barely contain my anger. It took every ounce of restraint not to punch him right then and there. But I knew if I acted rashly, I’d be thrown out before I could prove anything. When the host started calling for volunteers from the audience, I shot up immediately, ignoring the heavyset guy’s curses behind me. I marched straight to the stage and, without hesitation, pointed to number eight—Lauren. This was my chance. The host smiled. “Ah, looks like someone’s a true art enthusiast! Remember, folks, we’re here to appreciate the beauty of the human form. Keep it tasteful—don’t touch the models’ more… sensitive areas.”

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Valentine’s Day came, and my husband said he wanted to try something exciting. He decided to take me to an immersive role-playing studio. In one of the intimate scenes, the NPC I was acting with was a pale-skinned beauty. She was crying so pitifully that I thought it was part of the act. But it turned out, she was actually asking for my help. Not long after the New Year, Valentine’s Day arrived. It also marked the fifth anniversary of my marriage to Randall Burns. Unlike other couples whose married life had settled into routine, Randall and I still kept the excitement and passion we had when we were dating. The secret to maintaining this passion was, first, money and second, the sense of “novelty” we brought into our intimate life. We were both people who craved excitement and adventure, which is why we hadn’t had kids yet. But as I hit thirty, I started feeling the fatigue, while he was still full of energy. That day, after work, I was cooking dinner in the kitchen when Randall loosened his tie and slid his arms around my waist from behind, teasing me. After so many years together, he still knew all my weak spots, and I quickly gave in to his advances. “Babe, tonight I’m taking you somewhere I know you’ll love,” he whispered playfully in my ear, grinning wickedly. Blushing, I nodded, but then remembered something and tilted my head, asking him, “By the way, your mom called earlier today. She said she was envious of people with grandkids. We’re both thirty now, and I wouldn’t mind having a baby if you want…” “I don’t want kids,” he cut me off abruptly, his tone a bit tense. “Weren’t you going to get that birth control implant in a few days like we talked about?” he asked, steering the conversation back. Randall was referring to the hormonal birth control implant, which is placed in a woman’s arm to prevent pregnancy for an extended period. I had once suggested he get a vasectomy, but he’d insisted it would ruin his fun as a man. I hadn’t made up my mind about being child-free for life, so I’d been putting it off. “Fine, I’ll schedule the appointment in a few days,” I said, nodding reluctantly. He was thrilled, kissing me and urging me to get ready so we could head out for our Valentine’s Day plans. The place he took me was about an hour and a half away, in an entertainment district far from downtown Los Angeles. It was 9 PM, and the streets were buzzing with neon lights and music. As soon as we walked in, a hostess handed Randall a ticket with a smile. “Good to see you, Mr. Burns,” she said warmly. Her familiarity with him made me pause—had Randall been here before? Sensing my doubt, he quickly explained that he’d scouted the place beforehand to surprise me for Valentine’s Day. “This is only my second time here. I really wanted to bring you to experience it,” he said excitedly, squeezing my hand. At the desk, the staff explained that this was an immersive role-playing studio, offering live-action script experiences with both players and NPCs. Due to its “extremely realistic” nature, the prices were steep, and it operated on an exclusive VIP membership basis. Randall had booked a script called Rose Island. It was about a domineering man who kidnapped a girl named Eva and held her captive on a deserted island for 365 days. It was a tale of twisted, forced love—a very intense and dramatic storyline. The description alone sounded thrilling. I followed my husband into the large space, where over a dozen NPCs and other players were already gathered. From the room next door, I could hear a woman screaming. I suddenly felt a bit anxious. Was this experience really that immersive? Seeing my hesitation, one of the staff members suggested, “Why don’t we have an NPC play with Mr. Burns first, and you can watch from the side?” Randall looked at me, seeking my approval. I nodded. “Okay, honey, you go first. I’ll watch and see how it’s done.” As soon as I said that, the actress playing Eva stepped out. She had pale skin, striking beauty, and wore a light blue slip dress that barely covered her body. Her figure was full and captivating, her expression timid. She looked just like the shy girl from the script. “Mr. Burns, shall we start?” she said softly. “Alright, babe, I’ll show you how it’s done,” Randall replied, unable to keep his eyes from drifting to her exposed chest.

