3 hours ago
She lied without blinking now. Slipped back into bed like nothing was wrong, like she hadn’t just been someone else entirely. A good wife on the surface — rotten underneath. The thrill wasn’t love, it wasn’t even desire. It was being dirty and getting away with it. Her husband trusted her. That trust tasted better than guilt ever did. She carried her secret proudly, wearing it like invisible stains no one else could see. And every time she chose silence over honesty, she felt it — the power, the shame, the hunger to do it again. She wasn’t sorry. She was ruined — and she liked it.