The private investigator's report glowed on my laptop screen. Hannah Rogers: $47,000 in credit card debt, two months behind on rent before her mysterious windfall, a string of failed business ventures bleeding money.
I checked the time—ten-thirty. Late enough.
I texted Andrew: Miss me yet?
Three minutes passed before his response: Working.
Liar. My fingers clenched around the phone, my nails digging into my palm. That’s when I decided.
I closed the laptop and stood. Tonight, dinner wouldn't be Thai food. It would be me.
The lingerie drawer hadn't been opened in months, but I knew exactly what I was going for. Black lace, delicate straps, pieces that transformed skin into an invitation, a sin waiting to be committed. I selected carefully—the set Andrew had bought for our fourth anniversary, back when he still looked at me like I was art worth studying.
No dress. Just the coat—camel cashmere that hit mid-thigh. Heels that made my legs look endless, like they were designed to trap men between them. Red lipstick applied with precision, a weapon in its own right.
The champagne came from our wedding stock, bottles we'd been saving for special occasions that never came. Tonight felt special enough.
The cab ride stretched with anticipation. The driver's eyes found me in the mirror once, then stayed carefully on the road. Smart man.
"Keep the change," I told him outside Andrew's building, handing over twice the fare.
My heels clicked against concrete, each step deliberate. The warehouse elevator groaned its familiar protest. The hallway stretched before me, dimly lit and silent.
Until it wasn't.
A woman's moan cut through the quiet—high, theatrical, performed. Then Andrew's voice, low and encouraging: "Just like that. Perfect."
I approached the studio door, already ajar. Light spilled out along with sounds that made my blood ignite. Not with jealousy—with rage at the presumption.
Through the gap, I saw them.
Hannah was riding Andrew on the paint-stained floor, her back arched in exaggerated pleasure, her tits bouncing with every thrust. But it was what they performed in front of that stopped my breath.
The hidden painting. Two women tangled together, naked, kissing with desperate hunger. One blonde, one brunette. Their faces turned just enough to be recognized.
Hannah and me.
This bastard had painted his fantasy, decided he could have us both, assumed we'd fall into line with his artistic vision of desire.
Hannah’s moans grew louder, her performance reaching its crescendo. Andrew’s hands gripped her hips, guiding her rhythm while staring at his painted fantasy like it was the fucking Mona Lisa.
I pushed the door fully open and walked in slowly.
My heels announced my arrival before they noticed. I stopped six feet away, raised the champagne bottle, and popped the cork. The crack echoed like a gunshot.
They froze. Hannah was still straddling Andrew, both slick with sweat and guilt. Their eyes went wide—Hannah's with terror, Andrew's with something more complex.
I took a long pull from the bottle, champagne bubbling cold and sharp against my tongue. Then another. Let them watch. Let them wonder.
"Angie—"
Hannah's hands flew to cover herself, but she didn't move off him.
"Don't stop." My voice came out steady, controlled. I moved to the small couch against the wall, sitting with deliberate grace, the coat wrapped tight around me. "Keep going."
"This isn't—we weren't—" Andrew’s voice cracked, his dick still buried inside her.
"You were." I took another sip of champagne, then set the bottle on the floor beside me. "And you should continue."
Hannah’s breathing came in panicked gasps, her nipples hard despite the fear in her eyes. "Angie, please, I can explain—"
"No explanations." I leaned back against the couch, crossing my legs, the slit in my coat revealing just enough thigh to drive them both insane. "Just finish what you started."
A smile flickered across Andrew's face—quick, involuntary. His hands, which had released Hannah's hips, slowly returned to them.
"Andrew, no," Hannah whispered, her entire body tense, her pussy still clenched around him.
"She wants to watch." His voice gained confidence, arousal mixing with artistic arrogance. "Don't you want to show her?"
"Show me what?" I kept my voice neutral, almost bored. "Show me what my husband thinks he's found? Show me this grand passion worth burning everything down for?"
Andrew's grip tightened on Hannah's waist. He thrust upward, making her gasp despite her obvious discomfort.
"Stop talking," he said to me, but his eyes betrayed him—locked on mine, desperate for my reaction. "Just watch."
"Oh, I'm watching." I settled deeper into the couch.
Hannah whimpered—fear or pleasure, impossible to tell. Her eyes kept finding mine, pleading silently for something. Permission? Forgiveness? Escape?
"Look at him, not me," I instructed. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? My husband? My life?"
"That's not—"
"Shh." Andrew moved harder beneath her, forcing her attention back. Hannah’s tits bounced with every thrust, her ass slapping against his thighs. "Don't ruin it with words."
The studio filled with the sounds of their bodies—skin against skin, ragged breathing, the wet obscenity of their coupling.
Hannah’s moans grew louder, more desperate, her pussy tightening around Andrew’s dick. His hands roamed her body, pinching her nipples, slapping her ass, squeezing her thighs. My cunt throbbed with a mix of rage and arousal, the heat between my legs undeniable.
I sat perfectly still, coat wrapped around me like armor, watching my husband’s fantasy play out in real time.