Suddenly, I felt uneasy. The girl couldn’t have been older than eighteen or nineteen, and something about her made me wary. Yet I stood there, watching as my husband stepped into the scene. Through the glass door, I could see the progress of the script. The NPCs were all incredibly dedicated to their roles. Randall, too, was fully immersed, as if he really were the powerful mafia boss from the script. In the middle of a heated scene, Randall and Eva had a confrontation. Suddenly, Randall pinned her down on the ground. It was a scene with just the two of them—none of the other NPCs were around. The dim lighting made it hard to tell what was real and what was acting. I stared at the two of them, watching as her pale legs trembled in the air. Terrifying screams filled the room. “You want to run? You think you can run? If you try again, I’ll break your legs, understand?” Randall’s violent growl sounded way too real! “Please… help me…” The girl glanced my way, her disheveled hair clinging to her damp skin. Her tearful expression looked as if she was begging for help. The performance felt so authentic that I panicked and ran to the staff, shouting for them to stop. But the staff told me once a scene started, it couldn’t be interrupted. In a frenzy, I found the main power switch and pulled it, cutting off all the electricity in the studio! For about ten minutes, we were all plunged into darkness. I had no idea what had happened in the room during that time, but I heard faint, sorrowful sobbing. When Randall finally emerged, he looked disappointed, scolding me, “Babe, why did you shut off the power? What’s the rush?” “I thought it was too real. I was scared watching you two. I tried to get them to stop, but they wouldn’t.” A few minutes later, the girl came out as well, her eyes red with tears, her clothes disheveled, and her legs shaking. It made me wonder if they had really gone too far. I hurried over to her, asking, “Are you okay? Did you get hurt?” That’s when I noticed her name tag. It read Jasmine. Jasmine looked at me, startled. “No, it’s just part of the script. Randall was really into it,” she said, her voice calm, completely different from the terrified girl I’d seen through the glass. I watched as she walked backstage, catching a brief, uncomfortable glance between her and Randall. Because I had shut off the power, several players had their sessions interrupted, and the studio demanded compensation. I ended up paying quite a bit to cover the damages. While I was sorting out the payment and apologizing, Randall sat in the corner, smoking a cigarette—something he never did. But I knew this behavior all too well. It was his after-satisfaction smoke. That Valentine’s Day left a bitter taste in my mouth. We didn’t even bother with the candlelit dinner, ending the night in an awkward rush. Together, Randall and I made over two million a year. We lived in a large, detached house. Financially, we were well off, and I was living the life many women dream of. By all accounts, I should’ve turned a blind eye to his behavior. But I’ve always been a stickler when it comes to fidelity. That night, every time I closed my eyes, I heard those horrifying screams. I couldn’t sleep. Randall blamed me for “not knowing how to have fun,” and started staying out, crashing at other places for days on end. Frustrated, I turned to my best friend, Tina Simmons, and told her everything. Tina tried to comfort me. “Men are always looking for new thrills. Besides, you said it’s a legit business. There’s no way anything shady was going on.” I sighed and told her I was thinking about getting the birth control implant to help smooth things over with Randall. “Randall insists on it. The doctor suggested I think it over first, though. I’m still young, after all. Do I really want to give up on having kids forever?” Tina was surprised. “It’s rare for a man who can have kids to feel that way.” She suggested I talk to Randall again. But my heart sank even more. Was he just avoiding responsibility, or did he truly never want to have a child with me? Recently, Randall had been staying out more and more. I got suspicious and linked my Uber account to his as an emergency contact, allowing me to see his rides and transactions. To my surprise, I noticed that during his workdays, there were several trips longer than usual. I also found some large transactions in the records, payments for various purchases at big shopping malls. The moment I saw this, I knew something was off. That night, I planned to confront Randall about it. When he came home, he gave me a huge hug and surprised me with a diamond necklace—a three-carat beauty. “Happy birthday, babe! You completely forgot, didn’t you? Good thing I went all over town to pick this out for you,” he said with a cheeky grin. I frowned a little, feeling a mix of guilt and gratitude. So that’s why he’d been out so much—he was shopping for me. That night, everything between us was smooth, even intimate. It was almost as if he had learned a few new tricks, maybe from all the online “research” he’d been doing. Before I went to sleep, I casually checked my phone. To my shock, I noticed that Randall had quietly disabled the location sharing and payment notifications I’d set up. He’d switched everything to private.

My stomach dropped. Something was definitely wrong. To clear my doubts, I suggested that we return to the immersive role-playing studio over the weekend, and I invited a few friends along as well. This time, I picked a standard murder mystery script instead of something provocative. It was much cheaper than the dramatic, steamy script we’d done before. My friends were all having a great time, but Randall kept yawning and looking bored. I leaned over and whispered, “Honey, you love role-playing games. Why aren’t you participating? Our friends are here, playing along with you.” Randall looked a bit guilty and gave a half-hearted smile. “Sorry, babe. I’ve been exhausted from work and stayed up late last night finishing a presentation.” I knew right away he was lying. I had watched him fall asleep the minute we finished dinner the night before, snoring like a log. And he hadn’t woken up until late that Saturday morning. The only reason he wasn’t interested was because this game wasn’t stimulating enough for him. Clearly, his thrill threshold had gotten much higher. Annoyed, I excused myself to the restroom, letting a staff member take my place in the game for a while. Leaving the dim game room, I wandered down the hall, finding myself in the same area where Randall had played the intense script the last time. They had set up a translucent curtain here, adding a layer of shame to the public performances, making it even more exhilarating for players. That’s when I saw Jasmine again. This time, she was playing a character from a historical setting, her shoulders exposed and her skin painted with fake bruises. She was wearing a rabbit mask, giving her an air of mystery and fragility. I glanced at the script one of the staff was holding. The title was Midnight Elegance, and the dialogue, full of vulgar innuendos, confirmed that it was another sexually explicit storyline. A group of men dressed as soldiers approached Jasmine, leering at her. One of them sneered, “Your Majesty, even if we die, we’ll die in your bed.” The lead actor reached up and pulled a sharp hairpin from her head, using it to slice through the ties of her dress. Jasmine was left wearing nothing but a scarlet undergarment, her eyes filled with tears as she whimpered, “Please, brothers, don’t…” At one point, she turned to look directly at me. The rabbit mask was ripped away, revealing her terrified, helpless eyes. The curtain suddenly dropped, and I couldn’t see what happened next. All I heard were her agonized cries, mingling with the sound of simulated thunder and lightning. My curiosity grew. Something was very wrong here, and I couldn’t shake the feeling. I started searching online and found that this role-playing studio was indeed a legitimate, registered business. By all appearances, nothing seemed shady. But the unusual nature of this studio and Jasmine’s reactions left me suspicious. One evening, when Randall said he was working late, I pretended to go to the hospital for pre-implantation blood work. In reality, I swiped his VIP Membership Card and went back to the immersive role-playing studio on my own. I disguised myself with a mask, not wanting the staff to report back to Randall. When they asked me what type of script I wanted, I hesitated. Then, on a whim, I picked one that involved a Black male NPC in a dominant role, something along the lines of a twisted love story. The staff smiled knowingly and asked, “Would you prefer the explicit version?” “What do you mean?” I raised an eyebrow. “A lot of working women come here to relieve stress. They usually go for the hidden version of this script—it’s more expensive, though,” she explained with a conspiratorial wink. “Trust me, you’ll love it.” I threw caution to the wind and paid nearly three times the regular price, eager to see what was really going on. Still in my mask, I entered the set. Before long, the NPC I was paired with appeared. His name was Jack—a tall, muscular Black man, built like a bodybuilder. He looked like the kind of guy you’d see on the cover of a fitness magazine. He was only wearing a pair of shorts, his muscles rippling under his dark skin, veins bulging in his arms. I couldn’t help but let my gaze drift downward. When I noticed the bulge in his shorts, my face flushed with heat. Black men certainly came in larger sizes than I was used to. After getting familiar with the script, we all entered the room. I had specifically requested a fully enclosed space, no glass windows to the outside. We ran through the basic parts of the script, but my heart pounded in anticipation of the scene I was most curious about—the explicit scene. My heart raced as I watched the other NPCs leave the room, leaving me and Jack alone. “Baby, you’re so sexy. I’m coming!” he growled, his breathing growing heavier. Before I could react, he had lifted me up, pinning me against the wall. “Help! Somebody, please—!” I screamed, but his strength was overpowering. My dress was ripped from my shoulder, the cold air biting at my exposed skin. A shiver ran down my spine as I realized how truly helpless I was. I couldn’t help but shiver as my skin was exposed to the cool air. An unnameable feeling ran from the top of my head to the soles of my feet. I tried to escape, but he held me firmly, and his rough palms touched my waist and probed upward.

