- 2.
Barely two seconds later, a reply.
Ethan: “Who is this?”
I took my time changing, savoring the imagined
turmoil on the other end. Was he furious,
wanting to tear the anonymous sender limb
from limb? The golden boy, Mr. Perfect, finally
having his emotions toyed with, and by me, the
one he thought he had completely under his
thumb. Three years of suffocating misery finally
yielded a sliver of satisfaction.
He sent two more messages while I changed.
“Don’t try that cheap Al face–swap trick. Tell
L
100
me what you want.”
“I suggest you come clean. It’s the only way
you’ll walk away from this.”
I chuckled.
“Ethan, Al face–swap? Just ask your wife. I’m
sure those hickeys on her neck haven’t
A
magically disappeared. ^v^”
V
I dared to taunt him because I knew he was out
of town on a crucial business deal. He wouldn’t
be back for at least two weeks.
Suddenly, my phone rang. My heart leaped. It
was Ethan. I stared at the screen, letting it ring
until it went to voicemail. He called again, and
again. He was livid.
My heart hammered in my chest. I was walking
a tightrope.
I texted: “Ethan, stop calling. We just finished
round five. Your wife’s exhausted.”
The calls stopped. Silence.
I texted from the burner: “Look, I’m not trying to
100
break you guys up. Your wife and I are in love. Be a man, give her the divorce. Don’t you care about being the laughingstock of the town with ä giant pair of horns?”
He didn’t reply.
I threw the torn nightgown in the trash, checked out of the hotel, and returned to the mansion. The housekeepers were cleaning. Everything
was normal, eerily serene. I showered, went to
bed.
At dawn, I was jolted awake by the roar of an
engine and the screech of tires outside. By the
time I opened my eyes, someone was pounding
on my bedroom door.
“Avery, open the door.”
The voice was low and controlled, barely
concealing the urgency and something else…
fear?
It was Ethan.
