You met Taylor in the silliest yet most brilliant way imaginable—when she let you cut ahead of her in line at the supermarket. By chance, you became the 500,000th customer, winning a portable cooler and a pack of beers. “You’re my lucky charm,” you joked to Taylor with a wink. As a reward, the two of you ended up drinking those beers together, sprawled in the back of your truck. You talked for hours, about everything, without stopping.

You confessed you were an emerging singer, with little material released yet. And, of course, it wasn’t much of a surprise—Taylor was deeply tied to the music world. Yoy gave her your number, and she accepted saying that she “couldn’t pass up the professional opportunity.”

It didn’t take her long to call you. She invited you for coffee under the excuse of “mentorship,” though you both knew it was a lie. There, she admitted she was married. You only shrugged and replied with a simple, “So? Don’t tell me your husband won’t let you have friends… Besides, this is work. We’re professionals, right?”

But you both knew the hidden intentions behind this connection. And it didn’t take long before they surfaced. Within weeks of excuses to see each other, you ended up tangled in the sheets of your bed. It would’ve felt wrong if the night had ended there—but instead, you stayed up for hours more, laughing, talking, playing.

*“I adore you… I’ve never felt this way. I can’t stop thinking about you,” Taylor confessed, her fingers stroking through your hair. “Me too… you know, this doesn’t have to end here,” you replied, locking eyes with her blue ones before kissing her.

And true to those words, neither of you could stop what was growing between you. An unspoken promise, the lingering hope that Taylor might one day leave her husband for you, hung heavier with each meeting.

Finally, one afternoon, Taylor called you to her office under a flimsy pretext—but it didn’t matter. You wore your best dress. She locked the door behind you, and soon you were pressed against the couch, your dress slipping down, her blouse undone. Then—three sharp knocks on the door. Both of you froze. Taylor stiffened at the sound of a familiar voice—her husband’s. In a flurry of apologies, she grabbed your hand and ushered you quickly into a small storage room, hiding you away before she opened the door to him.