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The app linked to my smart scale had just sent a weight notification for the third time tonight. “Congratulations, you’re 97 pounds today!” But here I was, sitting at the office, while the scale was at home. 97 pounds, my dream weight. Yet all I felt was disgust. Great. Mike was cheating on me, and he didn’t even bother to hide it. And the other woman… was her?! My husband, Mike, is the CEO of a tech company. Naturally, everyone assumes that since he’s wealthy, I’d settle down and become a full-time housewife after giving birth to Henry. But I couldn’t do it. I worked so hard to become a senior manager at a tech firm. Sure, I can take care of the family, but losing my career? Never. Mike complained about it often, but I brushed it off. I never thought he’d actually… On my way home, I dialed his number. His voice on the other end was soft, almost too sweet—nothing like a man who’d just rolled off another woman. “Carrie, why aren’t you home yet?” “I’ll be there soon.” When I got home, I barely kept the nausea at bay before I fell asleep. The next morning, once Mike left for work, I picked up my phone and made the call. “Come over. I’m home.” I had someone install hidden cameras throughout the house. To say I wasn’t hurt would be a lie, but I had to swallow the bitterness and stay rational. If your spouse cheats once, it’s time to throw in the towel. But before I could divorce him, I needed proof. That night. I looked at myself in the mirror, my makeup flawless, as I gritted my teeth and called Mike. “There’s a problem with the project in San Diego. I need to take the team there for a few days. Henry’s on summer break, so I’ll bring him along. My assistant will keep him busy while I’m working.” Mike’s voice was calm. “Sure, don’t worry about me. Just call me when you get to San Diego.” He didn’t even mention Henry. Of course. He had a mistress now; the family was the last thing on his mind. I hung up, sighed, and glanced at my fourth-grade son, wondering if my suspicions were true. If they were, then Mike and that wretched Emily were worse than animals. Sitting at the airport, I watched the video on my phone, my heart breaking. It was past midnight, and they couldn’t wait to jump into bed together. That bed—the one I slept in every single night. I felt nauseous. Emily’s innocent face, twisted in lust. A wave of cold washed over me. I was the one who arranged her job, her place to stay. And now, she was in my bed with my husband. I uploaded the video to cloud storage, wiped my eyes, and boarded the flight with Henry. Sure, I needed to go to San Diego for work, but not for as long as I’d told Mike. When we landed, my best friend, Jessica, was there to meet me. Once Henry was asleep, we sat down in the living room. Seeing Jessica, the floodgates opened, and all the pain I’d been holding in poured out. I laid my head on her lap, soaking her clothes with my tears. I was always the strong one. But I’d always dreamed of having a warm family, a husband who loved and protected me. Now that dream had been shattered by an affair. After I calmed down, Jessica handed me a glass of juice. “So, what’s your plan?” “Div… Divorce!” I choked out, splashing cold water on my face. But even as I spoke, tears streamed down my face uncontrollably. In the end, I didn’t say another word. I took a hot shower and retreated to the guest room to rest. I couldn’t speak anymore. Every word I tried to form felt like a dagger to the chest. It felt like being cut with a dull knife, the pain slow and relentless. Even in bed, I tossed and turned, clenching my teeth in anger, until I gave in and checked the surveillance footage. Their voices were disgusting. After a passionate round, Emily lay in Mike’s arms, her delicate fingers tracing his chest. “Mike, doesn’t this feel like paradise? Having us both?” Mike sighed in satisfaction. “It does.” “Tell me, is Carrie better, or am I?” Mike rolled on top of her, making her groan softly. “Of course, you’re better! She’s had a kid. She’s not as tight as you are.” Emily pouted. “Then why are you so good to her? You let her have full access to your bank account. You don’t do that for me. Are you trying to avoid having a kid with me?”

Mike kissed her, pride oozing from his voice. “There’s nothing in that account. I transferred everything to the company last month. She doesn’t need the money. Don’t worry, you’re the one I love the most. Didn’t you want that sports car? I’ll get it for you next week.” “Ah! You’re the best!” Emily squealed. I was done. There was no going back now. I wouldn’t let them get away with this. A plan began to form in my mind. First, I’d find Emily a new, younger lover. Then, I’d convince Mike to divorce me under false pretenses. And finally, I’d make him raise another man’s child. I ordered a drink called “Yesterday’s Dust” and sipped it slowly at the bar. It was crowded, but I felt like a stranger, disconnected from everyone. Then, a tall, broad-shouldered man walked in. He looked clean-cut, probably not even thirty. I took my drink and sat at his booth, noticing how nervous he seemed. I smiled. “Shall we go somewhere quieter?” He hesitated but agreed. I took him to a presidential suite. He still looked uneasy. I chuckled coldly. “We’re both grown-ups here, no need to play games. I see right through you. But I’m still willing to give you a chance. I have a job for you. Interested?” He smiled, more confidently now. “My name’s Janine Russell. What kind of job are we talking about?” I couldn’t help but admire her acting skills. If the bartender hadn’t tipped me off, I wouldn’t have known. “My husband is cheating on me. I need you to help me get back at him.” Janine loosened her tie, leaning closer. Her breath tickled my neck, her voice dripping with testosterone. “Are you asking me to make him jealous?” I pushed her solid chest away. I wanted to be loved, but not like this. “You’ve got it wrong. I need you to seduce his mistress—my cousin. I’ll cover all the expenses. Once the job is done, I’ll pay you $50,000 to study abroad.” We agreed on the terms, and I handed her a card. “There’s $20,000 on this card. Use it as you see fit. Don’t worry about returning any leftover funds.” “Let’s exchange contact info,” Janine suggested. “I use a work WhatsApp, no one will notice it.” She nodded respectfully. “Sounds good.” After exchanging contacts, I left. Back in Chicago, I rented Janine a place downtown. I told her everything she needed to know about Emily’s habits and preferences. I handed her another card. “Buy a car.” She took the card, her fingers brushing mine intentionally. “You sure you don’t want me? I could make you happy.” I pinched her cheek playfully. “Wrong target, sweetie. Focus on your job, or I’ll find someone else to take over.” As I reached the door, I remembered something. “Oh, and by the way, Emily works at a company I own. She has no idea I’m the majority shareholder. I’ll set you up as her new supervisor. Play your part well.” The next day, I called the CEO, Steven Moore, and got Janine appointed as the new HR manager. With everything in place, I went home and cooked dinner. When Mike returned, he washed his hands and sat at the table. “Where’s Henry?” I poured him a bowl of soup. “I dropped him off at my mom’s. By the way, he’s about to finish elementary school, and I heard Ridgewood Academy has the best placement rates.” Mike nodded, barely thinking about it. “Then let’s send him there.” I hesitated. “But Ridgewood is in a different district. We’d have to buy a house in the area.” Mike nodded. “Then buy one. We could live there while Henry’s in school.” Oh, so you and Emily can have the house to yourselves? I sighed. “I found a nice place with a good view.” Mike’s eyes lit up. “We’ve maxed out our property allowances. Selling one wouldn’t be smart in this market. How about we file for a temporary divorce?” A sharp pain stabbed my heart, but I forced back the tears. “Okay.” That’s when I knew. It was over.

