Short
Just another Monday, Sue was dusting the office while William was at work. They had talked about getting a cleaner, but she'd always insisted she didn't mind—said it gave her time to think. But as Sue ran the duster over William's keyboard and the screen flared to life, she realized she'd been a fucking idiot for twenty-five years.
Yahoo Chat. An app she'd never seen. Messages right there, no password, no protection—because why would he hide it? She'd never looked. Never questioned. Never cared enough to see what a pathetic little worm he was.
Trish50: Tuesday, 2 pm.
William: Yes, Mistress.
Trish50: Wednesday 11. a.m.
William: Sorry, Mistress, meetings all day.
Trish50: Useless prick, you’d better be here Thursday, 8 a.m
William: Yes, Mistress.
Trish50: Who owns that cock?
William: You do, Mistress.
Sue sat down on the office chair with a thump, the duster dropping from fingers that wanted to wrap around his fucking throat. Three years. Almost three fucking years of this bullshit, and she'd been dusting and cooking and smiling like a good wife while her husband handed his balls to a stranger.
The anger hit her like a tidal wave—hot, red, and cleansing. ‘She should have known?’ Fuck that. ‘He’ should have had the balls to say something. To be a man instead of a sniveling little boy looking for a mommy to spank him.
She scrolled until she found the address. 76 Horsted Lane, Chatham. Her breath caught. The Balfour Center was just around the corner, where she'd volunteered for a while.
She sat back, the rage building until she could taste it. She remembered that night in Gillingham, their first year married. He'd mentioned wanting to spice things up. She'd tied his hands to the headboard, blindfolded him, and felt his cock go hard as steel. She'd been excited. She'd felt powerful.
Then she'd gone downstairs, tripped, twisted her ankle. She'd called up to him, confused why he didn't come running. He'd managed to get himself loose, but by the time he got downstairs, she was crying from the pain. The ER visit, the bad strain, the weeks of limping—it had been embarrassing. Awkward.
And that was it. He'd given up. Not her. ‘Him’. One setback, and the pathetic little shit had decided it was too hard to ask his own wife for what he needed. So he'd gone crawling to a stranger instead. He'd taken the easy way out. He'd betrayed her because he was too much of a coward to communicate.
The anger was a living thing, clawing up her throat. All these years, she'd told herself she was enough. That their life was enough. That his silence meant he was content. But he'd been screaming the whole time—to everyone but ‘her’. He'd rather kneel for a stranger than stand up and be a man with his own wife.
She looked at the screen, at his obedient little responses, at the way he'd begged a stranger for what he couldn't ask his own wife for. And she knew, with a certainty that made her want to burn the house down, that this was ‘his’ failure. Not hers.
An idea jumped into her head—angry, reckless, and so fucking right she could taste it. What was that address again? She snatched her phone, took a screenshot, then thought better of it. Her hands were shaking with rage, not fear. She grabbed her car keys from the bowl by the door and yanked her coat from the hook. She didn't know what she'd do when she got there. Scream. Fight. Burn the fucking house down. Maybe all three.
She just knew she had to see. Had to look this woman in the eye. Had to see the house where her husband had been kneeling and begging while she was at fucking book club. Had to understand what was so goddamn special about 76 Horsted Lane that William would risk twenty-five years of marriage for it.
The drive to Chatham was a blur of red lights and white-hot fury. She parked opposite the house; she didn’t care about her car being recognized. The house looked so normal. The Red Rover of the messages was parked outside. Curtains drawn. The kind of place where you'd borrow a cup of sugar, not a husband's soul.
She stood on the pavement, heart hammering, and realized she had no plan. No weapon. No words. Just the burning, dangerous certainty that if she didn't do ‘something’, she'd explode.
The door opened.
Patricia stepped out, wearing yoga pants and a messy bun, looking for all the world like the football mum she'd pretended to be. She stopped when she saw Sue. Her eyes went wide, then narrowed with recognition. She'd seen the wife's photos on William's phone, of course. She knew exactly who was standing on her doorstep.
"Well," Patricia said, her voice cool and amused. "You'd better come in."
Sue's fists clenched. "You know who I am."
"Of course I do." Patricia leaned against the doorframe, casual as hell. "We'll talk inside."
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