The implication was clear. She wanted to be noticed, wanted to be desired, wanted to be taken by these men, just as she had been earlier. The jealousy and humiliation churned within me, but so did the arousal, the sick, perverse desire to see her in that role, to watch as she flaunted herself for others. Sarah’s gaze never wavered as she took another sip of her coffee, her eyes boring into mine, daring me to say something...

I knocked on the bedroom door that Saturday morning, a gesture that had become more habitual than necessary. The sound of laughter and soft murmurs seeped through the wood, a reminder of the life we had chosen, though at times, it felt like it had chosen us. My hand lingered on the doorknob for a moment before I turned it, stepping into the room. There she was—Sarah, my wife, entwined in the arms of her lover from the Fri...