Three days later, I had my divorce papers in hand. Without hesitation, I bought the new house. I snapped a few photos and sent them to Emily. Emily always was jealous. Since Mike hadn’t bought her a house yet, I bet she was seething. Back home, I found a stash of neatly arranged condoms in the nightstand. Good. Let the storm rage on. I packed my bags and moved into my new home. I messaged Janine: “Everything’s ready. How about you?” Janine sent me a location. “I spilled coffee on her, then offered to take her shopping as an apology. Her appetite’s huge. How does your husband keep up with her?” I had to see this for myself. Feigning a casual encounter, I ran into Emily outside a luxury boutique. She wrapped her arm around mine. “Carrie! Janine’s our manager, and she accidentally spilled coffee on me. She’s treating me to a new outfit.” Janine shook my hand. “Emily is beautiful, smart, and a very capable employee. She’s got potential.” I watched Emily beam, feeling a pang of bitterness. “It’s lunchtime. Why don’t we all grab a bite together?” At the private dining room, Emily seemed tense. “So, Mike is here too?” she asked. I picked up the menu and ordered a few dishes. “Yeah, he insisted on tagging along. Said he didn’t want me carrying all the bags.” Mike smiled and handed me a bracelet. “I saw this and thought of you. It suits you.” I admired it, then raised an eyebrow. “I think Emily has one just like this, doesn’t she?” I watched as both Mike and Emily stiffened, enjoying every second of their discomfort. This bracelet cost around $7,000. No way could Emily afford it on her salary. After that awkward meal, we all went our separate ways. As we drove home, I smirked. “What do you think of Janine?” Mike’s expression darkened slightly, though he kept smiling. “Who?” “Janine, the person we had lunch with. It looks like she and Emily might be dating. Otherwise, why would Janine buy her clothes, and why would Emily accept them?” Mike’s face turned stony, but he forced a laugh. “Young people should enjoy dating, I suppose.” I chuckled to myself. Old fox. Mike dropped me off at work, then left. I put on my headphones and opened the monitoring app. Mike was fuming, scolding Emily for her flirtations. I uploaded the recording to the cloud, thinking that both men and women love a little fling on the side. But what chance does a middle-aged man, no matter how well-kept, stand against a younger, richer, more handsome guy? Especially one I’d handpicked for my dear cousin. Three months later, late at night, I watched a new video Janine had sent me. The main event was about to begin. And to my surprise, there was a twist. Emily was pregnant. I saw the two bright lines on the pregnancy test. The time had come. I was done waiting. It was time to confront them.

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The Day of My Daughter’s Birthday I received pictures of my husband, Cole Adams, cheating. Cole had not come home because of a work dinner. After putting my daughter, Lily, to bed, I sat on the couch, repeatedly scrolling through the photos on my phone. Buzz— A text message popped up. Unknown Number: “Interested in having a conversation?” My fingers trembled as I typed out a reply. “Who are you?” Unknown Number: “We could meet up to talk. It’s about your husband’s affair.” Immediately after, they sent the address of a café. Looking at the location, I forced myself to stay calm. When Cole finally stumbled in, reeking of alcohol, I acted normal, helping him take off his coat and handing him his slippers. He hugged me from behind, grinning like usual. “Did you miss me?” Before, I might have playfully bantered with him, but not tonight. I had to know if my husband was really cheating. While he was in the bathroom, I checked his clothes in the laundry bin, from his shirt to his socks. I left nothing untouched. Then I saw it—lipstick on his zipper. The sight made me sick to my stomach. I pulled out my phone and replied to the text. “I’ll be there at 3 p.m. tomorrow.” Not three minutes later, they responded: “Good.” That night, I clutched my phone, unable to sleep, with only one thought in my mind. Divorce! But I wouldn’t let Cole get away unscathed. I’d make sure he walked away with nothing, and I was going to ruin him, too. To be honest, I never thought Cole would cheat. When he proposed, he had nothing. He only got his position at Skyline Investments because he married me. My family had set him up with everything he had in Chicago. His friends all thought it was impressive that he married me, and even his difficult mother—Mrs. Evelyn Adams—was proud of him for it. At 3 p.m. the next day, I arrived at Madison Coffee House, as agreed. Sitting by the window was the stranger who had texted me. A woman—nothing extraordinary, but she had a certain maturity about her. She introduced herself as Vivian Kingsley, but told me I could just call her Vivian. As soon as I sat down, she pushed a folder toward me. Vivian said, “You’ll need these if you’re filing for divorce.” Though her words sounded helpful, the certainty with which she assumed I’d divorce Cole rubbed me the wrong way. I didn’t open the folder. Instead, I asked, “Why are you helping me?” “No particular reason. I just don’t want him to have it easy,” she said, stirring her coffee casually. “And there’s one more thing—you were the other woman. You came between me and him.” My grip on the coffee spoon tightened, and for a moment, I almost threw the drink at her. The other woman? What a joke! I had never been anyone’s mistress. Cole and I were legally married. How could I be the other woman? “Don’t misunderstand,” Vivian said with a smile. “You were lied to. You didn’t know, but you were the other woman. Cole and I were college sweethearts. Right after graduation, he made up an excuse to break up with me. Later, I found out it was because he met you.” My nails dug into my palm as I thought back to all the sweet things Cole had told me over the years. I wanted to storm into his office and strangle him. Vivian wasn’t wrong to use the word climb. Cole had climbed his way up thanks to my family—our house, his car, even his job. But arguing with her wouldn’t help me. If I wasn’t careful, it might even play into that scumbag’s hands. “So why contact me now?” I asked, taking a deep breath. “Did he get back in touch with you? Or are you trying to win him back?” Vivian lit a cigarette and gave me a cryptic smile. “You can think bigger,” she said. “Maybe he’s secretly seeing both of us—or more. Who knows? Maybe I’m not the only other woman here.” I let out a bitter laugh. She wasn’t wrong. Otherwise, why would she suddenly show up like this? More than anything, I felt a deep sadness. Five years of marriage, and it was all just a joke.

