When my wife brought her lover home for the fifth time, I decided enough was enough.

I said nothing, not a word of complaint or protest. Instead, I superglued the windows shut and locked the bedroom door from the outside.

From the bedroom came the muffled sounds of her little escapade, breathless and feverish, carrying through the walls like a shameful melody no one asked to hear.

Calmly, I sat in the living room, picked up the phone, and called my mother-in-law.

"Jessie," I said, putting on my best tone of urgency, "it's bad—real bad! Your daughter's locked herself in the bedroom and says she's gonna end it all!"

I bought myself a tube of superglue and went about sealing every last window in the bedroom. Not a crack was left open to the outside world.

When I finished sealing the final window, I pulled out my phone and dialed my wife's number.

"Rach," I said, calm and steady, "I've got a business trip today. Might be out of town for a couple of days."

My wife, Rachel Fraser, gave me a quick reply—so quick she could hardly wait to hang up. Before I knew it, the call was done.

I glanced at my phone again, this time at the message from my new employer about my new job. With barely a thought, I sent back a simple reply: [I accept.]

A look at the clock told me it was just about time for her to be heading home from work.

I packed a few changes of clothes, stuffed them into a suitcase, and wheeled it upstairs into the storage room. That room had one particular advantage: from there, I could see everything happening downstairs, clear as day.

I waited. About half an hour later, the sound of the front door opening reached me.

The first person to step inside was Rachel.

She called out as she walked in, craning her neck, putting on a little show. "Honey? Honey?"

Then, satisfied with the silence, she turned her head toward the door and said with a smirk, "See? He's gone. Come on in."

And in stepped a man.

He shut the door behind him, smooth as you please, and with his free hand, he pulled Rachel into his arms like she belonged there.

"So," he said, his voice carrying that sly kind of mischief, "does this mean I've got you all to myself tonight?"

Rachel let out a playful little laugh, squirming half-heartedly in his embrace before melting into it. "Oh, stop it—you're terrible," she said in that mock-scolding way that always means the opposite.

This wasn't the first time I'd seen such a thing.

Last month, I'd forgotten some documents at home and had come back unexpectedly. That's when I'd found the sofa in disarray, clothes scattered all over it.

Some were hers.

Some were a man's.

I picked up the clothes and gave them a good look.

It was plain as day—they weren't my size.

Was Rachel cheating on me? I had thought back then.

I couldn't believe my own eyes. My heart was trying to argue otherwise, but the sounds coming from the bedroom told a different story—soft, breathless gasps that left no room for doubt. Rachel was lost in a kind of bliss and it wasn't because of me.

I couldn't bear to listen any longer. I couldn't reconcile the Rachel who clung to me every day with the one betraying me now, and in our own home, no less.

Quietly, I set the clothes back where I found them. My hand reached for the scissors on the table, and with my resolve hardening, I moved toward the bedroom door, ready to kick it open.

Just then, the phone inside the room started ringing.

I heard a man's voice pause mid-sentence.

My boss?

I couldn't have mistaken that voice if I had tried. It was Tommy Statham, my Avencia-born employer, speaking in his broken but unmistakable English.

But how could it be him? Just last week, he'd handed me a million-dollar order, personally signed and approved.

And now, the pieces began to fall into place. I thought back to the way he'd always looked at me, the way he spoke to me.

"Chris, keep working hard, you've got so much promise!" he'd say, his tone heavy with an encouragement I'd never questioned.

"Chris, if you pull off this deal, your wife will be able to live a good life!"

Each time, his words were met with envious glances from my colleagues.

"Chris, the boss really seems to like you," they'd say.

"He gave you that deal? I asked for it so many times, but he wouldn't give it to me. And now you've got it! But hey, with all the travel it'll take, do you think your wife will be okay with it? She's so attached to you."

And now, as I stood there, scissors in hand, replaying those moments in my mind, I saw his expressions for what they really were—not admiration, but mockery.

In the end, I couldn't bring myself to kick down that door.

When I stepped out of the house, clutching my documents, my manager, Randy Beckham was already fussing at me.

"Chris, hurry up! The investors will be here any minute. By the way, have you heard from Tommy? I've been trying to reach him, but his phone's been off. Do you know where he is?"

I glanced back toward the house, then down at the contract in my hand. "No idea. I haven't been able to reach him either."

Randy was Rachel's cousin. In fact, he was the one who had brought us together in the first place.

Seeing the contract in my hand, his face lit up with satisfaction.

"I told you, didn't I? I've got a good eye for people. You've got potential, kid. Seal this deal, and the manager's chair in the sales department is yours. Rachel will be thrilled, too."

I smiled faintly and said nothing.

Over the past few years, I had worked myself to the bone trying to prove my worth. Early mornings, late nights—the money I earned was mostly spent by Rachel. I always thought that loving someone meant giving them the best.

When I returned home that evening, I found a table full of dishes waiting for me.

Rachel rarely cooked. She claimed the kitchen fumes would ruin her skin. It was only this year that she'd started cooking occasionally. This was the fourth time I'd ever eaten a meal she'd made.

The moment she saw me step through the door, she rushed over, practically skipping.

"Darling, I made your favorite—beef brisket! Go wash your hands!"

She guided me toward the bathroom, a fork in hand. Picking up a piece of beef brisket, she brought it to my mouth.

"Try it. Tell me if it's good."

I chewed on the meat, washing my hands at the same time. "It's delicious," I said.

Later that evening, while she was showering, I decided to take a chance and opened her phone.

We both knew each other's passwords, but we'd never once looked through each other's devices.

Her chat history was intact. As I scrolled through her WhatsApp messages, I found nothing suspicious at first.

Then I tried searching the phrase "miss you."

A name popped up in her recent chats—someone saved as "Miss A."

It had to be Tommy's private number.

I opened the chat. What I found was a stream of explicit messages:

[Miss you. I can't wait to do it with you.]

[Is your husband home?]

[Let's book a hotel tonight. I just took some supplements—guaranteed to please you.]

[Darling, you're better than my husband.]

[Yours is bigger.]

[Don't you dare do anything with Chris tonight!]

*

That was when I learned the truth. They had slept together at least ten times, with four of those encounters taking place right here in my own home.