Because why the fuck would he hide her from me? Is he fucking her?
I don’t really believe that. I lowkeywannabelieve it, because at least that’s an easy omission to understand. Ofcourseyou don’t want your wife to know about your side bitch. That puzzle piece fits perfectly.
And I know exactly how I’d punish the both of them for that crime.
But if he’snotfucking her, it’s almost worse, because that means he’s hiding her for reasons I can’t understand, which means whatever it is, he doesn’t trust me with the information.
I can’t be married to a man who doesn’t trust me.
I chuckle at that thought, because I know, and he knows, and evenGodknows I’m never leaving that man and he ain’t leaving me—unless it’s in a body bag. And even then, I’d probably just go with him so we could be together eternally.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
I pull up across the street from the site. I can’t park there like I used to, because everybody knows my car now. I’m the boss’ wife, for fuck’s sake.
I’m on a stealth mission, just like the good old days before I had him. I almost giggle in anticipation when I reach over to unlock the glove box.
There they are.
My trusty binoculars.
Damn, I should have ordered something to go from the restaurant, because I have no idea how long I’ll be out here waiting. Oh, well. If I have to starve, I will.
Turns out, I don’t even have time to pull up a playlist on my phone. The bitch walks right out, and I know it’s her, because neither Jennifer nor Fernanda nor Nia are as fine as this fabulous cunt. The sight of her makes my jaw drop, that’s how good she looks.
Oh, fuck no.
Ain’t no way.
The sew-in is perfection. The monochromatic pine green look—turtleneck, pencil skirt, and coat—is insane. Of course she's wearing red bottoms, and that YSL bag on her arm is the cherry on top.
If he’s fucking that bitch, they’re both dead. Seriously. Dammit, now I believe it’s actually a possibility.
My Fitbit notifies me that my heart rate is high. One-hundred twenty-eight beats per minute.
I wish I could calm down.
She swaggers to her car. Looks like a gleaming red BMW, which makes sense for a flashy bitch. Now, she’s inside. Of course she looks at herself in the mirror first, probably checking to see if my husband’s cum is on her face.
Calm down, Raya.
Relax.
I take a deep breath.
Then I spot him.
What the fuck?
Walking out right behind her? How obvious can he be?
Then something strange happens.
My eyes are wet. There aretearsin them.
I don’t understand this feeling. I mean, I still feel rage, but now, on top of it, I feel something more emotional. I feel…it’s pain.
Which only makes the rage worse.