Vivian told me that Cole wasn’t just seeing her—her private investigator had already found evidence of three different women. She wanted us to work together to bring him down. She wasn’t willing to give this sleaze a chance. That afternoon, we exchanged Instagram details, agreeing to keep in touch. Just as I was leaving the café, Cole called. He started by asking what I was doing and then sweet-talked me, completely unaware that I had just met with one of his mistresses. Suppressing the bile rising in my throat, I told him I was out with a friend for coffee. “Okay, no worries. Mom’s coming over tonight. She bought a ticket to visit Lily. You know she can be a bit difficult, so try to be patient with her,” Cole said. I rolled my eyes, not bothering to respond. His mother wasn’t difficult—she was a nightmare. Every time she visited, it was just to ask for money. The fact that I hadn’t thrown her out of the house with a broom was already a favor, and now he wanted me to be patient? Who did he think he was? Before leaving, Vivian promised to send me the contact information for her private investigator. I didn’t refuse, but I didn’t accept either. I didn’t refuse because anyone who could get those photos must have some skills. I didn’t accept because this was all starting to feel like a game of Werewolf, and I didn’t want to be the next one caught by surprise. At 6:30 p.m., I picked Lily up from preschool. When we got home, Mrs. Adams was already sitting on the porch, her face sour as ever. “Always running around, never staying home! What’s the point?” she scolded. “Can’t that little girl walk herself? You still need to pick her up? If you’re so bored, you should go have a son for Cole!” I ignored her, taking Lily inside. Mrs. Adams, of course, got even more upset. She started yelling through the door, “What kind of attitude is that? I’m your mother! Who are you showing that face to?” If I wasn’t planning to confront Cole about the affair soon, I would’ve marched out there and ripped her a new one. But she was quick. As soon as I opened Instagram, Cole’s messages started flooding in. Cole: “Babe, don’t fight with Mom. She’s still your mother-in-law. Apologize, okay?” To hell with that! I almost typed out exactly what I was thinking. This man, who was out there sleeping with God knows how many women, and his mother, who treated me like a walking ATM, thought I was supposed to be grateful? I was so angry that I didn’t even read his syrupy love messages. They only made me sick now. I asked him, “Are you coming home for dinner?” Cole: “I’ve got work tonight. I won’t be back.” Work? That word made my skin crawl. Who knew who he was really working with? I knew he was lying, but I still replied the way I always did. “Be safe. Come home early.” After helping Lily with her homework, I opened the door to find Mrs. Adams standing there, clearly eavesdropping. She nearly fell when I opened the door, and immediately started her usual rant. “What’s with all the secrets? We’re family! You’re not allowed to talk without me listening? You’re probably bad-mouthing me, aren’t you?” I frowned, noticing that she was wearing the brand-new slippers Lily had just bought. “Mom, there’s a pair of slippers for you in the cabinet,” I said, already knowing how this would end. She didn’t care. She never did. “What about it? I’m her grandma. Everything in this house belongs to my son. Why can’t I wear what I want?” I held my tongue and went to the kitchen to start dinner. I wasn’t in the mood to argue, not when I knew what was really going on with Cole. I had barely opened the fridge when she started again. “Do you think my son’s money grows on trees? Why are you buying so much fruit? You can’t even eat it all! What a waste!” My fists clenched, but I calmly replied, “I bought it with my own money.” Mrs. Adams wasn’t about to let it go, though. “Oh, your money isn’t my son’s money? And what’s with the ribs? We don’t need something so fancy. Just make some vegetables!” She reached for the ribs, but I slammed them down on the counter before she could take them. She stared at me, shocked. Without saying a word, I pulled out the biggest knife we had.

