Goodbye, My Superstar

My flats slapped the hardwood floor of the foyer. The house was completely dark, save for a sliver of light spilling onto the second-floor landing.

I had just left Sarah and the girls at the downtown lounge. Tomorrow was game day, and I fully expected to find my husband asleep.

Instead, a loud, vulgar moan drifted down the staircase.

My stomach knotted. I gripped the banister and climbed the stairs, the sounds growing sharper with every step.

The master bedroom door hung wide open. I stopped in the doorway.

Anson, the star quarterback of the league, had his face buried in a woman's neck. Max. The pop singer whose face plastered every billboard in the city.

"Fuck, you feel good," Anson growled. He gripped Max’s ass, pulling her flush against his groin. He thrust deep into her pussy, the wet slapping sound echoing off the vaulted ceiling.

Max threw her head back. "Fuck me harder, Anson. Ram it in. Show me what that big cock can do."

He pulled almost all the way out, then slammed back in. "I’m going to wreck your fucking wet little cunt."

"Yes! Fuck yes!" Max screamed, her legs wrapping around his waist. "Fill my pussy! Give it to me!"

I watched my husband of five years fuck the biggest pop star in the country.

"If you're going to wreck her, do it on your side of the mattress," I said. "I just washed those sheets."

Anson stopped. He didn't scramble. He didn't shove Max off in a panic. He simply withdrew from her, his cock glistening under the bedside lamp, and reached for a pair of boxer briefs on the rug.

Max didn't even flinch. She sat up, her bare breasts fully exposed, and dragged a hand through her blonde hair.

"Barbara," Anson said, pulling the underwear up his thighs. "You're home early."

"Clearly," I replied. I crossed my arms, leaning against the doorframe. "Good thing I didn't stay out till two."

Anson grabbed a towel and wiped his chest. "It's not what you're thinking."

"I'm thinking my husband is fucking a pop singer in our bed. Did I misinterpret the visual?"

"Babs, listen to me," Anson said. He walked toward me, but I stepped back. "This is purely business."

I let out a flat, hollow laugh. "Business. You were balls-deep in her for business?"

"Yes!" He threw his hands up. "You manage the team. You see the numbers. My jersey sales tripled this month. Why? Because X and Instagram are obsessed with me and Max."

"So you have to fuck her?" I asked, my voice terrifyingly even.

Max stretched her legs out on my duvet. "You have to sell the fantasy, Barbara. The fans want us together. If we don't have real chemistry, the paparazzi catch on."

"Real chemistry," I repeated.

"Exactly," Anson said, seizing the excuse. "You know I love you. We've been married for five years. Who is the one I come home to? You."

"You're right," I said. "You come home to me, and bring her with you."

Anson sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Nobody knows we're married, Babs. That was the deal. We keep it a secret so my brand stays strong. You agreed to that."

"I agreed to keep my name out of the press," I shot back. "I didn't agree to you raw-dogging a singer in my house."

Max leaned against the headboard, completely unabashed. "Look, we're both adults here. Anson told me about your little arrangement."

I glared at her. "He told you?"

"Of course he did," she said, tracing a finger over her collarbone. "I needed to know there wouldn't be any messy legal drama if someone caught us. Sister, you're so generous, you won't mind, right? It's just sex. You get the ring, I get the headlines."

My jaw clamped shut. I looked at Anson. He stood there, nodding along with her insane logic. Five years of hiding in the shadows. Five years of managing his schedules, fixing his PR messes, building him from a rookie into a superstar.

"You agree with her," I stated.

"She has a point," Anson said, stepping closer. "This is a partnership, Barbara. You and me. This thing with Max? It's a campaign. It ends when the tour ends."

"A campaign."

"Yes. Come on, baby. Don't be unreasonable."

I walked over to the dresser. I picked up Anson's heavy gold watch from the glass tray.

"Unreasonable," I murmured, turning the metal over in my palm. "I'm your manager, Anson. I built your image. I know how PR works. This isn't PR. This is you wanting to fuck someone else and finding a convenient excuse."

"That's bullshit," he snapped. His voice dropped, losing the placating tone. "I'm the franchise quarterback. I carry the team. I carry you. If I say it's PR, it's PR."

Max rolled off the bed. She walked naked across the rug and picked up her lace panties. "He's under a lot of pressure, Barbara. You should be supporting him. Not nagging him."

I dropped the watch back onto the tray. The clatter rang sharp in the room.

"Put your clothes on, Max," I commanded.

She smirked. "Or what?"

"Or I call TMZ right now and tell them the golden couple is a fraud, and Anson Miller is legally bound to his plain, boring manager."

Anson lunged forward, grabbing my wrist. "Don't you dare."

I stared down at his fingers wrapped around my arm. I didn't pull away. I simply looked back up into his eyes.

"Take your hand off me."

Anson's grip tightened for a second before he dropped his hand.

"You wouldn't ruin everything we built," he said.

"I wouldn't," I agreed. "But I'm done buying your lies."

"Babs, look. I'm sorry you had to see it. I should have taken her to a hotel."

"You're missing the point."

"Then explain it to me! Because from where I'm standing, I'm securing our financial future. Do you know how much the endorsement deals pay when Max and I post a photo together?"

"Two million per post," Max chimed in.

"I know exactly how much they pay, Anson," I said. "I negotiated the contracts."

"Then why are you acting like this?"

Max walked up behind Anson. She wrapped her arms around his bare waist, pressing her naked breasts against his back. She reached down, her hand slipping inside his boxer briefs.

"He needs a release," Max whispered, stroking him. "You don't give him what he needs, sister. He told me you barely fuck him anymore."

Anson closed his eyes, his hips tilting back slightly into her touch. "Max, stop. Not right now."

"Why not?" Max asked, her fingers moving rhythmically. "She's watching. Maybe she wants to join. Do you want to watch me suck your husband's cock, Barbara?"

"Max," Anson warned, though he didn't push her hands away. He looked at me, a challenge in his gaze. "She's just playing, Babs."

I watched him get hard under the fabric of his underwear. I felt nothing. No rage. No tears. Just a cold, hollow emptiness.

"You're pathetic," I said.

"Excuse me?" Anson's eyes snapped open.

"Both of you," I said, stepping toward the hall. "You think you're untouchable because of some likes on Instagram."

"We are untouchable," Max bragged. She pulled her hand out of his boxers and licked her fingers. "The whole world wants us to get married."

"Then you can have him," I said.

Anson scoffed. "You're not leaving, Barbara. You have nowhere to go. Everything is in my name."

"The house is in your name," I corrected. "The management company is in mine."

His jaw tightened. "You're my wife."

"A secret wife," I reminded him. "A secret wife who just walked in on a porn shoot."

"I told you, it's PR!" he shouted, finally losing his temper. "Why won't you just accept that?"

"Because PR doesn't leave semen on my sheets," I shot back.

I turned my back to them.

"Clean up," I ordered. "I'm sleeping in the guest room."

"Barbara, wait," Anson called out, taking a step forward.

I didn't turn around. I walked down the hall, the sound of my flats slapping the wood echoing in the silence.

I entered the guest room and locked the door behind me.