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"Audra…" I whisper it like a prayer and a curse, stroking faster now. The wet sound of my hand fills the office, obscene and perfect. She turns her head toward the hidden camera in the bookshelf, almost as if she feels me watching. Those green eyes—wide, luminous, a little lost—stare straight into the lens, and my hips jerk up hard into my fist.

That's it, baby. Look at me. Only me.

I imagine dropping to my knees in front of that couch, pushing her thighs apart, dragging my tongue up the center of that tiny scrap of lace until she's soaked and shaking. I'll ruin her with my mouth first, then bury every inch of this aching cock inside her while she claws at my shoulders and forgets Pete ever existed.

My strokes turn rough, urgent. Veins stand out along my forearm. Sweat beads at my temples. The pressure builds like a storm I can't outrun—tight, savage, inevitable. On screen, she curls onto her side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, lips parted on a quiet sigh, and that's what breaks me.

I come with a guttural groan, thick ropes spilling over my knuckles, painting my fist and the edge of the desk. I keep stroking through it, drawing out every pulse, every shudder, eyes locked on her face the entire time. When it's over, my chest isheaving, my hand is sticky, and the hunger inside me is only sharper.

I clean up with mechanical precision, but my gaze never leaves her.

Soon, baby. I'll pull you out of that empty life. I'll make you mine in every way that matters.Pete's neglect is just the opening act.

Audra is already mine.

She just doesn't know it yet.

Three days later…

It's been three days since the ball, and I still feel the stranger's hand burning at the small of my back.

I tried to talk to Pete that very night. But when I got home, heart still racing and mascara smudged from crying in the car, he was already in bed, snoring softly. I made noise on purpose, dropped my heels, ran the shower longer than necessary, and clicked the light on and off. Nothing. He didn't stir. I finally gave up, lying awake all night next to him. Thinking.

Thinking. Thinking. Thinking.

Guilt sat deep in my stomach, like a rock. Guilt for not being the person Pete wants me to be. Guilt for having almost come on the dancefloor with a stranger. Guilt for wanting something more. Guilt for considering abandoning Pete, because that'swhat he'll call it. Every thought that crossed my mind was riddled with guilt.

The next morning was Saturday. I hoped we could talk over breakfast, just the two of us. Instead, my mother made one of her rare appearances, complaining about her cats and how the A/C was set too low again last night—it's set to 79 degrees, and she has a heater in her room—by the time she went back to her room, I was emotionally exhausted. Pete rushed to his laptop, and I cut my losses until the afternoon, when we finally had the conversation.

It was… bad.

I sat him down on the couch and told him the truth, or at least part of it. That I was unhappy. Deeply dissatisfied. That I needed space—maybe even a separation for a while—so I could clear my head and figure out what I wanted.

Pete broke.

He collapsed forward, elbows on his knees, and started sobbing. Real, ugly, shoulder-shaking sobs.

"I know, baby. I know," he choked out, tears streaming down his face. "Don't you think I know? I've been working so hard for us. For our future. I've been neglecting you. It's my fault. All of it. I take total blame, Audra. Just… please don't leave me. I'll do better. I swear to God, I'll do better."

He looked so broken. So small. The man who's always so composed, so in control, completely fell apart in front of me. He grabbed my hands, kissing my knuckles between shaky breaths, promising date nights, promising to be more attentive, promising he'd make me feel desired again. And I caved.

Even though something inside me stayed cold and distant, I let him pull me into his arms. I let him talk me into giving him one more chance. He even promised to take me out the next day, just the two of us. I agreed.

I'm still a little bitter about it. He took me to breakfast, not dinner. Not a real night out. Just breakfast, like I'm something he can squeeze into the easiest slot in his schedule. But I said yes anyway. Because Pete is very, very good at this.

He always has been. He knows exactly which buttons to press: the guilt, the history, the fear of being the villain who destroys our marriage. He wrapped me up in his remorse so tightly I couldn't breathe, let alone think clearly about the man who made me feel alive on that dance floor two nights ago.

Now I'm sitting here in our quiet kitchen, staring at the cold coffee in my mug, wondering how I let myself get talked back into the same cage I was trying to escape.

Because the worst part? Even while Pete was crying and promising me the world, my mind kept drifting back to strong arms, a deep voice murmuringgood girl, and the terrifying thrill of nearly coming apart in a stranger's arms on a crowded dance floor.

I don't know how much longer I can keep lying to myself.

Ten hours later, I pull up our driveway completely drained. The day turned into an absolute shitstorm. Right before I was ready to leave for work, Mom had what she swore was a stroke—herarm was jerking uncontrollably, her speech was slurred, and there was terror in her eyes when she whispered, "I'm having a stroke."

By the time the ambulance arrived, her symptoms had already improved, but they still took her in. I followed behind in my car, alone. Pete went to work. In all fairness, we need his paycheck now more than ever, because my boss is not happy with me, and I'm worried they're going to fire me over losing too much time for Mom. This isn't the first time I've had to call off from work for an ER visit.

The rest of the day disappeared into fluorescent lights, beeping machines, and endless waiting. I sat beside Mom while she alternated between insisting she was dying and arguing with every nurse and doctor. Tests dragged on for hours. She refused the contrast for the CT scan, then nearly passed out when they started her blood pressure medication. She wailed that it was poisoning her, that she was too sensitive, that nobody understood her body like she did.