I started chopping the ribs, each swing of the knife harder than the last. “You listening to me?” Mrs. Adams shrieked. “I’m calling Cole! What kind of wife are you? You’ve been married for years and haven’t given him a son! You just spend money like it’s nothing!” If murder wasn’t illegal, I would’ve cut her right there. But I smiled instead and said, “You’re right, Mom. I’ll just put the ribs away. Why don’t you go rest in the guest room?” She huffed, clearly pleased with herself, and shuffled off, thinking she’d won. I calmly went back to preparing the ribs, ignoring my phone as it buzzed with messages. I said I wasn’t going to cook them, but I didn’t say I wouldn’t stew them. By dinnertime, Mrs. Adams was fuming. I didn’t care. I served Lily a bowl of rib soup and then checked my phone. Ninety-nine unread messages. All from Cole. Probably begging me to apologize to his mother. I ignored them, grinning as I called out, “Mom, aren’t you going to eat? The rib soup smells delicious!” She glared at me. “Eat? Are you crazy? No man’s home and you’re making this fancy stuff? What’s wrong with you?” She lunged for the pot, but I swatted her hand away with my chopsticks. I had been playing nice long enough, but now she was crossing the line in front of Lily. I couldn’t stand for that. Mrs. Adams screamed. “You hit me?! You’ve lost your mind!” Without a word, I ladled a bowl of soup for myself, picking out the biggest pieces of ribs. Her face turned bright red with rage. “Mom, if you’ve eaten enough, maybe you could go for a walk. Lily and I still have dinner to finish,” I said, smiling sweetly. “I bought those ribs, so how I eat them is my business.” She wasn’t about to back down, though. In her mind, only her son was allowed to enjoy good food in this house. But I didn’t stop her when she reached for the pot this time. The burner was still on, and she yelped as the heat burned her hands. Realizing she couldn’t win, Mrs. Adams shifted to playing the victim, wailing dramatically about what a terrible daughter-in-law she had. Lily was scared, running off to her room without finishing her meal. I ignored the old woman’s theatrics, cleaned up the table, and went to check my messages. Cole’s video call came in just as I opened Instagram. I declined it immediately. Vivian had sent me a few photos. In them, Cole was drinking with his buddies at a bar, sitting next to a girl I didn’t recognize. She was young and pretty. Vivian: “Did he tell you he had a work dinner tonight?” I replied, “Yes.” Vivian typed quickly. Vivian: “Funny. He told me he was at home, complaining about how you and his mom were fighting.” I didn’t acknowledge that, only asked where the photos came from. Vivian: “Private investigator. He’s at Eclipse Lounge with his buddies right now.” “Who’s the girl?” I asked. Vivian: “New intern at his company. Comes from a poor family, but she’s cute and knows how to sweet-talk him. Notice she’s the only woman at the table?”

Thanks to Vivian’s message, I saw the truth in those photos. Cole might not be model-material, but he looked good enough to fool me into falling for him—and apparently a few others, too. Vivian sent a few more rapid-fire messages. I didn’t reply. Instead, I pulled up Cole’s chat. I couldn’t even sigh anymore at his constant stream of messages. He was just a mama’s boy who liked to sleep around. What else was there to say? After thinking for a second, I typed a message to him. “How’s work going, honey? Is it exhausting?” Whether he was on his phone or distracted by his “work,” he replied quickly. Cole: “It’s fine. My boss keeps making me drink. I might not make it home tonight. I’ll probably crash at a coworker’s place.” How convenient—he had already lined up his excuse for not coming home. I stifled my anger and responded the way I always did, “Take care of yourself. Come home soon.” Cole, ever the suck-up, even sent a photo to prove his “innocence.” The photo matched the background and number of people in Vivian’s pictures, minus one key detail: he didn’t include the girl sitting next to him. “Don’t drink too much. Look after your stomach,” I replied. His next message was about his mother, telling me how hard she worked and that I should apologize. I didn’t even bother reading the rest. I knew I would vomit if I continued. At the end of the day, Cole was just a man caught between his mother and his lies. It was almost comical how blind he was to the truth. I scrolled through Instagram, ignoring him, before texting Vivian. “Can we meet tomorrow?” “Sure.” She replied almost instantly. “Same place.” I didn’t think much of it after that. I wasn’t interested in forming a long-term alliance with someone like Vivian. People who could be mistresses weren’t the kind of people I trusted. Morality wasn’t something everyone had. Neither were proper values. Cole didn’t come home until nearly dawn. I could hear his mother filling his ears with complaints about me, practically declaring war from the other side of the door. But I had to give her credit. Mrs. Adams stayed up all night just to make sure she could complain about me to her precious son. “Wifey,” Cole whispered as he slid into bed, his hands wandering under the blanket. “Missed me?” Miss your mom! I barely stopped myself from snapping at him. Before I realized he was cheating, I hadn’t noticed how selfish he was. Now, every little flaw in his behavior was painfully clear to me—especially the way he disturbed my sleep. I pushed him off. “Stop.” But he quickly tried again, laughing as he tugged at my clothes. At that moment, one word popped into my head: duty. But I wasn’t about to subject myself to that. I wasn’t going to let him have his way. I flipped over, stiff as a board. “Your mom’s listening outside.” He froze. Then I asked, “How long is your mom staying this time?” Cole didn’t answer right away, but his shocked expression said everything. Of course, he wondered why I was asking—before, I’d practically worshiped his mother. Now, I was finally standing up to her. Before he could respond, Mrs. Adams banged on the door. “This is my son’s house! I’ll stay as long as I like! Now, hurry up and give me a grandson! My boy can’t be the last in the family line!” I laughed bitterly. “You hear that? Your mom wants a grandson. After all, your family needs an heir, right?” This was the first time I’d thrown barbs at Cole, but it wouldn’t be the last. “Wifey, my mom didn’t mean—” “Sleep,” I interrupted him. The next morning, I used taking Lily to her tutoring class as an excuse to leave the house. Mrs. Adams made her usual jabs, criticizing me for spending so much money on our daughter’s education. Once in the car, I contacted the private investigator Vivian had introduced. I needed proof of Cole’s affairs. My demands were simple: First, I wanted to know how many women Cole had been with, for how long, and I needed photographic evidence—ideally, with recordings. Second, I wanted to know if he had given these women money or gifts of any significant value. With those in hand, I could make sure Cole walked away from our marriage with nothing. The private investigator wasn’t cheap, but I could afford him. However, I wasn’t stupid. I didn’t trust Vivian, and I didn’t trust him. We met at the same café as before, but this time, it was a young man in a trench coat. I wasn’t sure why, but my intuition immediately told me something was off. There was a faint, almost imperceptible smell of perfume on him. His mannerisms didn’t match what I expected from a private investigator. He cheerfully ordered me a coffee, and when he handed it to me, he made sure to brush his fingers against mine. I’ve done plenty of housework over the years and raised a daughter. Even though I spend money on skincare, my hands are far from delicate. But this man’s hands? They were softer than mine—either he was young or he had never worked a day in his life.

