My wife, Samantha “Sam” Wyatt, works as a sleep therapist, helping people with insomnia drift off through voice calls and video sessions. At first, I couldn’t take it seriously—I mean, what kind of job is that? Besides, I do well enough financially that she could live comfortably without lifting a finger. I tried talking her out of it, but she snapped, saying I was holding her back, keeping her from her “big dreams” and disrespecting her career ambitions. Her parents, both teachers, raised her as the model “untouchable beauty” back in high school, and I didn’t think she’d cross any lines. Maybe it was just her stubborn pride, I figured, and I stopped asking. Until I scrolled across a certain video… One evening, I was lounging on the couch, scrolling through my phone. I came across a video from a local group titled: “Hot Housewife.” Intrigued, I clicked on it. The video showed a man and a woman intimately entangled; the camera didn’t catch their faces, but it was far steamier than anything I’d usually see. My mind drifted, mostly wishing my wife was home instead of away on her “trip.” I even commented in the thread, joking about how “wild” the woman looked. The screen was a storm of pale skin and close-ups of the woman’s body. The footage shook wildly, filled with lust and raw energy, and a deep voice called out, hoarse, sultry—purring, “Yes, sir…” The sound was uncanny; it was Sam’s voice. Every note, every breath, hit me like a brick. The realization sank into me like a blade. I played the video over and over, desperate for any other explanation. No, there’s no way it could be her. She was supposed to be on vacation—on my dime. Besides, I thought, voices and bodies overlap, and the internet is full of fakes. Sam’s never been this “expressive” with me. She’s always reserved and quiet, especially in bed. But that voice—the same exact tone she used for her “clients”—dug into my mind with every replay, every moment wearing me down. For the next hour, I slowed the video down to analyze every detail, looking for any hint to disprove what my gut was telling me. With my heart hammering, I went frame by frame. The video blurred, the camera shook, and her face was never visible. But then, out of nowhere, something appeared—a detail sharp as a razor’s edge. Her wrist flashed, caught mid-motion, revealing a thin, simple silver bracelet. The bracelet was custom-made, our fifth-anniversary gift. I’d designed it just for her. It was her. My wife of five years, Samantha Wyatt, had betrayed me.
In that split second, rage ripped through me, obliterating every shred of rational thought. My ears roared, and every fiber of my being seethed with humiliation—I’d been played. I scoured the video, hoping to spot the man’s face. I couldn’t, but there was no longer any doubt. There was no other way to explain that reckless, eager expression, the raw intensity of her moves. I had to know who the guy was, and my best bet was to go after the person who’d uploaded the video. I set up a fake account, friend-requested the uploader, and waited. Soon enough, he accepted. I played the role of a sleazy “fan,” messaging him: “Dude, where’d you get this video? I can’t get enough!” He hesitated a bit, clearly wary. “Why do you care?” he asked. I upped my game, dropping a fat payment in his account. “Man, this chick has me on fire—can’t you help a guy out?” The money worked. After a moment, he got chatty, responding with, “Whoa, didn’t know you were that serious! Can’t leave you hanging, man.” He dropped a few more videos in the chat. Each one was more explicit than the last. Faces were still blurred, but it didn’t matter. The body, the movements, the sounds—it was unmistakably Sam. My mind blanked as waves of humiliation washed over me, taunting me. I felt like a pathetic joke. All these years, she’d never once been this way with me. She was always reserved, avoiding intimacy and rarely taking initiative. I figured she was either modest or just not that into it. But now I knew the truth. It wasn’t shyness or indifference. She just didn’t want that part of herself with me. Yet with someone else, she was willing to go this far, become this whole other person. Shaken, I lit a cigarette, hoping to calm down. I couldn’t let myself be crushed by this. Not yet. First, I had to find out who this guy was.
