A Strange Woman Texted My Husband

"Elena, the European walk-through is in twenty minutes," my assistant, Sarah, said, chasing me down the hallway of the studio. "They need you on site for the material sign-off."

"Tell them I have a fever," I replied, not breaking my stride. "Reschedule the site visit."

"The contractor is already there—"

"Then send Daniel. Move my piece to Friday."

I pushed through the heavy iron door of the fire stairwell The metal slammed shut behind me, instantly severing the corporate noise. Dim emergency lights cast a sickly, pale glow over the concrete steps. The air in here was freezing.

I sank against the rough cement wall and slid down to the floor. My hands shook violently as I unzipped my leather briefcase. I pulled out the micro-recorder and jammed the wired earphones into the jack.

My thumb hovered over the play button.

A pathetic, cowardly thought whispered in my ear. *If I don't press it, I can go home. I can keep my flawless, respectable marriage.*

"Stop it," I whispered to the empty stairwell. "Don't be a fool."

The agony of his lies chewed at my insides. I closed my eyes and slammed my thumb down on the button.

The recording hissed first—city wind against glass, then the dry scratch of a lighter. A long pull of tobacco. Fabric shifted.

A number was dialed. It connected.

"Hello? My big director."

It was her. The same woman from the car. The panic was gone. She sounded sickeningly sweet, whining with pure flirtation.

"Did you get off on our little performance in the car last night? You almost gave me a heart attack."

Julian's voice answered. It wasn't his measured, professional tone. It was a raw, savage growl dripping with vulgar possession.

"Fuck, you little slut. Do you have any idea how close that was?" he snarled. "I was right there in the driver's seat. Elena had my fucking phone in her hand! Who told you to send that shit right then? Are you begging to get fucked?"

"Mmm, I just missed you so much," the woman whined, her voice sticky like melted sugar. "Who told you to go so hard at the hotel yesterday afternoon? My pussy is still swollen. You were so mean to me. Calling me a cheap hooker on speaker... That was humiliating."

"Fuck, I had to put on a show for her." Julian let out a harsh, cruel laugh. His breathing grew heavy through the microphone. "If I didn't treat you like a street whore, how was I supposed to get out of that? But hearing you whimper 'wrong number' on the line... fuck, it made my bones melt. Are you itching for my dick again today?"

"Yes, so itchy," she purred. "Did you touch your rigid little wife when you got home?"

"Touch her?" Julian spat the words out. "Looking at her face makes me sick. Four fucking years and she doesn't even make a sound in bed. She has no idea how to suck or ride a cock like you do. All I can think about is you on your knees by the window, begging me to shoot my load down your throat."

A sharp metallic rasp echoed through the speakers. A zipper.

Then his voice dropped, aimed at the mouthpiece like he wanted her to swallow every sound.

“Keep talking. Don’t you dare hang up.”

My stomach plummeted.

He was on the balcony. Separated from me by a single pane of glass. I was sleeping in our bed, and he was furiously performing for his mistress!

"Ah... Chloe... baby... fuck," Julian groaned, his voice dropping into a beastly, suppressed roar. "Your pussy grips me so hard. You take my cock better than anyone."

"Ah... Julian... give it to me," Chloe moaned loudly. "I'm rubbing my clit right now. I'm touching myself for you."

The next noises were wet. Close. Rhythmic. Flesh working against flesh, paced to the rise and fall of his breathing. He kept going, breathing into the phone, chasing her voice, and feeding her every filthy grunt as if the phone itself were her mouth.

"Tomorrow at two in the afternoon," Julian grunted, the wet slapping sounds speeding up. "St. Regis Hotel. Suite 1408. I bought a new leather whip and a collar for you. I'm going to punish you with my cock until you're crying and calling me daddy."

"Yes... daddy... fuck me..."

"Bitch... moan louder... I'm cumming... fuck, I'm shooting everywhere!"

The earphones filled with harsh, guttural pants. Heavy groans of release. Then, the sickeningly sweet sounds of wet kisses and whispered goodnights.

The recording ended.

Dead silence swallowed the stairwell.

"Urgh—"

A violent wave of nausea surged up my throat. I ripped the earphones out and threw them onto the concrete. I scrambled onto my hands and knees, leaning over the steps, and dry-heaved violently.

My stomach was completely empty. Only bitter, burning bile spilled from my lips. Tears and snot smeared across my face as my body convulsed.

"Four years," I choked out between heaves, gripping my stomach. "A dead fish."

I slammed my fist against the concrete step. The physical pain meant nothing.

"His late nights. His stress." I gasped for air, sobbing uncontrollably. "All of it spent fucking her!"

He finished touching himself on that balcony. He walked back inside, slid into our bed, and wrapped those same filthy hands around my waist. He kissed my forehead with the same mouth that just degraded me.

"Disgusting," I screamed at the walls. "You make me sick!"

Massive, jagged shards of betrayal shredded my heart. I curled into a tight ball on the freezing floor. I pressed both hands over my mouth, trapping the wails inside my chest. My entire body spasmed with absolute despair.

"He kissed me," I whispered, digging my fingernails into my scalp. "He touched his dick, talked to his whore, and then kissed my forehead."

I dry-heaved again, spitting bitter fluid onto the cement.

"Every late night," I gasped, staring at the puddle on the floor. "Every business trip. Every time he said he was exhausted from providing for our future."

I threw my head back and laughed. A harsh, broken sound that echoed off the concrete walls.

"He was providing for her."

Time lost its meaning. I lay there until the tears simply stopped coming.

The motion sensor timed out. The overhead lights shut off, plunging the stairwell into pitch black.

I didn't move. I welcomed the dark.

Slowly, I pushed myself up off the floor. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. I walked up the steps toward the fire extinguisher cabinet. The glass door reflected my face in the faint ambient light filtering under the exit door.

I stared at my reflection.

My eyes were bloodshot. My skin looked pale and hollow, like a ghost. But the soft, warm glow of love that used to live in my pupils was completely gone.

In its place burned a cold, venomous hatred.

"Julian," I whispered to the glass, my voice completely devoid of emotion. "Chloe."

I leaned closer to the mirror.

"St. Regis Hotel. Suite 1408."

They wanted to seek thrills in luxury beds. They wanted to treat my life like a pathetic joke.

"Fine," I said, a cruel smile stretching across my face. "I'll end this on my terms."

I reached down and picked up my briefcase. I shoved the recorder inside and zipped it shut. I smoothed out the wrinkles in my skirt and pushed the heavy iron door open.

I was going to strip them of everything.

But first, I needed to make a phone call to a very specific private investigator.