The morning after I found out my fiancé had cheated on me with my ex, I woke up with a painful knot in my stomach and a heavy feeling in my chest. Every little thing he did that day just made the hurt worse. The decision to have a threesome with them tonight was impulsive, but when my emotions are in the driver's seat, the rational part of my brain shuts down.
On his way out, I could tell he hesitated, his gaze searching mine for doubt.
"Anna, are you sure?"
"Yes." My voice was steadier than my resolve.
The fantasy of a ménage à trois was like a curious whisper in my mind. With the sting of betrayal fresh in my heart, that whisper climaxed into a need for understanding. Tonight wouldn't be just an indulgence of a long-held fantasy, but a deep dive into the chaotic ocean of my emotions, fueled by jealousy and an almost reckless desire to confront the painful reality with open eyes.
Witnessing their intimacy seemed like the only way to learn the extent of his infidelity. All my insecurities that his cheating had spawned within me would come crashing down through the raw exposure of their interaction. As I prepared for this emotional odyssey, I hoped to discover the truth behind his gaze—did he look at her with the softness of love or the hard glint of lust?
He sighed and said, "I don't know, Anna. I don't want to risk what we have."
His words echoed my fears, but a nagging shadow of doubt gnawed at me—I needed to know if it was more than just sex. Craving the undeniable truth, even if it meant jeopardizing my relationship with him, had turned into a corrosive obsession—a darkness looming large over the relationship we had built over the years. I could handle it if it was just a casual fling, but if there was more to it...
"You already did," I blurted out. "You owe me."
My words were laced with pain but also edged with an unspoken leverage—his guilt for his infidelity. A charged silence descended around us, and I could see the frustration in his eyes as he waged a silent internal battle, searching for words to ease the burden of guilt he carried. But there was nothing he could say that would heal the wounds he had caused or rebuild the broken trust.
"Alright," he agreed, his voice heavy with reluctance.
Before he left to pick up the woman who had driven a wedge between us, his lips briefly met mine in a kiss tainted with the bitterness of recent truths.
After he left, I listened for the faint purr of the car engine—the subtle signal of the onset of my transformation. I returned to our bedroom and dressed as if I were someone far more daring than I felt. The black and red corset clung to me, black thongs and stockings emphasized my curves, and the heels added inches not only to my height but also to my confidence.
When I turned toward the mirror, I saw her—the version of myself that was an illusion of power and confidence. She wielded sex appeal like a weapon and wore her natural beauty like a crown. With the chaos of insecurities and self-doubt that churned within me, I was her polar opposite. Staring at my reflection, I wondered if I would ever become her or if she was simply a mirage, hiding the vulnerability I so desperately wanted to conceal.
My breath caught in my throat as I tightened the last strap and adjusted the lace. Tonight, I needed to be that woman—the one who could face her demons, the one who could play this risky game and come out unharmed. At least for tonight, I would be the femme fatale who didn't simply exist in mirrors, but in reality, where she might influence her fate.
I set about meticulously transforming our bedroom into the scene I had imagined. To navigate the treacherous waters of this evening, I needed a plan of action. After storing my props in the top drawer of the nightstand for easy access, I smoothed out the sheets that still held the subtle scent of our intimacy from the previous night.
My gaze was drawn to our engagement photo, which captured a moment of joy that seemed a lifetime ago. Lifting the frame, my fingers traced the contours of our frozen smiles, and a wave of unease washed over me as I remembered the times my boyfriend had weathered with me through my depression's storms. I had been so stubborn, dismissing advice and abandoning the antidepressants my doctor prescribed. Riding out the storm worked for a while, but inevitably, the dark clouds would return, more suffocating each time. And the last time—the worst time—I pushed my boyfriend away fiercely.
Guilt washed over me at the recollection of all the harsh words I had hurled at him during those times and how I had moved away from his touch when he tried to hug me. At one point, I had even wished he would find a lover and stop pursuing intimacy with me, that he would just leave me in my misery. I had given up already and refused to get treatment.