“Mrs. Wagner, you look far too young to have a child. You’re beautiful,” he complimented, but I didn’t respond. He then dove into the details of Cole’s affair, going on for a while before I interrupted him. “How do you know Vivian?” He paused for a moment but quickly recovered, flashing a smile. “Mrs. Kingsley? A client referred her to me.” That one sentence was all I needed to know. Every time this so-called private investigator said something, his phone buzzed with a notification. In less than three minutes, it had buzzed seven or eight times. I glanced over at his phone. His chat list was filled with brightly colored avatars—all women. “Business seems good. Are all these women clients hiring you to catch cheating husbands?” I asked, smirking. He quickly pocketed his phone and nodded eagerly. “Yes, Mrs. Wagner. I’ve seen cases like yours before. You should start preparing for divorce. Men like your husband forget all about their wives once there’s a new flame.” I nodded. “I understand. How long will it take for you to gather photos, recordings, and everything else I need?” Caught off guard by my quick change of topic, he stammered, “T-Two weeks?” “Okay. We’ll be in touch.” I stood up to leave. “Not staying for more coffee?” he asked, surprised. “Why would I? Haven’t we said all we need to?” Maybe it was my sudden cold demeanor, but he didn’t say anything else. I glanced back at his clean-shaven face and smiled to myself. How interesting. Vivian had definitely sent me a fake detective.

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My once modest and sweet wife, Mary, suddenly had a bunch of Victoria’s Secret lingerie, with clear signs of it being grabbed and stretched. When I asked her about it, she said it was her sister’s. I called her sister to confirm, and after hearing the explanation, I let out a sigh of relief. That was until one night when I saw a message pop up on her phone: “Manny, are you awake? I’ve had too much to drink, and I really miss you.” Rage flooded my chest. I wasn’t about to let them walk all over me—I’d show them that even a nice guy like me isn’t someone you can mess with! That day, Mary was taking a shower, and I wasn’t feeling well after eating something bad, so I rushed straight into the bathroom. She was startled, standing under the running water, and I laughed, saying, “C’mon, we’re married! No need to be shy!” I sat on the toilet, trying to relieve my stomach while admiring her body. Mary worked as a part-time dance instructor, and her figure was killer. At 5’7″ with a gorgeous face, she was hard to resist. I couldn’t help but reach out and grab her hand, “Babe, you smell so good.” “Stop it! I’m tired; just let me rest,” she replied, brushing me off. Annoyed by her cold reaction, I stood up immediately, without even wiping, and snapped, “You haven’t been sneaking around behind my back, have you?!” Mary turned on me angrily, spraying me with the showerhead, soaking me from head to toe, and yelled, “Manny Rogers, are you out of your mind?!” Seeing her so mad, I quickly backed down. “Calm down, I was just joking. But we haven’t done anything in a month, you know?” Mary ignored me, drying off her body and reaching for her lingerie. It was then that I noticed the design of the lingerie—it was pink, delicate, and something I’d never seen her wear before. “Mary! Where did you get this lingerie?” She glanced down at it, then gave me a playful push on the head. “It’s supposed to be a surprise for you, silly!” But I could clearly see this lingerie had been worn many times already. There were even noticeable grab marks on it. “Are you kidding me?! This is clearly old!” My face flushed with anger, and I could feel a burning sensation on my forehead. Mary, pulling me by the arm, pouted and said in a playful tone, “Don’t get mad, babe. I went to my sister Helen’s house this afternoon, and their faucet broke. I got soaked from head to toe, including my lingerie. So, I borrowed a set of clothes from her closet.” “I’m calling Helen right now!” I shot back, reaching for my phone. I dialed her number, pretending to make small talk before I got to the point. “Helen, Mary said she got drenched at your place this afternoon. I hope she didn’t cause too much trouble.” “Manny, my husband gave her a set of clothes to change into. Why, are you checking up on her?” “Oh, no, no, just calling to check in!” I replied with a laugh, trying to keep it casual, and then hung up. Now it was Mary’s turn to be mad. She accused me of not trusting her and refused to speak to me. I quickly grabbed her hand, trying to make things right. “Honey, please don’t be upset! I’m sorry for doubting you. I’m an idiot. What can I do to make it up to you?” Unexpectedly, she softened and replied, “Only if you add my name to the property.”

Mary was referring to the penthouse I had bought with my business earnings. It had been sitting vacant, and the property deed only had my name on it. Recently, the area had been marked for development, and with the housing restrictions lifted, the property value had tripled. Since we hadn’t put her name on it, the penthouse was technically considered my pre-marital asset. Although I had already bought a marital home under her name and paid the down payment, I had been considering adding her name to the penthouse as well. After all, we were about to get married, and I didn’t want her to feel left out. So I seized the opportunity and said, “No problem, baby. We’ll head down to the County Property Office this week.” I loved Mary deeply and was willing to give her everything I had. Mary beamed with joy and threw her arms around me, kissing me like crazy. “You’re the best husband ever!” I laughed, kissed her back, and turned off the lights. Later, I sat on the edge of the bed, lighting a cigarette while Mary went to take a shower. Her phone was charging on the nightstand. Compelled by some force, I picked it up, unable to resist the urge to look through it. I remembered her password. We never checked each other’s phones before, but we were about to get married, so what harm could there be in a little peek? When I opened her Instagram, I found nothing. Not a single chat. Even our conversations were deleted. That was her habit. She always deleted chat records after talking. But that didn’t stop me. I switched to her payment history to check for any unusual transfers. Besides the $1,000 transfers I gave her on holidays, I noticed she had received another $1,000 from someone else. The contact was labeled “J,” and the profile picture was a tiger’s head—clearly a man, and judging by the profile, an older one. I quickly snapped a picture of the transaction, my hands trembling with anger as I put her phone back. I never expected Mary to betray me like this. If I wasn’t mistaken, she was cheating on me. Otherwise, why would someone send her $1,000 on holidays? Anger boiled inside me, and I wanted to storm into the bathroom and confront her. But I took a deep breath, pushing my fury down. Mary had never mentioned adding her name to the penthouse before—why did she suddenly bring it up now? I suspected it had something to do with whoever she was cheating with. Maybe they were plotting to take my property. The thought sent a chill down my spine. I had to find out who this guy was. Just then, a message came through on my phone. “Manny, are you awake? I’ve had too much to drink, and I really miss you.”

