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.

Today was the fifth time they made out at my home.

Rachel, with practiced ease, switched her phone to airplane mode and resumed her little sexy time with Tommy.

I had thought, just for a moment, of trying to win her back, to pull her away from this man and reclaim her for myself.

But the truth was bitter—she had no regard for me at all.

She'd even asked Tommy to have me assigned to out-of-town projects, making it more convenient for their affair to continue unimpeded.

Tommy, impatient and unrelenting, tore at her clothes, stripping them off piece by piece and tossing them carelessly onto the living room floor.

Rachel, breathless and flushed, clung to his neck with one hand while deftly undoing his belt with the other.

I watched as Tommy, now cradling Rachel in his arms, carried her hurriedly toward the bedroom.

She clung to him, naked, her lips pressed to his neck in a trail of kisses. Occasionally, she leaned into his ear, whispering something inaudible from my vantage point.

Her last words were clear enough, though: "Did you take the pill today? You'd better not be like last time—barely started, and it was already over."

Tommy nodded fervently. "Don't worry, baby. I've got you covered. You'll be satisfied."

With that, he pulled her slippers off and flung them into the hallway.

Rachel gave a coquettish laugh. "How am I supposed to get out of bed without my slippers?"

Tommy planted a forceful kiss on her neck. "Don't worry, sweetheart—you won't be getting out of bed today!"

From the second floor, I watched the scene unfold, my stomach twisting in revulsion. Covering my mouth, I gagged a few times but managed to keep it down.

When I heard the bedroom door slam shut, I descended the stairs quietly. Grabbing a garbage bag, I began collecting the scattered clothes from the floor and tossed them into the trash.

Once I was sure they were fully... occupied, I locked the bedroom door from the outside with my spare key, enabled the extra security feature, and then disposed of the key.

Finally, I made my way to the living room and called my mother-in-law.

"Jessie! Something's wrong! Rachel locked herself in the bedroom, and she's threatening to take her own life! I've tried everything, but I can't get the door open!"