He never showed his face, but one detail stood out: every video had the same man, a guy with a prominent tattoo down his forearm. I tried getting more out of the uploader. “So, where’d you get these clips?” “Let’s just say I’ve got my channels, alright? Just enjoy the show,” he replied, his tone guarded. I backed off, promising him I’d pay for more “good stuff” if he got any new clips. Then I logged off, utterly spent. I threw my wedding ring in the trash. Divorce was the only answer. But I couldn’t walk away without settling the score. For years, I’d gone above and beyond for Sam and her family. Her parents were teachers, and she’d had a reputation as the “untouchable beauty” back in high school. I’d assumed they were a decent, respectable family. But on my first visit to her house, her mother asked me for a forty-thousand-dollar wedding gift, her eyes gleaming as if I were buying a product instead of marrying her daughter. When I hesitated, her mother’s face darkened, and she practically threw me out, muttering about how their beautiful, well-educated daughter had men lined up around the block. I was a catch, with a house, a car, and a solid inheritance. But they wanted the cash. Still, Sam surprised me by showing up at my place in tears, confessing that her mother had overstepped. She said her dad had hit someone with his car and they were being sued for forty thousand dollars. If I didn’t help, she’d be forced to marry a forty-something guy her mom had lined up. I couldn’t stand to see her cry, so I paid. But that was just the beginning. After the wedding, her mom and her good-for-nothing brother, Ethan, kept finding ways to borrow money that I’d never see again. Ethan, lazy and deep in debt, became my problem to fix. I finally gave up and hired him as a low-level assistant at my company, figuring I could keep an eye on him. I was exhausted with all this, but Sam’s tearful requests kept softening me up. I put up with it because, at the end of the day, I cared for her. But now, it was time to end things. I’d make sure she paid for every bit of damage. I reached out to a lawyer to draft the divorce papers, and as I finished, I heard the key turn in the front door. She was back.
As soon as Sam walked in, I caught a whiff of unfamiliar cologne clinging to her, faint but undeniably there, as if marking her for someone else. Feigning calm, I asked, “How was your trip?” I searched her face for any hint of guilt or remorse, but she avoided my gaze, mumbling a few vague comments. I recalled what she’d said before she left, “Don’t worry about me—I’m just going to relax and unwind.” What a loaded statement that had been. While she showered, I dug through her bag. Sure enough, I found an open box of condoms. It was almost too much, even though I’d already braced myself. My hands shook as I pulled out her phone, combing through her contacts and messages. Nothing incriminating. Then, on a hunch, I checked her alternate profile, the one she used for her “sleep therapy work.” At the top of her friend list was someone she’d marked as “Hubby.” I scrolled through their messages, each word driving a fresh knife into me. “Be gentle tonight; you were too rough last time, almost got me caught.” “Thank God I pretended to be drunk—almost blew our cover.” “Next time, call me with your husband in the room. Let’s make it more exciting.” My blood surged. I felt my pulse pounding in my head, barely able to keep myself from storming into the bathroom and confronting her right then and there. Suddenly, I remembered the night she’d stumbled home late, hair disheveled, cheeks flushed, no bra. She’d collapsed against me, smelling of alcohol, mumbling about feeling sick. I’d made her some ginger tea, only for her to fall asleep on the couch. I’d thought it was sweet of her to let loose. I was a fool. Now, Sam wasn’t just “putting people to sleep”—she was clearly doing much more. I dug further in her bag and found a small bottle of lubricant. That was it. I emptied the bottle and replaced it with industrial-strength adhesive. Let’s see how they handle this little “bond.” I quickly noted the “hubby” account but found it locked, blocking any friend requests. This clue was slipping away, but then I had a flash of inspiration. The video uploader—he was the key. No upstanding person makes money off footage like that, so there was a good chance he knew who this guy was. Rather than offering him cash, I decided to approach him using a woman I knew, knowing men like that tend to lower their guard with women. When the meeting day arrived, I watched from a safe distance, tense with anticipation. But when my target arrived, I was floored—it was Ethan Wyatt, my good-for-nothing brother-in-law. He was selling his sister’s affair for profit.
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