My hand shook as I read the message. It was from Rhonda, Mary’s best friend, who had a sultry look. At a couple of dinners, she had given me flirty glances when Mary wasn’t looking, even played footsie under the table, but I’d always brushed her off. After all, my fiancée was far more beautiful. Still, I never thought Rhonda would actually message me. Not wanting Mary to see it, I quickly deleted the message, deciding to ignore it. Mary said she was going to bed, so I didn’t disturb her. I lay there, wide awake, thinking about the contents of her phone. I was sure Mary was cheating. But all I had to go on was a tiger-head profile picture. I had to figure out who this guy was. I considered following her but worried she’d notice. Then, a better idea came to me—something foolproof. I remembered a programmer, Mick Prieston, whom I had met during business. The next day, I contacted Mick and asked if there was a way to install tracking software on someone’s phone. Mick said he could do it. All he needed was her phone model and some time to set it up. Later, while Mary was in the shower, I installed the software on her phone. Now, I could track her movements in real time. To my surprise, her routine was very consistent. After work, she would head to the dance studio for an hour, then stop by her sister’s house, staying there for an hour before coming home. Could it be that I was overthinking this? Maybe she wasn’t cheating after all? Still, I wasn’t ready to drop it. Maybe she was meeting her lover at the dance studio. I decided to follow her, just to be sure. I decided to follow Mary to see who she was meeting. Wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap, I rented a car, making sure I wouldn’t be recognized. I called in sick from work and tailed Mary to her office. She worked as a secretary, and I had once suspected she might be involved with her boss. But her boss was a woman, so that idea quickly fell apart. Still, there was always the possibility she was involved with one of her coworkers. Office romances aren’t unheard of. I spent the entire day hanging around the building, watching from a distance. I could see her through the window, printing documents and chatting with some of her male colleagues. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Maybe the affair wasn’t happening at the office? As the workday ended, I saw Mary leave the building. I followed her from a distance. To my surprise, a sleek black Lincoln pulled up beside her. She said something to the driver, then got into the passenger seat. I immediately started my car and followed. The Lincoln stopped outside her dance studio, and to my relief, two other women from her office got out of the car with her. They had carpooled. So much for that lead.

I parked outside the studio and waited for over an hour, watching through the large glass window. Inside, Mary was graceful and poised, teaching a dance class. She was wearing athletic clothes, looking as stunning as ever. Honestly, with a body and face like hers, it wasn’t surprising other men might have their eyes on her. But after watching for a while, no men approached her. No one suspiciously lingered around her. After the class ended, she packed up her things and left for her sister Helen’s house, just like she always did. Mary had a close relationship with Helen, and she’d often spend an hour or so at her place after work. I watched her enter the building and saw the elevator stop on Helen’s floor. By the end of the day, I was left feeling confused and frustrated. There didn’t seem to be any real evidence of her cheating. Maybe I had just been paranoid, letting my mind run wild. As I stood in front of the elevator, trying to figure it all out, a familiar voice called out behind me. “Manny, what are you doing here?” I turned to find Helen standing there, looking surprised. “Hey, uh, I’m looking for Mary,” I said quickly. “My phone’s dead, and I forgot my keys. I figured she’d be here, so I came to find her.” Helen smiled and hit the elevator button. “Yeah, she’s here. Come on up.” I followed her up to the apartment. “You’re home early,” Helen said as we rode up. “Usually Mary stays for dinner before heading home. How come you’re off work so soon?” “Oh, just an easy day today,” I mumbled, avoiding the question. Helen unlocked the door and called out, “Honey, I’m home!” From inside, a man’s voice responded—it was David, Helen’s husband. “Babe! Great timing. Oh, Manny’s here too? Guess I’ll have to cook for three tonight!” David came out of the living room, looking a little surprised to see me but quickly recovered with a warm smile. “Hey, man, long time no see. Come on in.” “Where’s Mary?” Helen asked, hanging her purse by the door. “She’s in the shower,” David replied. “She said she worked up a sweat at the studio.” Helen chuckled. “You’ve got to tell her to stop coming over here to use our shower!” Something about this didn’t sit right with me. Mary usually showered again when she got home in the evenings. Why would she need to take a shower here, too? Just as I was mulling over that, Mary stepped out of the bathroom, towel-drying her hair. “Manny? What are you doing here?” she asked, sounding surprised. I repeated the lie I had told Helen, and Mary nodded thoughtfully. “Okay, well, let’s head home.” “Why don’t you two stay for dinner?” Helen suggested. “No, we really should get going—” Mary started, but Helen cut her off with a teasing grin. “Oh, I see! Trying to sneak off for some alone time, huh? Don’t let me stop you.” Before we left, David chimed in, “You two should get married already, huh?” I froze for a second, then nodded awkwardly. “Yeah, we’re working on it.” David flashed me a smile. “Mary’s a great girl. You’re lucky, man. Hold on to her.”

We drove back home in silence. After following Mary all day and finding nothing, I was starting to think I had been overreacting. Maybe someone had simply sent her money as a gift. Perhaps there was no affair at all. That night, before bed, Mary brought up the subject of adding her name to the property deed again. Feeling guilty about doubting her, I agreed. “Okay, we’ll go to the County Property Office this week.” Mary was thrilled. That night, she was unusually affectionate. The next day, I went back to work and didn’t follow her. But around noon, I got an unexpected phone call—from Mick, the programmer. “Hey, man, are you alone? Can you talk?” My heart skipped a beat. What did Mick have for me? I left my desk and found a quiet spot. “Yeah, what’s up?” “We don’t usually talk outside of business, but I felt like I had to tell you this,” Mick said, his voice low and serious. “What is it?” “I’ve got a recording for you. The software I installed on Mary’s phone records everything. I think you need to hear this.” A knot formed in my stomach as I opened my Instagram. Sure enough, Mick had sent me an audio file. “Make sure you listen to it when no one’s around,” Mick warned before hanging up. I hesitated for a moment, unsure if I was ready to hear whatever was on that recording. But curiosity got the better of me, and I hit play. The recording started with soft breathing and an unmistakable voice—Mary’s voice. “Don’t touch me like that, wait—” Before she could finish her sentence, I heard the sounds of kissing and muffled voices. Then, Mary’s voice came back, whispering, “David, be gentle. You’re hurting me.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “294728”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster #现实主义Realistic #校园School #魔幻Magic #励志Inspiring #惊悚Thriller #浪漫Romance #擦边Steamy #重生Reborn