The house is quiet when I get home from work—the kind of quiet that lets your thoughts echo a little too loudly.
I drop my bag by the console table and slip out of my heels, rolling my shoulders as I walk farther into the living room.
I've claimed the space tonight. Papers spread neatly across the coffee table, my tablet propped up beside my laptop, a mug of tea going cold within reach.
Work has always been my refuge. Predictable. Honest. If you put enough effort into it, it gives something back.
I'm mid-call when the front door opens.
"—yes, I like that direction," I say into my EarPods, eyes scanning a digital mood board. "But the lighting needs to be warmer.
This campaign isn't about sleek perfection; it's about accessibility. People need to see themselves in it."
I hear his footsteps but don't look up.
"And no," I continue, tone firm but calm, "we're not pushing the launch date. If the production timeline can't support quality, then we adjust the rollout—not the standard."
A pause.
"Good. Send me the revised draft by morning."
I end the call just as Alex steps fully into view.
He looks the same as always—tailored jacket, loosened tie, composed to the point of detachment. But when he passes close enough, something faint reaches me.
Perfume.
Not mine.
It's subtle, barely there, but I know it instantly. Floral. Soft. Intentional.
My chest tightens for exactly half a second. Then I do what I always do.
I ignore it.
I straighten a stack of papers instead, my voice even when I finally speak. "You're back late."
"Bar ran long," he replies casually.
I nod once, accepting it without question. I don't owe him confrontation, and he doesn't owe me explanations. That's the arrangement. Or at least, that's what I tell myself.
I tap my tablet, pulling up another document. "I just wrapped up a call with my production team. We're in the final phase for the charity campaign."
He moves closer, leaning against the arm of the couch. "Everything on track?"
"Yes. Mostly." I glance up at him briefly. "There's a gala in a few days. Fundraising, donors, press. The kind of event people pretend is about charity when it's really about optics."
He huffs softly. "Sounds familiar."
"We need to attend," I continue. "Together."
His gaze sharpens slightly. "Do we really?"
"Yes," I say firmly. "Your presence matters. Our presence matters. It's not optional."
He studies me for a moment. "You already RSVP'd."
"I did," I admit. "As a couple."
A beat.
"And before you object," I add, "it's important. The campaign is tied to education initiatives, and several board members will be there. This isn't just about smiling for cameras."
He considers that, then nods. "Fine. Send me the details."
I relax just a little. "Thank you."
Silence settles between us—not awkward, just… loaded. I gather my papers, stacking them with deliberate care.
"The theme is classic," I add, almost absently. "Nothing excessive. Black tie. I'll handle the logistics."
He smirks faintly. "Of course you will."
Well duhhh you of course I will.
I glance at him then, catching that look in his eyes—the one that lingers just long enough to mean something, but not enough to say it out loud.
"Goodnight, Alex," I say quietly.
"Goodnight, Hera."
I return to my work, my focus sharp, my posture composed.
But the faint scent of perfume lingers in the air long after he's gone, and no matter how hard I try to ignore it, I know this—
Ignoring things doesn't make them disappear. It just delays the moment they demand to be acknowledged.
———
I toss and turn in the silk sheets of my king-sized bed, the clock on the nightstand glowing 2:17 AM.
The house is silent except for the distant hum of the city outside our fortified walls, but sleep evades me like a shadow I can't catch.
I think about that faint, floral whiff of perfume clinging to his shirts, not mine. It's her, whoever she is this time. Not the cheap scent from some club pickup, but something expensive, deliberate. It twists in my stomach, a mix of rage and something darker, hotter.
But I ignore it.
I pull the covers up to my chin, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily. Alex knows I know about his flings; it's the unspoken rule in our marriage. But these women... they chip away at me. Tonight, though, the jealousy simmers differently. It stirs even though I try to bury, pulling me back to thoughts.
But now, alone in the dark, that memory ignites something fierce. My body betrays me, heat pooling between my thighs as I picture him with her.
Is he fucking her the way he should be fucking me? Hard, relentless, his cock slamming into her while she moans his name?
The thought should repulse me, but it doesn't. It makes my clit throb, my nipples peak against the thin nightgown.
Jealousy twists into arousal, a sick cocktail I can't resist. What if I confronted him? Would he deny it, or pull me into his arms?
No, of course not, why would he.
I slide my hand down my stomach, fingers brushing the edge of my panties. They're already damp, my pussy aching for relief.
I need more. I reach into the nightstand drawer, my heart pounding as I grasp the vibrator—the sleek, black one I bought days before my wedding.
It's thick, curved just right to hit that spot inside me. I flick it on, the low buzz filling the quiet room like a secret.
Pushing my nightgown up, I spread my legs wide, the cool air teasing my exposed skin.
I trace the vibrating tip along my inner thigh, teasing myself, building the tension. My mind floods with images of Alex—his broad shoulders, the way his muscles.
But unbidden, her face creeps in, faceless but eager, bent over as he pounds her from behind. 'Fuck,' I whisper, circling my clit with the toy.
Sparks shoot through me, my hips bucking involuntarily. I imagine him watching me now, his dark eyes hungry as I pleasure myself to thoughts of his betrayal.
I press the vibrator harder against my swollen nub, the vibrations sending waves of pleasure radiating outward. My free hand pinches my nipple, twisting it roughly, mimicking the bite of his teeth. 'Alex,' I moan softly, dipping the toy lower, sliding it through my slick folds.
I'm so wet it glides easily, coating the silicone with my arousal. Internal war rages—hating him for the perfume, loving him for being the man on my mind as I give love to myself.
Would he be jealous if he knew I was doing this? Or would it turn him on?
I angle the vibrator and push it inside, gasping at the stretch. It's not him, but it's close—thick and unyielding, buzzing against my walls.
I fuck myself with it, slow at first, then faster, my thumb rubbing my clit in frantic circles. The jealousy fuels it, turning pain into ecstasy.
I picture him pulling out of her, still hard, and coming to me instead—claiming my pussy as his, making me scream louder than she ever could.
I wonder what that feels like.
I can't seriously be wanting this. I can't seriously be losing control to the thought of Alex.
My breaths come in pants, body coiling tight. 'Yes, fuck me,' I cry out to the empty room, the toy hitting deep, vibrations pulsing right where I need.
The orgasm crashes over me like a storm, my pussy clenching around the vibrator, juices soaking the sheets. I ride it out, trembling, waves of pleasure ripping through me until I'm limp and breathless.
I switch it off, pulling it free with a wet pop, my body humming in the aftermath.
But as the high fades, the ache returns—not just physical, but deeper. That scent lingers in my mind, a reminder that tomorrow, I'll face him again, smile like nothing's wrong, while inside, this fire burns.
Maybe one day I'll make him pay for it. Or maybe I'll just take what I need, like he does. For now, sleep might come, but the tension? It simmers on.